Nomad By Fate

A wise old friend recently told me:

"An idle mind is the devils playpen".

Mind the gaps and watch them closely.

Spread the love but choose your friends wisely.

Love yourself to love your family,

And find the difference between wants and needs.

Be sure to stop and count your blessings,

Smell the roses and fight for something.

- “For Goodness Sake” written by Chuck Ragan

What is it about punk rockers that reach the age of 30 who decide to halt their loud and aggressive ways and settle for an acoustic guitar and a harmonica?

I have always been a punk rock enthusiast since I was about twelve years old. I never got into the extreme fashion aesthetic of it all, I kept it pretty conservative, really. But needless to say I base a lot of my outlook on life and personal character on much of the fundamentals taught by my favorite musicians’ words. It has helped me to remain young at heart while I continue to grow older.

Yet in the last 10 years or so I began noticing a trend with several of my favorite musicians. I first noticed it when I bought Mike Ness’s Cheating at Solitaire album

Released in 1999, it was a collection of Mike Ness originals as well as covers of Bob Dylan, and Hank Williams. Mike Ness, the front man for Social Distortion, began incorporating the rockabilly sound into his albums with their self-titled album in 1990 and never really looked back. After his first solo record I soon dove into the Rockabilly genre and later a brief stint into Psychobilly, a British invention from the 80’s which combines the traditional American Rockabilly sound with punk and at times horror punk.

The Quakes 1986

The Nekromantix

I thought the combination of traditional American Rockabilly mixed with the in your face political aggression of punk was a great recipe. What I didn’t expect was for my favorite musicians to dive deeper into roots music, nor did I expect to appreciate it as much as I do today.

The folk punk sound started making headway with bands such as Against Me!

and This Bike Is a Pipe Bomb in the late 2000’s. Combining an acoustic guitar, harmonicas and even violin, it soon became a regional sound represented by No Idea records from Gainesville Florida. I realized it wasn’t anything new, with a lot of their sound deriving from Johnny Cash and the Pogues.

                                                           Tom Gabel of Against Me!

But then it went further, and so did I. In 2006, after wrapping up a tour in support of their last album Chuck Ragan, the lead singer of Hot Water Music addressed their fans to tell them the band was no more:

In a moving world, some days shine and some days burn. We more so accept than create random acts of movement. Those acts of movement make us who we are. At some point they become intentional means of survival. Then as we all know, sooner or later it becomes a survival where we see fit.

Early in the days of all of this I never thought to question outcomes or reactions to my actions. I did what I did and was fueled by words from loved ones, a drive for life and an undying misery of always being on the cusp of understanding (or not), our disarray of society. I found purpose and strength through my best friends, music, and a quest for the truth. Throughout that journey, I became who I am today. I also found the day in and day out monotony of the road and the "job" that HWM had become, had taken a serious toll. Just as I have done throughout my life when my heart turns in a direction for the sake of well being, I followed it. HWM has always been to me living true, free and unbound. Stay true to who you are to begin with and you'll be true to who you are in the end.

This is a letter primarily directed to all of our fans, family, and friends. A lot of you have been left in the dark as to why we decided to stop touring as HWM in the first place. For this I must apologize. Though this letter should have happened a while back, it has taken us all a bit of time to acclimate to where we are in life. Stepping off a moving merry-go-round if you will. I must say overall this is a letter of gratitude, as well as a letter to expel any rumors or things that have lead anyone in the wrong direction as far as what has, is and will be taking place in the life of song for all of us.

My friends, Hot Water Music as we all knew it is no longer. A great chapter in our lives has come to a close. We must say so long, and farewell. This is not to say by any means that we will never take a stage again together or find our way onto some tracks together, but where we are in our lives at this moment, it won't be anytime soon.

This is mainly a public announcement to let everyone know that we have all moved into different directions within our personal and professional lives. As far as our own music goes none of us are slowing down in anyway. George, Jason, and Chris are moving full steam ahead with The Draft as their primary focus and I'm paddling my own canoe. I'm working on a solo record that's long overdue and having a damn good time with it. I'll play shows, but for making my way and a living, I'm called to cutting big sticks into little sticks. For me in many ways, wood has all the same properties as music. I have just as much passion for shaping and working wood as I do playing my guitar or writing a song. They're one in the same and don't even get me started on fishing! So the music will never die, just evolve. I'm moving on a different plane. Ready to settle down, write more songs, make more records, catch more fish, make love and babies with my sweet wife, slide sideways down mountains, build large structures that I draw on paper, and grow more food than we buy. So none of us are gone. Just evolved.

I must say that I have never in my life ever known such a display of dedication, desire, and will to carry on than through the HWM fans around the world. I don't believe I could ever truly find the right words to express my gratitude and sincere thanks to all the amazing souls who sacrificed what they had to make it to our shows and make them live! All those who traveled, followed, escaped, sneaked in or barged in to be apart of this movement. You are all a huge reason that we survived through days that most don't. Some of you know the tolls and trials of the road. As well as the glories and lights at the end of the tunnels. Some of you may be completely oblivious as to what it can do to a spirit and a body by subjecting yourself to what can be an extremely unhealthy way of life. It can most definitely feel like your being torn apart from the inside out at times. To say the least, it can be far from glamorous most of 23 hours in a day. I must say though that the moments that I found myself amongst my best friends and a crowd of people singing and sweating, laughing and moving to words, melodies, and busted up rhythms that we created in a beat up warehouse in Florida, were nothing but pure magic. Even through the hard times we always laughed, wrote, fought, slept, drank, and rocked to found our way to why we were there to begin with. We had to. It was our duty and our responsibility to ourselves, each other as brothers and to the good people who would come to support us through all of it. A lot of you would always ask us if we were ok. How the tours were treating us. How we survived. How we did it and why we did it for so long. A lot of the times we weren't. Some of the times we were truly on top of the world. It was the calling, it was the healing, and it was the enlightenment that was felt after releasing every ounce of energy, thought, and motion throughout a show. It was as we once called it, "The Lifting." Even though at times of being there and putting ourselves through what we had to do to get up on that stage and let it rip like it was our last was more hurtful to ourselves than anything, you sacrificed for us, let us sacrifice for you.

Thank you my friends for a decade of support, loyalty and dedication. Thank you for growing up with us living and learning the hard way most of the time. You made it for us. I hope we did the same for you! Thank you for the memories, the support and all of your gracious attention through all of our transitions, battles, broken sticks and strings, breakdowns and revelations that we were able to turn into music. You fueled this fire! What you taught us on this road has been absolutely priceless. I wish all the best in luck, love, and life to each and every one of you and yours. You have helped mold us into the people we are today and it will never be forgotten.

Take care of each other.

Chuck Ragan

                                                      Chuck Ragan of Hot Water Music

I consider myself to be a lifelong fan of Hot Water Music. They definitely have kept me alive in this world and to read those words, needless to say I was crushed. Luckily a few years past, and after working as a building contractor in California, and spending what free time he had fly fishing and turning back to his roots, Chuck released a live solo record entitled, Los Feliz. My musical passion as I knew it had immediately evolved and dare I say, matured after listening to that record. The simplicity of his words and his earnest attempt at providing Hot Water Music fans and new fans alike a sound that can really only be considered as raw folk opened my eyes to a rebirth of the traveling troubadour folk musicians of the past.

                                                                          Chuck Ragan

Emerging from the south were The Avett Brothers and Old Crow Medicine Show and Lucero. From the west came Jim Ward, of post-hardcore bands Sparta and At The Drive In. The Mid West began to show face with Brendan Kelly of Chicago’s Lawrence Arms, and from Virginia Tim Barry began recording songs he had written while hopping trains along the St. James River. It was a revival of all sorts, and Chuck Ragan doing what he only knew best, grabbed 3 or four of these artists, and convinced them to join him on a tour of the US, appropriately called, The Revival Tour. I caught the tour in the beginning of it’s leg across the US in October a few years ago and it was then that I realized what real music was.

It wasn’t about money. The tickets were $10. It wasn’t about fame. These guys were nobody without their band names. It was about creating, and unifying everyone with the sound of generations past. A sound we no longer find in today’s studio mastered recordings and digital era releases. It came from their souls, simple and raw, take it or leave it.

I took it, and I can’t seem to shake it.

The Revival Tour

The 2011 Revival Tour full set in Germany

Of Monsters And Men

What kind of lessons do kids in the 1980’s learn from the likes of these savages abducting a brother and sister from their family’s campsite and holding them hostage in a rock cave deep in the woods? Ask Disney.

In 1987, Disney released such the made for TV movie suitably entitled, Bigfoot. This movie scarred me forever. I distinctly recall it being a Sunday night. Disney would always premiere their made for TV series after 60 Minutes. My father was working on whatever trial or deposition he was involved in, while I lay curled in a fetal tuck on the other end of the couch white with mesmerizing terror.

What in the hell were these huge beastly giants doing ripping kids from their tents and holding them in rock caves while search parties with automatic weapons circled the surrounding area? Why would Disney think this was a good idea to promote? I honestly don’t remember the whole story but I do remember a helicopter and a rifle of some sort blasting one of the creatures outside its lair and Candace Cameron and her brother being rescued while the remainder of the brute family headed for some other family to terrorize or dismember limb from limb.

Here’s a quick preview of the sort of entertainment Disney would provide America on Sunday nights, which just so happens to include a preview of Bigfoot.

Thanks to Disney, I would soon develop a fascination with the idea that Bigfoot’s existence isn’t that big of a stretch from the truth especially when you consider the fact that scientists estimate that 86% of the world’s existing land species have been identified. Not to mention a tale passed on by President Theodore Roosevelt in his book, Wilderness Hunter, which tells a story of two frontiersmen in Montana who ventured into the forest in hopes of trapping salmon. The two men were constantly harassed and stalked by a beast that walked on two legs but was more humanoid than bear. The beast eventually caught one of the men by surprise, snapping his neck, ripping flesh from his throat and thrashing his body against a tree only to be found moments later by his companion.

Of course that story is never addressed when the SyFy Network decides to air a sequel to Sasquatch 8, or Vancouver includes Quatchi, a worldly family friendly Canadian version of Bigfoot to represent the Winter Olympics in 2010. Society wants to put a spin on it to make a profit, or call out witnesses as conspiracy theorists. Yes I have seen Harry and the Hendersons. It wasn’t funny the first time or the other three or four times I have seen it. In all honestly I take the movie pretty seriously. How scared would you be this thing peeped on you like this?

Then as it gets acclimated to your house you put him in, he turns your basement stairs to a pile of firewood, pounds out a hole in the floor of your kitchen, and wrecks your TV with French onion dip. Bigfoot is a domestic liability, people should know this.

It floors me how people completely negate the fact that such a beast could exist after we find 7ft stingrays in a river in Thailand or Giant Lion Eating Chimpanzees in the Congo or the mere fact that the Easter Island statues actually have bodies. Did it really take people almost 300 years to even consider the fact that maybe there is more to the statues under the soil they are planted in? There are so many discoveries in nature that rarely are acknowledged, that people would learn a great deal from if given the opportunity.

I don’t doubt one bit that there is some missing link in the evolution of man that still roams this earth, as Ron Burgundy would say, “It’s Science.” I just hope I don’t cross paths with such a colossal fiend. I’d like my arms to remain in their sockets and to not have my face removed by a mongoloid with hands the size of a catcher’s mit.

In the Middle of the Sea

Last Friday night my wife and I met some friends for dinner and drinks downtown. The restaurant we stopped at was eight blocks from our home. After our dinner it had began raining so we ducked inside a bar and I tried to wait out the rain. I didn’t have much time to spend with our friends as I still had an online quiz to submit before 11:59 and it had already reached 10:20 so I decided to walk home and come back for my wife once I finished the quiz. The moment I left the bar and walked across the street, rain steadily began falling. It was windy and cold and I was unprepared for an extremely wet voyage back home. Yet in the same sense, I am always prepared for the rain.

My personal and I guess mental approach to being soaked by rainfall came from an experience as a Boy Scout when I was sent for a week long training session in Spring Hill at the Sand Hill Boy Scout Reservation. I was the only one from my troop to be accepted into the program and I was paired up with other potential troop leaders from other Boy Scout troops in Tampa Bay. These were kids I never met before that I would become reliant upon during the week we spent in classes, adventure courses, service projects and cooking sessions. The first night a heavy downfall of rain completely overwhelmed my tent and gear inside and I was forced to sleep on wet bedding for a good three days and wear even more wet clothing and shoes. It was miserable but I was too far from home to have my parents bring me dry gear and a new tent. I was forced to deal with the power of nature and as miserable of a time it was, I became a leader, so I was grateful for that hellish downpour.

I understand that not everyone enjoys being wet, that’s what umbrellas and rain gear are there for. But what if you don’t have such luxuries? How do you manage?

I endured so much discomfort that week that I became numb to rain. I was able to see past the falling water and really focus on what was truly protected within myself. Wet clothes and hair are trivial problems. There is no avoiding getting wet when it rains, umbrella or not, but we will always have the ability to dry off. I never understand the people running through the parking lot to get to their cars or the mad rush to a restaurant entrance where handfuls of people are already huddling under an overhang. There is no avoiding it, we will always get wet. Then of course, there are the drivers on city streets and interstates who act as if Armageddon is upon us with waves of water droplets crashing to the earth with an unyielding fury.

That night, I made it through the back security gate and a few steps from the elevator I quickly realized…my wife has the keys. Without hesitation, I made my way back out of the entrance gate, walked down the same seven blocks, and splashed through the same puddles I had just washed my boots with. My wife and our friends looked at me in horror as I entered the bar, whipped my hair back and wiped my face with my forearm before reaching out for her house keys. I smirked, and told her apparently it’s raining and quickly exited the bar to make my way back home.

The following day I recalled my walk home to my wife. I wish she could have seen the look on the bouncer’s face as I re-entered the bar I had just left, completely soaked with my ID in hand, and how many people inside their cars looked at me crazily as I calmly walked through the puddles and cold rain.

I suppose it’s a sense of peace I find when I can steadily make my way through something that turns other’s worlds upside -down. Much as in the matters of life, it can’t rain all the time and we will always have the opportunity to dry off.

A Flight and a Crash

I can’t recall where it exactly the fascinating curiosity I have had towards abandoned amusement parks came from.

A cloudy memory often comes to mind when I’m traveling on I-4 towards Orlando.  It’s quite haunting to me.

About 15 minutes outside of Kissimmee, Florida near Haines City I would recall seeing a ram shackled baseball stadium. Almost a half-mile off the road it stood and I was never quite sure if the other memory of a roller coaster and a distant carousel were real or bits of a story many of my friends would tell me about that property. Their insight would go something like this:

“That was that Baseball City theme park. It was only open for a year and they shut it down because the roller coaster derailed and killed a bunch of Swedish tourists.”

In actuality, it was called Boardwalk and Baseball. An attempt by Harcourt, Brace and Jovanovich, a children’s book publisher to capture the essence of America’s Atlantic City Boardwalk and combine it with our country’s favorite past time, opened in 1987 and closed abruptly one day in January, 1990. Yes, abruptly as in an announcement hailing over the parks PA system informing the 1,000 visitors at the park that they would be closing a few hours early so round up the kids and Grandpa and leave. Refunds will be honored at the gate.

Here is a TV commercial for Boardwalk and Baseball that aired shortly after its opening

Its demise came from a financial blow it took defending a hostile takeover by a British publisher of which it never recovered from. There are no reports of Swedish fatalities or derailed rollercoasters, but there is something definitely haunting about a theme park that existed for only 3 years that lay in ruin once it closed.

Perhaps the only fatalities came from terrifying mascot hospital visits by this goon so appropriately named Scooter:

The patient sort of resembles a Swede I suppose. Who in their right minds would give Scooter hospital clearance is what I want to know.

Another abandoned park I encountered while studying in Spain during my junior year of high school was L’Aquatic Paradis. Our shuttle bus had taken us through these hills outside of Barcelona where we were able to take pictures and stretch our legs for a bit. While walking down the paved sidewalk we noticed rusting metal tracks cutting through brush and graffiti riddled ticket booths also overgrown by foliage. Whatever fun memories had in that waterpark were a thing of the past and it is quite evident something went awry. Upon further searching for this park I came to find that it did in fact close because of a fatality. Here is a link to a blog that shares pictures of the dilapidated water park.

There are some really interesting and yet frightening websites that tell the story of theme parks of yesterday and those who met an untimely end. Although it is interesting to read about what each park offered its guests in the past, the pictures of where and how they stand today tell the true story. This may have trumped my fascinating fear of Bigfoot.

If you too have found yourself in awe of Florida’s theme park past, I strongly recommend visiting www.lostparks.com

Some other really interestingly creepy photos of Six Flags New Orleans post Katrina are up at

 Love These Pics.

Am I the only one who finds these terrifying yet fascinating?

The Wayfarer

Destiny is defined, as a predetermined future, and fate is disastrous. Fate is the chain of events that befalls us. John Lennon suffered his fate in the years after the Beatles broke. David Gilmour of Pink Floyd on the other hand overcame fate by living a life in which no deities exist to praise or fear. He creates music that defines infinity, eternity and morality on his own terms, and considers himself lucky and grateful for the opportunity to do so.

Shane has found himself at the inevitable fork in the road of life. At 23, a recent college graduate of USF, he hit the streets running under his father’s advice to find a job or find someone else’s couch to sleep on. He soon discovered that he was one in many among the largest jobless force with a college degree this world has seen in years, and it only made sense to fall back on what he has only really known.

Music.

“We need to f***ing get down there, is Mark meeting us here or at downtown?” Shane calls to his brother in the other room.

A mumbled response from Stephen follows. Shane shakes his head in a confused frustration and finishes with a smirk. He sits shirtless on his living room floor with his back against the couch. Currently, he is more intent on his Atlanta Braves earning a “w” in his MLB 2K11 X Box game that illuminates his television screen than carrying his amp and guitar downstairs and into his car. I push the subject a bit when I ask when he’s going to get off his can and help Stephen carry the snare and cymbals.

“Pat, that’s one of the stupidest things I have ever heard you say. I feel sorry for you, bro.” he sighs.

Wearing nothing but faded cut off jean shorts and a pair of blown out black Vans on his feet, it’s safe to assume that this guy isn’t going anywhere any time soon. Nor are his Braves, apparently.

“Are we going shirts or skins tonight, Stephen?” Shane yells.

No answer.

“HEY!” he yells.

No answer

“Shteeeepheeeeeeeennnnnnn!!!!” he screeches louder this time.

“WHAT!” Stephen rips back.

“Shirts or skins, tonight?” Shane asks again.

“I’m not taking my shirt off tonight, I’ll let Mark carry that torch.” Stephen insists.

Shane tosses his controller behind him onto the couch and falls limp onto the carpet. His body lay face down, motionless with his arms to his side. This lasts for at least 4 minutes as I help Stephen load his equipment and Shane’s amp into the back of his truck outside.

We make it back upstairs assuming by now Shane’s body is encircled in a forensic chalk line, yet the body has been moved. In the next room we hear movement and a high pitch voice singing Natalie Imbruglia’s late 90’s hit, “Torn” sung by the man of the hour.

“I’m a little late…and my jeans are tooorrrrrrnnnn.” sings Shane.

Stephen grumbles, and leaves.

Shane now wearing a shirt, or what’s left of one, grabs his keys and his guitar, a toothbrush is jammed into the side of his mouth.

“Waiting on you, bro.” he exhales.

“Are you guys ever on time for shows?” I ask.

“We’re always on time. Punk time.” He replies. 

Inside the shop, he enters and drops his parcel of recently purchased Pabst Blue Ribbon beer next to a stack of vintage Playboy magazines. He stares out the window, across Central Avenue for a moment and then scans the working space.

“You want one? There’s only a few left.” he offers, as the fresh 12-pack of lager is torn open by his eager hands.

“Whose are those?” I ask him.

“I don’t know. Mine I guess?” Shane suggests.

Two cans are fetched from the safety of their cardboard shelter. The first is flung over the drum set to Mark, and the other to Stephen. As I turn to look back at Shane, the can, held a foot from his face hangs in his grasp, emptying its golden contents through his head into his gut.

“Did ya get it all?” I ask.

He struggles with the last gulp, holding back laughter and contemplating a quick reply.

“Never.” He says laughing.

He wipes the sour froth from his beard, slings his guitar strap over his shoulder and begins to tune.

“I forgot to remind you to bring ear plugs. This place gets loud, man. Want me to run to my car and find you some?” he asks.

“Never.” I reply.

And so it begins.

Among a crowd of seventy to eighty sweaty and buzzing 20-somethings, Set and Setting’s slow tempos of rolling beats synched between the two drummers Mark and Stephen, make way for John’s bending bass strings. The moment of anticipation dissipates as Shane tears into a sonic distortion of guitar riffs that echo from these concrete walls and cleave the stale air.  His audience’s heads bob and sway, while the rest remain still, focusing on the reverberation that drones in a sullen tempo, only to gain momentum and crash through the minds and senses that beckon for more. Shane leads his band and their fans into a world outside of lyrics or choruses, relying solely on the resonance of psychedelic instrumental fury, not to be heard, only to be experienced. Shane becomes the puppeteer of the Set and Setting show. He dangles the strings of his post-rock collaboration and twists them into a harmonic symphony of guitar sound unlike anything St. Petersburg has heard in ages.

It’s 1am, and I accompany Shane on a walk down Central Avenue towards my place. Walking past Daddy Kool Records I ask him about his recent venture in music promotion, Don’t Stop Collective. Don’t Stop Collective is a collaboration that he and a few friends started whose sole purpose is to market bands, schedule shows and promote as much as they can for the eclectic music scene in St. Pete and beyond. He reveals his frustration for local promotion, and hopes he can do a better job at helping those who have helped him along the way. He’s quite enthused in discussing the matter and the response they have received.

“I have always wished that there were more solid bands around here. I know there are people with talent that just don’t follow through whether its laziness, lack of motivation, or lack of other motivated people to play with. Whenever a new band appears, and it’s totally different from everyone else, it just widens the repertoire, and possibilities of the local music scene. There’s often an eclectic vibe with shows in St. Pete. Most bands around here have an original sound that stands out from other bands, but in one form or another, it works together as a whole.” he explains.

Taking the initiative to promote bands and shows has revived his faith in music and opened his eyes to what he is truly capable of. If he puts his guitar aside (which he won’t, ever) and forgets all about his USF degree, he has that dream that no one can take from him. Whether it is on stage, plastering store windows with show posters, or setting up gigs for bands to play in the Tampa Bay area, Shane has faith in music, that’s something he’s not willing to cast aside.

I

nside my condominium, it’s now 1:13am. Shane sits at our piano playing around with a few keys. He reveals that he’s never been taught piano, nor was he formally taught how to play the guitar he has always played from sound. A few moments later he wanders over to the cabinet to flip through my records, and jokingly quizzes me about my collection, as to which vinyls are mine and which are his sister’s. I sarcastically ask him if the music makes the man. Not expecting much of a reply he surprises me with something I’ll never forget.

“I think that this is different for every person, even more so with musicians. It’s hard not to constantly be thinking about music. Even when I’m listening to music, I’m trying to learn from it for the better of myself as a musician and a person. It’s a constant thought that never really leaves, especially because we’re always surrounded by music, or the option to be. Music has always defined different time periods of my life, and has influenced the way I have grown as a person. It’s the most important thing in my life, so I think that it does define who I am. I don’t know what I would be like if music didn’t exist. I don’t think that this holds true to everyone though. Maybe, in the same sense though, the lack of music defines that person too though. I do think music makes the man.”

Shane is 23 years old. He sees life in a way that we can only catch rare glimpses of. Whether he knows it or not his destiny lies on those six strings and the heart that bends them. In a world where nothing seems certain, and every decision he makes comes as a roll of his dice, he is a wayfarer with a wish to stay alive for a cause and for a dream of music.

Set and Setting

It's Better In The Wind

Earlier this summer, PunkNews.org dropped a quick story of a soundtrack that Chuck Ragan contributed his songs to for a short film about cafe racers called "It's Better In The Wind". I know nothing about motorcycles. I've never been on one, and was actually opposed to their lifestyle until I got hooked on Sons of Anarchy this last year and started noticing some of the old road racers parked downtown. If I was to ever want a bike it would be the one Steve McQueen rode in "The Great Escape" but I think that would require a lot of balance and leather skin which I have neither of.

Either way, the short film follows a group of friends in California for rides all across the golden state, through deserts and mountains and lush forest. The cinematography is sick, the music is perfect, and I simply cannot stop watching this film...

It's Better In The Wind - Short Film from Scott Toepfer on Vimeo.

It's Better In The Wind

These words came too late.

"There's not much you can do to try to make a child into something that he's not. But whatever he is, you can sure destroy it. Just be mean and cruel and you can destroy the best person. "

- Cormac McMcCarthy