The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

 I’ve been looking for a drummer while starting a new band. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Wrong. I talked to a drummer friend of mine. He knows the music; knows we can rock the hell out of it — but he passed. His reason? “Good-paying gigs are disappearing.” I told him that’s because a lot of bands simply aren’t worth paying. That’s not an insult — it’s reality. I’m not talking about musical ability. Some musicians are better than others; that’s life. There’s always someone better. What most musicians - and non-musicians - don’t understand is what actually makes a good gig. Let’s be honest. I’ve been doing this since 1979. I’ve played over six thousand shows in multiple countries on three continents. I’m pretty well qualified to say this: It’s not the songs. It’s not virtuosity. It’s the show. Why do people go out to see a band, a comedian, a play, a movie? To be entertained. That’s it. If your band isn’t getting gigs, ask yourself a simple question: Why should anyone pay to see yo...

 2026 has been off to a rough start. Not even a month in, and I’ve already lost a few friends. Now, before anyone reaches for the tiny violins and assumes I’m whinging - relax. I’m not. Yes, it always hurts to lose someone, but I’ve learned to use moments like these to lean into the good memories: the reasons we got along in the first place. This morning, I found out my old buddy Colin Hardy passed away over the weekend. Col hailed from Stoke-On-Trent (which I always jokingly called Stoke-On-Rye ). He was a working-class bloke through and through, but we shared a deep love of music — especially the old-school rockin’ variety. We first crossed paths on a music-sharing site and immediately began raiding each other’s collections. This was back in the dial-up days, when downloading a single MP3 could take half an hour if the phone didn’t ring. Eventually, we started emailing instead. Col sent me tracks by the likes of Crazy Cavan, Freddie Fingers Lee, and others. He was always hungry f...

The sun came up, just like it did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. I can’t remember the last time it rained. Or snowed. The sky doesn’t threaten anything anymore. It just shows up. It’s quiet. Not peaceful - dead quiet. The sounds of life, liberty, and productivity are long gone. Even the birds have gone silent. Maybe they left. Maybe they died. Either way, they figured something out before we did. If there’s an upside to being alone, it’s that the air finally smells clean. No exhaust. No burning plastic. No chemical tang in the back of the throat. Even the stench of the rotting corpses is gone now. I couldn’t bury them all. I tried, though. For about a month, I buried five bodies a day. Dug the holes by hand. Shoveled dirt. Mumbled something respectful, or at least something that sounded like it. Covered them up and moved on to the next. It felt important at the time - like it was the last decent thing left to do. Eventually exhaustion cured me of that idea. Madne...

 Every now and then I write something just because I feel like it. Tonight, I did just that. A little Black Hills twist.  (for Jackson) Driving west out of Rapid City at night feels like space travel must feel. The sky is blacker than anywhere I’ve ever been, but the stars burn brighter for it. The Milky Way hangs overhead, indifferent, reminding you how small and insignificant you really are. By the time you hit the Badlands, it doesn’t feel like Earth anymore. In the moonlight the terrain looks lunar — bleached, jagged, wrong. Deeper into the Black Hills, on the back roads, the darkness turns absolute. No cars. No lights but your own. You drive careful out here. Too many critters, too many things that don’t move until it’s too late. I’ve seen what’s left behind on the road — shapes, stains. I tell myself they were animals. Most nights, that’s enough. The Black Hills close in on you. Thick pine canopy, branches knitting together overhead until it feels like the sky is pressin...

 I’m at the age where I have too many dead friends. Luckily, most of them left a lot behind. I’ve been listening to my old buddy Evan Johns all day. Evan would tell you - confidently - that he was “the next big thing for years". I’m not sure I’d go that far, but for some of us, he was always a big thing. I’ve got more Evan stories than I should—and it’s a miracle I remember as many as I do. If you knew Evan and his devotion to adult libations, that’ll make sense. I first heard about him when he was playing with the LeRoi Brothers . He added some much-needed oomph (in my opinion). A few years later I found Trash, Twang & Thunder by 4 Big Guitars From Texas - Grammy-nominated, no less - in a cut-out bin for $1.99. Then came Evan Johns & the H-Bombs, ordered mail-order from Jungle Records back when that still felt like magic. This was the rock and roll I wanted to hear: rockabilly, R&R, punk, surf, blues, country—all mashed together the way I’d been hearing it in my hea...