BrothaRic Patton

I never wanted to be no rock star.

Never had them dreams.

I’ve been playing guitar a long damn time, but fame was never what pulled me toward the instrument. I never pictured my name up there in lights. Never dreamed about being the next B.B. King. Hell, we already had a B.B. King. The world didn’t need me trying to be another one.

I just wanted to play.

My mama bought me my first guitar when I was little. I had to be a baby. Maybe five, six, seven years old. Somewhere around there.

I’ve had guitars around me…

Maybe it’s this damn heat that made me remember this story.

I was young.  Young enough to have more nerve than sense.

We lived out in the country, and there was this girl who rode my school bus. She and her brother lived way back off the road. I mean WAY back.

Every morning the school bus would pull up and damn near have to wait on them to come walking out of that field toward the road.

I knew where she lived.

And one hot summer day, for reasons that made perfect sense to a young fool, I decided I was gonna ride…

I was sitting there the other day beside a dumpster parked in front of my dad and Mama’s old house.

That dumpster will preach to you if you sit beside it long enough.

Because sooner or later, somebody’s gonna clean out your house.

And mine.

That’s a hell of a thing to think about.

Every day, somewhere, somebody is standing in an old house opening drawers, pulling boxes down from closets, digging through cabinets, and trying to decide what stays and what goes.

Keep.

Give away.

Throw it in the dumpster.

And somewhere…

I was still in high school the first time I ever played a real nightclub.

And it wasn't just any nightclub.

It was the Ebony Club.

The Ebony Club was right up the road from where I lived in Triana, Alabama, and back then, that place was a big damn deal.

We were just kids. Had ourselves a high school band and thought we were something. Hell, maybe we were.

Music was different back then. We were heading into the disco era. Everybody was dancing. Bumping. Bump contests. Bands playing. Folks dressing up to go out on…

I’ve been around the record business a long damn time.

Long enough to watch it change. Then change again. And every time somebody tells you the latest change is gonna “save the music business,” you better check and see who the hell they’re talking about saving.

Because it usually ain’t the little Blues man.

One of the biggest changes was streaming.

Streaming opened some doors. No doubt about that. An independent artist can put a record out today and somebody around the world can hear it tonight.

That’s pretty…

This lawnmower is old.

I mean old.

My daddy bought this John Deere LA145 so many years ago I can't even remember when he got the damn thing.

But yesterday?

That old son of a bitch was still cutting grass.

And I ain't talking about some pretty little suburb lawn where the grass gets trimmed every Saturday before breakfast. I'm talking about high grass. The kind that'll make a lawnmower reconsider.

That old Deere went right through it.

Rusty. Worn. Beat up.

Still cutting.

And sitting there riding that thing got me…

I guess the smoke is finally starting to settle.

And when I say smoke, I mean the fire of getting a new computer, gathering up recording tools, learning what I’ve got, and getting everything ready to make some music.

I’ve got quite a few tools now.

So I suppose it’s time to get busy.

Funny thing is, once you finally get the tools you’ve been wanting, another question shows up:

What the hell are you gonna do with them?

I don’t know where to start. Aint that some shit !

Maybe that’s all right.

Lately, I’ve been…

Everybody wants to talk about microphones.

"What mic are you using?"
"What's the best condenser?"
"Do I need to spend a thousand dollars?"

Hell, that's usually the wrong question to ask.

You can own the finest microphone money can buy, but if you're recording in a room that sounds like a concrete slab or an empty kitchen, your recording is still gonna suffer. A fancy microphone can't fix a bad room. In fact, it makes the problem worse.

Here's why.

Technology done come a long way. These days, you can spend two or…

Every time I get stopped at a railroad crossing, I don't get as mad as I used to. Matter of fact, I smile.

Because that train reminds me of learning to play the guitar.

You're sitting there with somewhere to be. The engine's running. Your foot's tapping. You're thinking, Damn, come on already. Then your mind starts wandering. "Maybe I can turn around. Maybe there's a side road. Maybe I can beat this thing somehow."

Sure enough, somebody always tries.

One car cuts left. Another hangs a U-turn. Somebody's…

Some weeks leave your boots dusty. Others leave your soul full. Last week did both.

This Monday found me doing something I don't do very often—sleeping.

I finally made it back home from Helena, Arkansas, after spending the week at summer camp, and I guess my body had been keeping score. I eased back into my chair to rest for a minute, and the next thing I knew, I'd slept away most of the day.

Truth is, it felt pretty good.

I'm not making excuses. I'm just plain tired.

When you spend your days pouring into young…