Ryan Mifflin

02/10/2026

DIRTY ROOTS REVIVAL

I didn’t go digging.
That’s the thing.

They’d been restocking the discount bins, and I’ve learned not to hunt anymore.
I just walk in and let my hands tell me what’s alive.

The first thing I touched was a record I couldn’t place.
No era. No obvious cosplay.
Didn’t look like a reissue. Didn’t look retro. Didn’t look new.

It looked timeless.

I picked it up knowing I was going to buy it
before I read the hype sticker,
before I knew the label,
before I knew the story.

I had no idea who Velvert Turner was.
No idea he grew up with Jimi Hendrix —
not as a footnote, but as a kid, learning guitar side by side,
absorbing the same blues, R&B, gospel, and sci-fi radio static
before any of it had a name.

The first thing I said — out loud — was:
“...the f**k am I looking at?”

And then I played it.

Sometimes he sounds so much like Hendrix your body braces.
You expect the myth.
The fire.
The ascension.

But it never comes.

The song stays human-sized.
The groove stays close to the floor.
No spectacle. Just motion.

That’s when it hits you:
this isn’t an homage.
It’s a shared language spoken in two different lives.

Velvert didn’t disappear.
He didn’t fail.
He didn’t miss his moment.

He made the music, let it exist,
and stepped away from the machine that turns sound into legend.

And you can hear that choice in every note.

This is funk without polish.
Psychedelia without costume.
Blues that didn’t ask permission and didn’t ask to be remembered.

The guitar doesn’t conquer — it wanders.
The voice doesn’t perform — it tells the truth and keeps moving.

That’s when I realized what this is.

Dirty Roots Revival isn’t nostalgia.
It isn’t excavation.
It isn’t reenactment.

It’s about the music that survives without being rescued.
The records that don’t explain themselves.
The ones that find you before you know what you’re holding.

If this rattles you a little, good.
That’s how you know it’s alive.

Some things don’t arrive when you’re ready.
They arrive when the signal finally locks in.

11/25/2025

Listen to the DON'TS

Listen to the SHOULDN'TS

Listen to the MUSTN'TS child, The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS Listen to the NEVER HAVES

Then listen close to me -

Anything can happen,

child ANYTHING can be.

- Shel Silverstein

11/25/2025

RIP, Jimmy 😔 🇯🇲

Many rivers to cross But I can't seem to find my way over Wandering I'm lost As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover Many rivers to cross And it's only m...

11/24/2025

Tune in right after the 730 Clinton County Info to hear from the director and some of the cast of the upcoming Greenville High School fall play, Puffs!!

(Look how nicely they show off those Greenville, IL Chamber of Commerce BoCo Bars!!!)

07/25/2025

They told us the end started in 2016. But this July? It’s feelin’ more like the aftershock. This piece isn’t about nostalgia—it’s about mourning loud...

CROSS YOURSELF WITH EYELINER: Time Is Coming For The OGs

Why has July 2025 come swingin’ so hard at our souls?

Gen X out here takin’ gut punches in the parking lot,
no warning, no gloves, just boom—
Hulk Hogan.
Theo.
Ozzy.
All in a week. Theo and Ozzy on the same day.

You blink and you’re older.
You cough and the air don’t feel the same.
You scroll and somebody else you used to be dies with the headline.

They told us 2016 was bad—
when Bowie dropped stardust and vanished.
When Prince’s purple turned to mist.
When Petty laid down and didn’t get back up.
We swore that was the end of something.
The Cubs won the World Series, for God’s sake.
We thought that was the apocalypse.
Nah. That was the opening act.

Because now it’s 2025.
And our ghosts are moving in daylight.
They’re coming for the ones who raised us with guitars and grit,
snarl and swagger,
cords and calluses and road dust stuck in the groove.
and possibly some kind of enhancing supplements for one of them…

Listen—
You better brace.

Dylan?
He's damn near 84.
Young? 78.
The Stones?
Still touring, but time don’t do encores and Geritol has been sponsoring that tour for a while now.
Springsteen?
He ain’t born to run forever.

The clock is comin’ for our vinyl gods,
the ones who gave us sound when the world gave us static.

So bow your head.
Pray to the drumbeat.
Cross yourself with eyeliner and sing your own communion.

Because you were there, friend.
You saw the legends.
You heard the thunder.
You felt what it was like when music meant something
and the people who made it didn’t just perform—
they summoned.

So when the grief comes—
and it will—
don’t you dare act surprised.

You knew the day would come
when the OGs would fade.
But don’t mourn ‘em like they’re gone.

Mourn ‘em like they gave you something no one else ever could.
And then
turn it up.

Maybe skip the Cosby Show, but still think of Theo.

Let their ghosts rattle the windows.
Let the neighbors call the cops.
Let your daughter roll her eyes.
Let your chest thump and your lip curl.

Because you were here
when they were here.
And that’s a kind of holy
you don’t get twice.

07/24/2025

I didn’t get it at first. But then I did.

This one’s for the girls in the boots, the glow-ups, the sacred chaos of being seen.


“THE SELFIE SERMON” (Pt. 2 of 2)

I went to a show the other night. A good one.
But I gotta say… I’ve never seen so many girls doing full-blown photo shoots in my life.

It wasn’t “grab a quick selfie with the stage behind us.”
It was:
Serve a look, baby.
Step into the walkway.
Pop a heel.
Flash a peace sign.
Try it with the flash.
Try it without.
Hair flip. Slight turn.
Now hands on hips like you're storming the Capitol—but cute.

It wasn’t just documenting a memory.
It was declaring a moment.
It was:
“I am here.”
“I am radiant.”
“I bought these boots with my own money, and they WILL be seen.”

And you know what?

I respect it.

They weren’t just there for the music.
They were there for each other.
For the glow-up.
For the ritual.
For the drama of being young and dressed up and part of something that felt important.

And if you’re over 35 and didn’t fully understand it?
That’s fine.
You weren’t supposed to.
This wasn’t your moment.

But you got to watch it unfold.

And that’s magic, too.

So yeah—
Let the girls take the selfies.
Let them have their moment.
Let them shine.

You’d want to remember you looked that good, too.

07/24/2025

Sometimes being the ride is more than enough.

This one’s for the dads, the tagalongs, the ones holding phones and hoodies and memories they didn’t expect to make.


“I WAS THE RIDE" (Pt. 1 of 2)

The kids are alright.
That’s what I kept thinking last night.
Somewhere between the shimmering lights and the sold-out sea of faces, I saw it—
they still gather for music.
They still feel things loud and deep and together.

It was a Lumineers show.
I went as the dad. The chauffeur. The tagalong.
It was my daughter and her friend’s night.
I was there to keep the wheels moving and the tickets scanned.

I didn’t even know I’d love it.

But that band? Man, that band showed up to play.
Six people swapping instruments, passing the spotlight,
everyone on stage singing like they meant it.
And out in the crowd?

Teenage girls in flower-print boots and thrifted denim
doing full-on photo shoots in the aisles.
At first, I rolled my eyes.
But after a while… I understood.

They were freezing time.
Not just capturing their faces, but the feeling.
I watched a girl snap a pic right as the stage lights flared gold.
She looked at the photo like it was a miracle.

And maybe it was.

We always did this.
We just used shoebox cameras and scratched-up memories.
They’re doing it in real time.

I was the ride.
But I wasn’t just the ride.
I was the witness.
To something good.
To something theirs.

And maybe the best part?
They never asked me to be anything else.
They just let me be there.

Maybe that’s enough sometimes.
To be the one who holds the extra hoodie.
To be the blurry figure in the background of their joy.
To be the ride… and feel the rhythm anyway.

As we left, my daughter whispered,
“That was one of the best nights ever.”

And I didn’t say anything.
Didn’t try to make it about me.
Just smiled and turned the key in the ignition.

But if you ask me?

Yeah.
I think it was one of mine, too.

07/24/2025

We resurrectin' the rhythm they tried to bury under budget cuts and bad algorithms.

This is back alley baptisms with a boom-bap...
Old soul revival with a trap clap...
One nation under a groove... indivisible...
with liberty, justice, and James Brown-level clearance to holler.

WE FUNKIN’ TIL FURTHER NOTICE!

🔥 Something’s coming.
📡 Keep your eyes right here.
✊🏾 Tell your people. The revival starts soon.