THE RECORD.

Five pours from the album.

Own the record. Feed the dawg.

Every CD is pressed, signed and shipped by RC himself from Rico, Colorado. Streaming pays pennies — buying the record keeps the songs coming.

Written for his father after a visit to southern Illinois to find the old log cabin where he was born — on the road between Goreville and a now-forgotten place called Wagon Town. “His stories live on… I love you, Pop!”

For anyone who has ever lived and worked in Telluride. “It can get a little claustrophobic there sometimes, and it’s easy for the blues to creep up on you. This song is for you all!”

Written at the old cabin on the Current River in the Ozarks, picking with the locals. “Originally it was kind of a boring country song — then I decided to spice it up, and it worked.”

Coughed up with a guitar during a rough Christmas season. “I wanted it to be a song for songwriters. When you’re going through Hell — keep going!!!”

A nod to the struggling writers — Calliope, Muse of Epic Poetry, with references to Kerouac, Bukowski and Brautigan. “You bet on Calliope, you’re gonna get bruised…”

“I grew up on Hee-Haw and the Beverly Hillbillies and I miss the good ole days. From feedin’ critters & jalopy cars to cement ponds and movie stars… nuff said.”

Written one night at the Dugout Ranch in Indian Creek, Utah, listening to coyotes howl out in the “Boneyard.” Dedicated to outlaw cowboy poet Topher Dalrymple.

For the little mining and railroad towns of the Rockies we’re loving to death — and the old timers who settled them. “All the stories are true… dedicated to little Rico.”

For Angelica, his first real fan, who blessed people with “10,000 angels.” One night he thought, “why so few?” — “We can all use a little more Grace in our lives.”

The Covid-lockdown prison song, inspired by the names scrawled in the old jail beneath the courthouse. “Ultimately, it’s a song about impermanence. We’re all just trying to leave a mark somewhere.”