When I first met Ryder it was through a last minute booking to open his show in a music lounge above a sports bar in Denver. All I knew about him was faint rumors about a road hardened, Volvo drivin’ divorcee from France who had a beautiful songbook. I’d heard he was a doorman and a arborist and lived in Arkansas for a spell, and self released his art without taking money from goddamn anyone, an lived in a station wagon and had an open heart.

When I turned up at the venue it was late afternoon. There was a taxidermy Leopard on the wall and a pool table pushed to the side of the room. I found Ryder pacing the checkered dance floor, taking a measure, wearing work pants, a stained singlet and a beret type of hat. He had curly hair an long eyelashes lit up in a sunbeam shining from a dusty window. He looked skinny, but he was broad in the shoulders, an I know some skinny fellers can be very hard to knock down indeed. He introduced himself politely and invited me to the greenroom to drink soda water, and there I met his Mexican violinist and one-person band. Her name was Paola Zam, an when Ryder went out to get changed she told me that they’d been pulled over that day by highway patrolmen, in Kansas, and that Ryder had refused them to search the rental car on principle, and held his nerve. That really said something to me. It’s rare in the music game to find a real son of a bitch who’ll stand ground about their ethos when pushed.

When Ryder and Paola took the stage it was in front of about a dozen people. Ryder’d donned an outfit like a mixture of a mariachi musician, a chaplain and a sailor. An I wasn’t prepared for his show. Not at all. An nor was the crowd, who seemed to have come up from the sports bar on a whim and didn’t know who Ryder was either. There was a wild static in the room, a nervousness you get when someone wears sailor pants and stares at you from a stage. But when Ryder and Paola began to perform, immediately it was like they rang a bell in the depth of our souls. He’s got the knack of bringing folks in and making em feel like everything’s alright. His voice was so heartbroken, the songs so melodic. The poetry was true and deeply personal, exposing Ryder’s feelings and heartache, and as he poured out his heart he also shed his clothes to the floor. Time moved fast. It was a party, but with a feeling of sick voyeurism, like we were partaking in something illicit, peering where we had no right to. Ryder leapt from the stage and stood on a table, then waltzed among the crowd. He dragged the mic chord like a chain and had us all captivated. At the finale the room exploded in applause as Ryder collapsed against the stage, sweaty and exhausted. A guy in the crowd wearing an NBA jersey over a t-shirt told me his life was changed from then on. He could barely believe what he’d seen. His wife was aglow, laughing, and said she couldn’t put words to it either. An I agreed. It’s hard to describe the significance of a show like that. It’s hard to write poetry then make music that sounds like the lyrics it’s about, and then to embody that music on the stage and be that entertaining about it. It’s like a piece of driftwood that was hit by lightening and engraved with words to give it strange powers. You don’t just read or see or hear it. It’s an occurrence.

An look, I been all over the world playin’ shows. I seen all kinds of bullshit on stage and off. It’s tough to find artists who aren’t just floggin mutton on a auction block or tryin to rainmake, or just decipherers of the next big sound. When I drove home that night I cracked the sunroof in my Lexus and played “Autotango” on CD, and had what I’d describe as a healing experience. The songs are about dark things that are hard to grasp. Regret and irreversible failures. Depression. Questions about being yourself. Heartbreaks of different types. Ryder’s lyrical eyepiece shifts to different specters that are normally too frightening to confront. But the songs are so jacked up, so driven and cool and badass that they grant you special strength and swagger. And they’re imbued with humor and sweetness and gentleness that ordains you the right to be tender and forgiving of yourself. I went back through his earlier records, “Megachurch” and “Follymoon”, and found a ream of this type a writing. Deep, dark thoughts made cool and light. Sweet release. Cathartic music you can drive a 25 year old sedan in. One handing round corners. Feeling cool and pumped up, and healed and released about stuff in your life.

Ryder and Paola needed a place to stay in Denver that night, and my friend Parsons offered them a room. The next morning Ryder and I shared some coffee and talked about music and the road, luck, day jobs, losing, love. The man is a mad guru, a street genius. Since then I kept in touch, and was lucky to receive an early listen to his next record. It’s called “Smile, Hearse Driver!” and I gotta say, no bullshit, it’s my favorite of his records yet. The specter of death is on the horizon for Ryder. The songs are super powerful. If you are a show booker I hereby recommend booking Ryder The Eagle for shows. If you’re a lover of artistry and great music and real things, tune in. If you’re a fan, count me among you forever.

Regards,

Roy Molloy