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MrBC and the first fall

Back in the U.P., life was electric.

I wasn't just a musician. I was the guy holding the pulse of the local scene. I built “906Nightlife,” a Facebook group that became the heartbeat of U.P. entertainment. I had a rhythm: Twisted Tuesdays, Thirsty Thursdays, summer campground shows, and nights behind the light and sound boards at casinos, running the show for the best bands in the U.P. I was living at the intersection of passion and community. It felt permanent.

Then came the move to “Shit Town, Wisconsin.” The air smelled like decay, and the life I'd built didn't translate. A family split left me picking up the pieces. I rebuilt my solo show, found a talented duet partner, and moved to a hick town for her daughter's sake. It was a mistake. Her true colors showed, drugs entered the mix, and the situation devolved into madness. I left with what I could fit in my van, retreating to Ishpeming to lick my wounds and start from zero. Again.

The lockdown and the reconnection

The stage vanished. An old friend opened a door.

Just as I found my feet, the pandemic hit. The stage vanished. I was back in my van, staring at a dark future. That's when an old friend offered me a spot in her loft. It turned out we knew each other from childhood, a corny truth that saved my life.

When the landlord tried to forcibly evict me, we hit the road. After the lockdown lifted, I rebuilt my solo show from scratch, playing campgrounds for a cabin, food and “jing.” We spent weeks hotel-hopping, keeping the dream alive by any means necessary. It was a gritty, essential start.

The southbound and northbound blues

The road, the music and Little Bobby.

By fall 2022, we were ready for a fresh start. I traded my Mustang for a 5th wheel, and with a gifted truck, we headed south. We ended up at the Hollywood Resort and Casino RV Park, where both the truck and camper broke down. A 90-day contract in the North turned into a year-long staycation.

When that work ended, I dove into the music scene with Minnesota blues legend Little Bobby. We clicked instantly. I spent hours at his venue, helping him launch his final album, Dealing From The Bottom Of The Deck. We were planning a national tour. Then the floor fell out. My “brother from the music mother” passed away, and the grief shattered me. I pivoted to music marketing and sales, finding a role that let me help others get better at guitar. It was a stable life, just before the storms rolled in.

We would pull up, start loading in gear and tell the room the GPS sent us the wrong way. Sometimes the venue would interrupt to say they had no entertainment booked. I'd tell them my agent had done it again, then ask to play for tips, gas, a drink and maybe a meal. Most places let us play. The patrons put enough “jing” in the guitar case to get us to the next gig. There was our first Christmas in the 5th wheel, our first New Year on the road, and a lot of good times before they weren't.

The test of resilience

By late 2025, we were finally stable. Then the floor crumbled.

It started with Amanda. The woman who was my anchor suddenly needed one. I became her caregiver during a dark, nightmare-filled season of uncertainty, a shadow world I couldn't reach, where the walls of her reality were shifting. She fought back, and we thought we were safe.

Then, in November, I hit the ICU. What started as a dental infection became a systemic invasion: multifocal pneumonia, COPD exacerbation and acute hypoxic respiratory failure. I went from a professional musician to a man tethered to an oxygen tank. The fatigue is absolute.

Just as we tried to navigate my recovery, Amanda was hit by debilitating gallstones. Further medical work has now uncovered systemic ovarian cysts as well. She desperately needs surgery, but delays and medical red tape have kept the path uncertain while leave-program bureaucracy has left us without the safety net we expected.