Hello Friends,

There is a particular silence in the room as I write this, because I am about to speak genuinely about the passing of a true friend and shaman.

It’s hard to tell now, but it was around late 2005 when I received a telephone call from an esteemed associate to go to Marty’s and meet a gentleman who might have common interests.

It is here that I encountered for the first time a small, olive-skinned man, dressed clean, in black jeans, white shirt, black vest, all kinds of drapes, and black, crazy, curly hair.

Holding court, he paused to greet me directly when I was brought into the circle:

“Hello… how art thou… I’m Rickie… Rickie Castrillo… nice to be meeting you.”

He extended a right hand with nails sharpened to a gleam. His propensity for laughter was enormous, he reminded me of all of the Little Rascals, and I knew I had met the Fagin for my Artful Dodger. So begins 20-odd years of music, rompin’ and tompin’.

Walking with him in New Orleans was like walking with the King Ambassador. Love, respect, and joy. It was no different in Birmingham, any restaurant, the cancer wing, the trailer park, and always on the stage.

Rickie Castrillo sat in this studio before we had a board or a camera, watching as it grew. He was often silent then, smiling and nodding occasionally. The absence of that silence now is loud in my head. This past 4th of July, Rickie hitched a ride on a rocket out of here, and just kept on going, taking with him an encyclopedic knowledge of musical history and tradition. I am just so thankful I got to experience some of this firsthand.

I imagine sometimes my father and Rickie meeting each other in the great beyond, I hope to myself that they do not converse for long.

We were the termite brothers, we are still the termite brothers. Love you, Rickie.

Geez, thanks for listening friends, had to be said.

Your pal,
Sam