The Cimarron Barn Band

"Unspoken Words" is a tender look back at the love that almost was — not regret, but wonder. A song for that one person you never forgot, the ‘what if’ who lingers in memory even after life moves on.

"Ghosts of Cimarron" walks the red dirt trails of Oklahoma’s past — from the Trail of Tears to the Land Run, from lawmen and outlaws to farmers and ranchers who carved their lives from the prairie. It’s a song about echoes, about the spirits who built this land, and about how their stories still ride with us today.

"Somehow, Somewhere, Someway, Someday" is another semi-true tale of chasing love — determined to do whatever it took to win her heart, believing in that fairytale ending. She did find her happily ever after… just not with me. And that’s okay. Sometimes love writes its own story, even if you’re not on the last page.

“Backyard BBQ” comes straight out of my own life — and maybe yours. I swapped names and family ties to protect the guilty (who I still cherish), but believe me, I left out half the craziest stuff. It always starts innocent: friends, family, a grill, a few cold drinks. Then someone takes one sip too many… and all hell breaks loose.

This song is for my daughter. Love can be like a tornado — thrilling, unpredictable, and sometimes destructive. As a dad, you want to shield her from the storms, but you know she has to face them to understand. I’m proud of Chanale — she’s weathered the winds, found her footing, and carries wisdom in her smile.

This instrumental is a love song. I was thinking about a woman who was in my life, but there’s too much to say, too many ways to say it, no way to say enough, and no way to say it now. How do you write a love song with no words? Just let the music speak!

“The Dusky Demon” honors Bill Pickett — the legendary cowboy who invented bulldogging. He learned it by watching ranch dogs work cattle, then made it his own: biting the lip, grabbing the horns, and pulling them down. Pickett taught Will Rogers and Tom Mix to ride, starred in early motion pictures, and became the first African American man inducted into the National Rodeo Hall of Fame (1972) and later the Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame (1989). A true pioneer, a true legend.

This is another semi-true story. The old railway bridge across the Arkansas River existed when I was in high school in Tulsa. The night I write about happened, although it wasn’t graduation night. I spent graduation night hoping it would happen. The night it did happen was one of the most...well, for a shy young guy, it was one of those unforgettable nights… the kind that lingers in memory forever.

In 1975, I was just a sophomore chasing adventure when my best friend Dave and I headed down to Norman to spend the weekend with my older brother at OU. That weekend gave me three firsts: my first shots of tequila, my first time getting sick from tequila, and—most importantly—my first taste of Jimmy Buffett and Jerry Jeff Walker. Between “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean” and “Viva Terlingua,” I found the soundtrack that would follow me through life. Tequila didn’t stick, but Buffett and Walker sure did. When Jimmy sailed to his One Particular Harbour in 2023, I realized just how deeply his music had carried me. Cosmic Troubadour is my way of saying thanks—to Jimmy and the Coral Reefers—for giving me songs that became my own.

The Land Run of 1889 brought homesteaders, but Guthrie also got something rowdier: Dick and Bill Reeves’ casino. From tent to timber to brick, their place roared with poker, whiskey, and dance hall girls until statehood came knocking. They claimed they never once locked their doors — and when forced to close in 1907, no one could find a key. There’s a marker where it stood, but my song is meant to swing those saloon doors wide again. Step inside, grab a chair, and play a hand at The Reeves Brothers Casino.

This is a simple love song, written from that place in the heart that longs for devotion as steady as the moon. In my generation, we grew up believing in that kind of love—the kind that waits, that endures, that whispers, “I’ll Be Here.” Times may be different now, but somewhere in my soul, that hope still lingers, strong and quiet.

When Teddy Roosevelt called for volunteers, he didn’t go looking for polished soldiers. He wanted cowboys, ranch hands, lawmen, and drifters from the wild territories—Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Arizona. Men who knew dust, danger, and how to ride hard. “To the Top of the Hill” is my tribute to those Rough Riders, with a spotlight on the ones from Oklahoma who carved their names into history.

Oklahoma has rose rocks—rare, beautiful, and enduring. My mom was all of those things. This song is my way of setting a memory in stone, as enduring as a rose rock.

Picture this: OU’s “Block That Kick” vs. Ohio State game on TV in Norman, a Jerry Jeff concert road trip to Tulsa, and by nightfall I’m in Cain’s Ballroom watching Michael Martin Murphy, beer in hand, dancing like the world’s about to end. I glance right—Jerry Jeff Walker himself is dancing next to me. Michael Martin Murphy waves him onto the stage, and the whole place explodes. That was September 24, 1977. That was Cain’s magic. This instrumental is my attempt to bottle that feeling—the stomp of boots, the laughter, the fiddle rolling like thunder.