still missing mikey

So My favorite band, Widespread panic had a very low day 6 years ago Aug. 10th... It still is hard for me to talk about as it is with most fans of the band. I read this and figured i couldn't have said it better myself.. really. So i wanted to post it here to allow you all, those ones closet to me, an insight to panic culture by someone who knows how to write it better than i ever could.
This is an account of the last time i saw Mikey on stage and almost exactly what I saw and how i experienced it... no kidding. whether it was the same day or one of the nights before, i don't know, but I too, got a glimpse of Mikey down the secret stairs heading to the bathroom...
This brings tears to my eyes and really wanted to share it with you all.
Have a great Tuesday. and Happy Olympics!!!

Remembering Guitarist Michael Houser

By Mike Campbell, Boston.com Staff, 08/16/2002

"They tell me it takes sorrow, boy, to help you feel the joy."

- 'Pleas' Widespread Panic


A Rock & Roll guitarist died Saturday. It wasn't from a heroin overdose. He didn't drink himself to death. The motorcycle didn't get out of control. He most certainly didn't end his own life. No, it was cancer - that malignant beast that doesn't discriminate between normal folks and Rock Stars. He was 40 years old. His name was Michael Houser. Or "Panic." Or "Mikey."

Houser was a co-founder and the lead guitarist for Widespread Panic, a group of six musicians, including singer John Bell, bassist Dave Schools, drummer Todd Nance, percussionist Domingo Ortiz and keyboardist John Hermann. During an 18-year stint that started in the small clubs of Athens, Georgia, Widespread Panic released 10 albums and toured relentlessly, bringing their unique blend of music to a diehard legion of fans.

Houser died of pancreatic cancer in his hometown of Athens, Georgia on Saturday, August 10th surrounded by his family and friends. He leaves his wife, Barbette, son, Waker and daughter, Eva. He also leaves his five band members, and thanks to his gift of making incredible music, he leaves tens of thousands of Panic fans.

Depending upon which music critics you read, Widespread Panic is a Rock & Roll band, a Jam Band, a Grateful Dead wanna-be band, or perhaps a bluesy-bluegrass band. It doesn't really matter however, because Widespread Panic is beyond classification. They're musicians. They play for themselves and their fans, not for the critics or the record companies, and certainly not for classification. They link songs with extra long jams, write lyrics with poetic meaning and play covers from a choice group of writers and musicians that they respect. Their music meanders in and out of light and dark the way we all do, experiencing good days and bad days, light days and dark days. For Widespread Panic and their legion of fans, Saturday was a dark day - the darkest day.

Six or seven months ago, the rumors started. "Did you hear about Mikey?" "They say he's got cancer. It doesn't look good." Then the band cancelled a tour of Europe. Hushed murmurs prevailed, but the train kept rolling, and the band and its fans traveled in April from North Carolina to Georgia to one of their favorite venues - The Oak Mountain Amphitheater in Pelham, Alabama.

I had a group of friends that drove straight from Colorado for those three nights in Alabama. I got a call immediately after the last set of the last night. "He looks good," they told me. "He played as hard as he could. They covered 'Don't be Denied' (a song by Neil Young). JB sang it directly to Mikey. Unbelievable. People were crying"

The caravan of goodwill and good tunes moved out of Alabama and on to Tennessee, then over to Texas and up to Colorado. Each summer, the band plays three shows at Red Rocks, an outdoor amphitheater built into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, about 15 miles west of Denver. Upon first seeing Red Rocks, you know God must be a true fan of music to have created something so beautiful. Some call it the 8th wonder of the world.

My girlfriend and I flew into Denver the morning of Friday, June 28th and met our friends at the airport. Within two hours we reunited with another group of friends who had flown in from San Francisco. Widespread Panic, and Mikey in particular, gave three full nights of powerful music to the more than 10,000 fans that flock to the venue each year like pilgrims to their Mecca.

It was obvious that we were a part of something special that weekend. Mikey played with everything he could give, but you could tell his health was declining. He was pale. He was too skinny. He was slow leaving the stage between sets and stopped to rest against a speaker during the short 20-yard walk. But no one spoke a word. What could you say?

Three days later, on July 2nd in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Mikey played his last show with the band. George McConnell - a guitarist and friend of the band started filling in - and helped Widespread continue their fall tour. Two weeks later Mike released a statement, clearing the rumors and letting it be known that he had terminal cancer and everything that could be done, had been done.

My only regret as a fan of Widespread Panic is that I didn't find out about them sooner. I've only been going to shows for three years - a 'newbie' compared to most fans - but everything about them is what I believe music should be. It's about fans who reunite in the parking lot with hugs and laughs; extra tickets sold at face value because asking for more money than you paid would be, simply put, bad karma; the free and unrestricted use of recording devices to capture live shows; the experimentation of sounds and styles; the addition of musical guests on stage and the open flattery shown by covering other musician's songs.

Every Panic fan has their own memory, their own vision, of Michael Houser - Perhaps it's his long, curly, black hair; a particular riff or solo; lyrics to a favorite song; his unique style of sitting on stage, avoiding the gaze of his fans, while he played; or maybe it's a combination of all of these things. For me, it's a hot Sunday afternoon at Red Rocks.

We entered the amphitheater early for the third and final show. A couple hours beforehand, I went to use the men's room and get a couple ice-cold beers. To the right of the stage, down a little-known and little-used metal staircase there's a set of restrooms that never have a line. On my way back, while climbing those stairs, I saw a lanky guy get out of a van. He wore black jeans and a gray t-shirt. He walked slowly, languidly, deliberately through the Colorado heat towards a stage door. His long, black, curly hair hid his face.

"Whaddya say, Mikey?" I yelled to him.

He looked up at me, the white sun shining against his too-gaunt, too-pale face, and smiled a wide, tooth-filled grin. I'll never forget that smile.

Thanks Mikey. Thanks for loving your family, your friends, and most of all, for loving what you did.