There are nights when someone you love is hurting, and there’s nothing you can do but sit beside them and wish you had the power to make it better. You’d trade your strength, your years, even a piece of yourself if it meant they could breathe easier and find some peace. “If I Could Cast a Spell” came from that helplessness—the kind of love that makes you want to call on every dark corner of the universe and bargain with whatever gods, spirits, or forces might be listening. The magic in this Feral Warrior song isn’t really about spells. It’s about loving someone enough to wish you could take their pain into yourself, carry it for them, and leave them with nothing but the light.
here are the lyrics, link to hear the song is below
Feral Warrior — If I Could Cast a Spell
[Verse 1]
You’re curled up on that secondhand couch Breath short, eyes show pain You just want to rest but sleep won’t come You’re body fightin back again
I’d trade my blood for every heartbeat I’d trade my bones for your breath Every flinch that crosses your forehead Makes me wish I could cast a hex
[Chorus]
Your physical pain hurts my soul Like barbed wire wrapped ‘round my veins If I could cast a spell, babe I’d pull that fire from your frame
If I could cast a spell, it wouldn’t be For gold or a crooked kind of fame I’d whisper old words, burn my name Just to take your pain away Just to take your pain away
[Verse 2]
There’s a jar of sage ash on the dresser Black salt in a rusted tin Pentagram scratched in the mirror fog Where your breath’s been gatherin
I’d draw a circle in the kitchen dust Chant your struggle into mine Let the old gods use me up If it meant you’d be fine
[Chorus]
Your physical pain hurts my soul Like barbed wire wrapped ‘round my veins If I could cast a spell, babe I’d pull that fire from your frame
If I could cast a spell, it wouldn’t be For gold or a crooked kind of fame I’d whisper old words, burn my name Just to take your pain away Just to take your pain away
[Bridge]
I’d trade my years for your minutes (oh) Take the shade down off your face Light the candles, smear the colors Call the dark from its secret place
Let it swallow me, not you Let it carve me, not you
[Final Chorus]
Your physical pain hurts my soul Like barbed wire wrapped ‘round my veins If I could cast a spell, babe I’d pull that fire from your frame
If I could cast a spell, it wouldn’t be For gold or a crooked kind of fame I’d open every door in hell Let the night dogs drag me away
If I could cast one faithful spell I’d take your pain away I’d take your pain away
I have decided that I will share the lyrics to our music here, because let’s be honest the words are most of the fun haha. This song is inspired by one of Carlas ongoing jokes/threats. She’s pretty easy going but don’t ever, ever hurt the dog…
*Note – links at the end to hear the song on Spotify or Apple Music 🙂
Intro – I’m pretty easy-going, takes a lot to get me hot. Most things just ain’t worth the risk of getting caught.
Verse 1 – You can steal my lunch from my fridge Cut me off in traffic, hit the ditch Call me every name you know I’ll just smile and let it go
Chorus – But if you hurt my dog… They’ll put your face on the evening news. Search the woods and hunt for clues. Drag the river, check your phone, Ask the neighbors when you were last at home. Preacher says the devil caught ya, Mrs. Murphy thinks the aliens gotcha. I’ll just say I don’t know where you’re at… And you’ll just be a strange smell in the attic.
Verse 2 – Spread your rumors, paint me mean Try your best to wreck my scene Go ahead, wreck my reputation I won’t need your explanation Chorus – But if you hurt my dog… They’ll put your face on the evening news. Search the woods and hunt for clues. Drag the river, check your phone, Ask the neighbors when you were last at home. Preacher says the devil caught ya, Mrs. Murphy thinks the aliens gotcha. I’ll just say I don’t know where you’re at… And you’ll just be a strange smell in the attic. Verse 3 – Take my man, I’ll wave goodbye Spend my cash and tell your lies Break my heart, I’ll let it be Some things don’t mean much to me Final Chorus – But if you hurt my dog… They’ll put your face on the evening news. Search the woods and hunt for clues. Drag the river, check your phone, Ask the neighbors when you were last at home. Preacher says the devil caught ya, Mrs. Murphy thinks the aliens gotcha. I’ll just say I don’t know where you’re at… And you’ll just be a strange smell in the attic.
I’ve been reading some of the online comments about David Lee Roth’s recent performances, and honestly, some of them are fucking brutal. And I get it. I really do.
But here’s the thing: David Lee Roth is 71 years old. If you walked into a David Lee Roth concert expecting to see the exact same guy who jumped onto a stage in 1984, did the splits four feet in the air, spun around like a human helicopter, and sang every note at the top of his lungs… I don’t know what to tell you – Maybe set your expectations in life a little more reasonably.
Like a lot of people my age, I grew up with Van Halen. The 1984 era Van Halen didn’t just make music – they made the soundtrack to a generation:
Jump. Panama. Hot for Teacher.Those songs are burned into the brains of people my age. You hear the opening notes and you’re a teenager again, standing in your bedroom, sitting in your buddy’s car, or cranking the stereo way louder than your parents wanted. I arguably took it a little further than many as I also followed David Lee Roth after Van Halen, through his solo career. Crazy from the Heat. Eat ‘Em and Smile. Skyscraper. Just Like Paradise. A Little Ain’t Enough. I followed Dave.
And no, before you start, I’m not going to get into the whole David Lee Roth versus Sammy Hagar debate. That’s been beaten to death for decades. Sammy Hagar-era Van Halen was fan-freakin-tastic music. But it was a different band in my world, and I don’t think the two need to be compared. They were different eras, different personalities, different songs, and different versions of one of the greatest rock bands ever.
So when I went to see Diamond Dave this summer, I wasn’t expecting to see 1984 David Lee Roth. I was expecting to see 2026 David Lee Roth – and that’s what I got. Was the performance a little off the wall? Absolutely. Did he sound like he did back in the day? No. But let’s be brutally honest, he was never that great a singer in his heyday by comparison to many anyway – he was a showman. And he still is a showman. Did he move like he used to? No. Could he do all the things he did when he was 25 or 30? Of course not. And you know what? Neither can I. I’m guessing neither can most of the people sitting in that audience, either. That’s the part I don’t understand about some of the criticism. We’re watching a 71-year-old icon on stage and criticizing him because he isn’t performing like the 30-year-old version of himself that exists in our memories. Well, I’m not the same person I was at 30. And neither are you.
At some point, the people we grew up watching start getting old. And if you were old enough to remember David Lee Roth in his absolute heyday, then congratulations. You’re getting old too. That’s not an insult. It’s just math. And maybe that’s where some of the vitriol comes from. Maybe you’re not really angry at David Lee Roth. Maybe you’re angry at the fact that time is passing. Because seeing someone like Dave on stage is a reminder that the people who seemed larger than life when we were young are now in their seventies, and it’s a stark reminder of our own mortality.
But somewhere in the middle of that concert, I figured something out. I was watching Dave on stage, and he was looking out at the crowd. Smiling. Not the cocky, larger-than-life Diamond Dave grin we’ve all seen a million times. This was different. There was emotion there. You could see it on his face, and for a moment, it looked like he was fighting back tears. And then I believe he explained the entire reason he was standing there.
He lifted the mic, slowly shook his head and said “I miss this, man. I fucking miss this.”
In that moment, I understood exactly why he was there. David Lee Roth isnt out there touring because he needs the money. He’s out there because he loves performing. Because this is what he’s done for most of his life. He’s out there because he misses it.
He misses the stage.
He misses the noise.
He misses the people.
And honestly? I think that’s fucking beautiful.
So if you bought a ticket expecting him to hit every note perfectly, perform every dance move like he did in 1984, and launch himself into the splits four feet in the air…I’m sorry. You didn’t go to see David Lee Roth. You went looking for a time machine. And they don’t sell those at the merch booth.
I went to see an icon. I went to see a guy who helped write the soundtrack to my youth. I went to see the man behind songs that have been part of my life for more than four decades. And I got to see him standing on a stage at 71 years old, still doing the thing he loves. Was it perfect? No. But neither is getting old. Neither is life. And maybe that’s the point.
We spend so much of our lives wanting everything to stay exactly the same. We want our heroes to stay young. We want our bodies to stay young. We want our parents to stay healthy. We want our kids to stay little. But that’s not how any of this works. Time keeps moving. And eventually, all we can really do is decide what we’re going to do with the time we’ve got left. David Lee Roth decided he wanted to spend some of his doing what he loves – Standing on a stage looking out at people who grew up with his music. And when I saw that emotion on his face and heard him say, “I fucking miss this, man,” I got it.
I was glad I was there. Because I didn’t see a 71-year-old David Lee Roth pretending to be 25. I saw a 71-year-old David Lee Roth who still just wanted to be David Lee Roth.
I saw an idol.
I saw a piece of my youth standing on a stage in front of me.
And I saw a man who knows that time is running, just like the rest of us.
So, Diamond Dave…Thank you. Thank you for the music. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the crazy. And thank you for getting back on that stage. I hope you keep doing it for as long as you fucking want to.
If you had told me five years ago that I’d be spending this much time writing songs, I’d probably have laughed.Actually, I definitely would have laughed. At you. Openly. I would have lost a lot of money if you had laid bets too. Dont get me wrong, writing has always been part of who I am. Stories, magazine articles, newspaper columns, product reviews, radio dramas, blog posts… if there was a way to tell a story using words, chances are I had tried it or I wanted to. Songwriting was the one box that remained unchecked until a friend challenged me to write just one song. (If you haven’t heard that story, see previous blogs). That “one song” turned into Country Cause of You. Then another. Then another. Somewhere along the way I stopped thinking of songwriting as something I was experimenting with and started realizing it had quietly become part of who I am. What surprised me most wasn’t that I enjoyed writing songs. It was discovering just how incredibly powerful music is. A story can make you laugh. A story can make you cry. A story can make you stop scrolling for five minutes and think about your own life. But when you wrap those same words in music, something changes. Music has this amazing ability to slip past all the walls we build. A melody can make a lyric hit harder. A single note can carry emotion that would take three paragraphs to explain. Sometimes a chorus says more in thirty seconds than I could ever write in a thousand words. That’s what keeps drawing me back. I don’t write songs because I expect everyone to love them. I write because I hope someone out there feels something. Maybe they laugh. Maybe they cry. Maybe they stop for a moment and think about someone they love, something they’ve lost, or a choice they need to make. If a song can do that for even one person, it was worth writing. Lately, that creative journey has grown into two very different musical projects that Carla and I have been building together. Backcountry Bandits gives us the freedom to tell stories about the people and places that shape us. Sometimes those stories are funny. Sometimes they’re about life in the outdoors or the kind of adventures that become legends around the campfire. But other times they’re deeply personal. Our first release, The People Others Have, is a tribute to the quiet heroes who show up, help others, and never ask for recognition. It’s a reminder that the people who make the biggest difference are often the ones nobody notices. Whether we’re making people laugh or wiping away a tear, the goal is always the same: tell honest stories that connect with people. Feral Warrior lets us explore a different side of storytelling. It’s darker, heavier, and often more introspective, drawing inspiration from mythology, resilience, grief, strength, and the battles people fight – both around them and within themselves. Songs like Better Men Than You ask listeners to look beyond ego and remember that history has always been filled with people who came before us, overcame more than we can imagine, and left the world better than they found it.Oddly enough, both projects come from exactly the same place – storytelling. One looks at the world through the lens of everyday life. The other looks through the lens of legend. But both are really about people. Working on these projects together has become one of my favourite parts of writing life. Carla has an incredible ear for what a song needs, and we’ve spent countless hours throwing ideas back and forth, rewriting lyrics, debating melodies, laughing at terrible first drafts, and occasionally wondering if we’re both completely insane. It’s been one heck of a ride – and we’re just getting started. If you’d like to hear what we’ve been creating, I’d love for you to start by listening to these two songs:
The People Others Have by Backcountry Bandits is a tribute to the everyday heroes who quietly make the world a better place without ever expecting recognition.
Better Men Than You by Feral Warrior is a reminder that no matter how accomplished we think we are, there’s wisdom in humility and in recognizing the perils of a woman scorned.
Follow and subscribe to our channels on your favourite streaming service link below to keep up with all of the new releases coming this summer ❤️
Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years or you’ve just stumbled across this little corner of the internet, thank you. The words may have found a new melody…but they’re still trying to do exactly what they’ve always done: Make people feel something. And hey, if you find yourself tapping your toe and singing along, that’s even better.
There’s a strange, quiet reckoning that comes with getting older – one that doesn’t arrive all at once, but creeps in gradually. It is hidden in the comfort of familiar faces that once felt immortal. If you, like me, were born anywhere around 1970, then the 80s weren’t just a decade – they were a proving ground. A time when music felt louder, movies felt bigger, and the people on our screens and in our stereos felt untouchable. They weren’t just entertainers, they were larger than life. Indestructible. Permanent. And now, as time goes by, one by one they’re going, going, gone. When a musician or actor from our youth passes away, the grief hits differently than it used to. It’s not just about them anymore. Not really. Of course, we feel it – we remember the scenes, the lines, the moments burned into our memory. Heck, a full half of my vocabulary is made up of 80s movie quotes and song lyrics. Underneath that however is something deeper, something harder to quantify. It’s the realization that time didn’t stop where we hoped it did. Back then, those people represented a kind of invincibility. They were fixed in place, a moment in time. Frozen at their peak. Forever in their leather or neon jackets, their iconic roles, their very prime. And if they were permanent, then in some way, so are we. Unfortunately time doesn’t work like that. Now, when we hear that another one has passed, it’s not just a loss – it’s a marker. A reminder. A quiet voice that says, that era is ending… and so is the illusion that we’re somehow immune to the progression of time. So when we lose a childhood staple of our youth, we’re not just mourning that person; We’re mourning the version of ourselves that existed when they mattered the most to us. That kid blasting cassette tapes in their room. The teenager watching the same movie for the tenth time. The feeling that life was wide open and free, stretching endlessly ahead of us. The feeling that we still had forever to go. What’s different about our generation (and generations to follow I’m sure) though, is this: We have never in history had the kind of access to the past that’s available to us now. At any moment, we can pull up a song, a movie, an interview, even a photo. We can see our heroes and idols exactly as they were – unchanged, unaged, still in their prime. It creates this strange dual reality where the past is both gone and completely alive at the same time. They’re still there. But they’re not. And neither are we. That’s the part that lingers in the back of my mind. Because while we can revisit those moments endlessly, we can’t fully step back into them. We can’t be the person we were when they first meant something to us. Time only moves one way, no matter how many times we hit replay. And maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing. Maybe the point isn’t to hold onto that illusion of immortality. Maybe it’s to recognize just how powerful those moments were – and still are. The fact that a song from 40 years ago can still hit you in the chest means something. It means it mattered. It still matters. And so do we. Because if the people who felt invincible aren’t physically invincible, of course, they can be “immortal”. Time doesn’t just take – it leaves things behind. Memories. Soundtracks. Stories. Pieces of who we were that we still carry. We’re not just watching the past disappear. We carry it forward. And maybe that’s how we make peace with it – Not by pretending we’re still young, but by realizing that those years didn’t vanish. They became part of us. Woven into who we are now. So when the next headline comes, as it inevitably will, and another name from our youth fades into history, take a moment. Feel it. Remember. And don’t just mourn the passing of a person or a period in time, recognize that you were there for it. Celebrate that those moments were in some way, large or small, a part of becoming who you are. Time marches on, for all of us. Now get to the choppa
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Fun little story time. The original story can be found here – https://theinvolvedhusband.com/2023/11/28/the-challenge/ – but I’ll summarize with an update. Back in 2021, my friend Scott McWalter posted one of those harmless-looking, bucket list / life goals questions on social media. You know the kind — the ones that sneak up on you and make you take inventory of your creative life. I replied honestly. I had written:
magazine articles
short stories
stories that became radio dramas
stories being looked at for short films
how-to articles
product reviews
news articles…and on and on.
But there was one thing missing.I had never written a song.
Scott, being Scott, didn’t let that sit. He gave me an arbitrary but very real deadline — January 1st, 2022 — and challenged me to write one. At the time, it felt like a fun creative dare. Something to try, maybe fail at, and then move on. That little challenge turned into a song called “Country Cause of You.” That song was recorded by Rick Stavely and the incredible Tabor Creek band. Even wilder? It cracked the Top Ten on the Canadian Indie Country Countdown. Yeah. That happened. I still have moments where I shake my head at how a casual comment turned into something very real, very public, and very meaningful. It reminded me that sometimes we don’t avoid things because we can’t do them — we avoid them because we’ve simply never tried. Which brings me to why I’m writing this post. A New Chapter for The Involved Husband. Going forward, I’ll be sharing songs here — songs I’ve written, songs I’ve produced, and projects I’m involved in from the songwriting side of my creative life. This doesn’t replace the heart of The Involved Husband. If anything, it expands it. Being involved isn’t just about marriage, parenting, or showing up at home — it’s about saying yes to growth, creativity, and the unexpected paths that open up when someone challenges you to try something new. Sometimes that looks like learning how to better support your family. Sometimes it looks like writing a country song you never planned on writing — and watching it take on a life of its own. I have started a YouTube channel to collect some of these productions. “My Dog Bit Santa on the A$$ is the first one I’ve uploaded. I hope you enjoy, thanks for being here. More music coming soon.
The Involved Husband 