From Widespread Panic’s Website:
Michael Houser
January 6, 1962 - August 10, 2002

As a living memorial to Michael and his love of music, the family requests that contributions be made to The Michael Houser Music Fund. Mike, his wife, Barbette, and his son Waker have all been deeply involved with Athens Academy and through this fund the school will be able to provide children with the opportunities to discover the richness and wonder of music that so enriched Michael’s own life. Memorials may be sent to: The Michael Houser Music Fund; Athens Academy; PO Box 6548; Athens, Ga., 30604.

Our hearts are with you as we know that your thoughts and prayers are with us.


It finally hit me when I looked at the empty patio chair. My wife had just gotten up to refresh the player with another Widespread Panic show. My sister, Melissa, looked at me and then pointed at the seat that Kirstie had just vacated.

“It kind of says it all right there, “ she said calmly.

It felt like a tempest of bricks. The chair was slightly facing our direction, quietly waiting for us to continue our conversation. It was eerie, it seemed like Michael Houser’s personality — sitting there peacefully, waiting for someone to initiate a conversation, or send a fluttering note, or slap an errant chord so he could step in and offer his whispered services.

I found out Michael Houser died while doing my checkout at work. A friend called, barely audible, telling me that Mikey had passed away at his home in Athens, Ga. My silence turned to shock, and then inflated into numbness.

I knew he had pancreatic cancer in the spring. Word had spread among the fans like a locomotive. No official announcements were made, but all of us knew that no rumor could be that nasty. My April 19 birthday coincided with the opening of Panic’s spring tour in Raleigh, and my fears were confirmed. Houser looked skinny and another guitarist, John Keane (producer for Panic’s albums as well as a frequent sit-in at live shows), was on hand to offer any gap filling. I still had my wistful doubts through the two night run, but during the encore the following night (4-20), lead singer and guitarist John Bell stepped to the mic and said, “Ladies and Gentleman, once again special thanks to Mr. John Keane. Without whom which, we would not have a concert.”

But, whatever illness had smote Mikey’s physical presence could not hinder his third appendage. His guitar shone, blazing a trail through the fans. Anyone stepping on the path was waved over by a happy light.

“Cancer may hurt the outside,” I could envision Houser saying, “But, by God, you’re not going to touch what’s upstairs.”

The Asheville show the next night was religious. His guitar and presence made us believe in the healing power. If anyone could kick cancer, it would be Houser. He had given so much to millions of us rabid fanatics, that surely the love we felt for him would pour back into his being. It was my wife’s last show with Houser sitting at his helm. Her final song was “The End of the Show”.

Oak Mountain Amphitheatre (the next Sunday night) told me everything I needed to know. The show (like most Oak Mountain shows) was a cooker. I’ve heard of folks in the past saying Panic controlled the weather, and that night gave some credence to the myth. The lightning started spiraling during the band’s cover of Neil Young’s dark classic, “Cortez the Killer.” It was like some electric soothsayer, telling all of us that this would be Houser’s last of the legendary Oak Mountain runs.

When the band popped into the original, “Papa’s Home”, the rain came on like a watery sheet. You could see the distinction between wet and dry as the soaking wall hit us dancers at the drop of Houser’s opening chords to “Papa’s.” “Ain’t Life Grand” (a song Mikey wrote) was next. When they reached the lyric — “The sun came out the other day/Through those dusty clouds...” — the clouds cooperated, leaving a tiny hole over Oak Mountain where no rain trespassed. It could have been wishful thinking on my part, but I swore it happened.

I knew down in the fathoms of my gut that it would be my last Houser show. Of course, I told everyone around me that night that he would make it. I would not give up on him; my mind would not give Mikey a death sentence.

My hope bounced in the summer when I heard Houser was doing the summer tour. Two weeks later, we found out that he had done his last to a half-filled arena in Iowa. But, brother, he went out in style — Steve Winwood sat in at the Bonaroo Festival, J.J. Cale came aboard in Dallas, and Mikey got to play one more run at the Deity’s Playground, aka Red Rocks Amphitheatre.

That says a lot about somebody. Obviously ailing (one reporter remembered Mikey having to stop by a speaker for rest before the 20-yard walk backstage), Mikey still poured his being into those last shows. He could have sat home and bemoaned his fate. But, instead, he got up with his five best friends onstage and let it shake for his 10,000 best friends offstage. Two weeks after Iowa, he released his first statement:

Dear Widespread Panic community, and dear friends, Mikey here, with some thoughts and facts for you.

As some of you know, I have contracted a terminal form of cancer. I want to assure all of you that all that can be done has been done, and I want to thank all of you who have contributed information, medicine, and so on.

As for me, I am at my home in Athens, Ga., surrounded by my family, and being well taken care of.

In the words of Lou Gehrig “Though some of you may have thought I have caught a bad break, I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

Between my best friends, J.B., Todd, Sunny, Dave and JoJo, and you, our friends, and best support group in the world, I feel strong and well taken care of.

I have hopes of playing again soon, although I can’t say for sure when or where, and I hope to see you all there.

With much thanks and love, Mikey

Kirstie got up from the chair a second time to play deejay. “More Panic!” we all chimed in unison. She had gotten up quickly, swiveling the chair so that now it was facing us. We grew quiet again, and then our reflections took hold...

The first time I heard Mikey and Widespread was after I graduated from N.C. State. I went up to Cullowhee to see some old friends, and basically, stir up a little hell. Although I had survived the social grapples of college, I didn’t feel like a healthy graduate. I had just gotten out of a draining relationship, and my history degree left me wondering what in the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life. So like any seeker of truth in their mid-20s, I partied. Amidst the slosh of beer, clarity arose from the speaker. There was this gravelly voice mentioning something about a wrangler in space. And then, the guitar came in. It almost had this steely sound, and the notes didn’t seem to coincide with any I heard before (I believe Col. Bruce Hampton later coined it, “The Middle Eastern Twang”).

“Who is this?” I queried, my face scrunched up like an accordion.

“You’ve never heard of Widespread Panic?” my friend asked, looking at me like I had swallowed a fork.

I didn’t respond. The guitar had come back for a second serving on the speaker. I soon became the guardian of the stereo. Every Panic disc my buddy had, I threw on. Nothing else was allowed in the speaker. No one, strangers, friends or beautiful women were allowed to touch the CD player. I could not get enough of that guitar.

The obsession grew. I had every CD (the first three studios) of Widespread Panic by the end of the week. I soon memorized the names and positions — JB, Sunny, Todd, Jo-Jo, Dave, and Mikey. JB’s voice glittered like uncut diamonds; the rhythm section grooved and bounced like a beach ball stuck in a windy swamp, but it was Mikey’s guitar that seemed to show them all the way.

I saw my first shows by the end of the year (October, 1994). Everyone was just as I had imagined (the photos helped), but Mikey’s presence befuddled me. I was used to the rock star guitar mode — head bobs and bowel movement facials during a solo. No one in the band seemed to notice the frenzy below the stage. It was like they were on a porch, playing just to please themselves. Mike especially. He didn’t move. He just dropped his head and went to work.

Two years later I was driving 1,200 miles to see one show at Red Rocks in Colorado. Little money and a large addiction are hard, but I found a way. The cities and towns piled up — Knoxville, Birmingham, Atlanta, Chattanooga, Park City, Charlotte, Nashville, New Orleans, Raleigh, Wilmington, Denver, Washington, D.C., Geneva, Boone, Columbia, Kansas City, Alpine Valley, Winston Salem... Athens. My parents grew worried — “Who is this Widespread, and why are they following my son?”

I turned on, no wait, I made a lot of people listen to Widespread. JB and Schools was everybody’s first attraction, but I made sure that everyone knew that Houser was behind a lot of it. Every time I saw Panic, Houser never missed a beat. He was always on time. He wasn’t just doing solos; he was talking to the rest of the band, using his guitar as a navigational tool on an infinitely large map.

Warren Haynes said it a lot better than I could ever summon: “Mikey was a wonderful spirit. He was one of those guys who was always in a good mood and was always making other people feel better. Musically, he was always exploring. It was all about trying to find some new territory, and innocence really took over his musical style. I remember Dave Schools coming up to me and saying ‘you know, Mike does his thing and his thing is like stream of consciousness. He just plays and you just join in there with him.’ He was trying to prepare me for the fact that it wasn’t going to be like a traditional [jam], it was just going to be like bobbing and weaving and musical conversation. When we got done everyone was smiling and hugging.”

I tried to find out who wrote the lyrics, but the band always listed the credits as “all songs written by Widespread.” However, I was a Panic junkie, and it didn’t take me long to fit each member’s personality with a song. Houser was eloquent, but simple, a colorful figure hidden in a shadow. He could write lyrics that had incredible depth without a smidgen of fluff:

They tell me it takes sorrow, boy
To help you feel the joy
They say it takes poverty
To let you love a toy
Now you can’t have the good
Until you’ve shared the bad

Don’t let it get too sad
Don’t let it get too sad
Don’t let it get too sad
No, not this time, time

They say it takes hardship, boy
To let you love the rest
Sometimes underneath the load
Is where I show my best
Go, put your work clothes on
Go and leave your mark
And they say

Don’t let it get too dark
Don’t let it get too dark
Don’t let it get too dark
No, not this time

From “Pleas” off of “Everyday”

I sort of met Mikey in the fall of ’97. The boys had just finished a blistering set in Charleston, and my friend, Danielle, had extra backstage passes. I was still reluctant. Yes, I wanted to meet my heroes, but what was I supposed to say?

I was shaking like a leaf when I went back there. All I could do was look at the wall, the table, and my hands. There were a million things I wanted to say, but they were all jumbled up like spilled jigsaw pieces. Then I noticed that Mikey was looking at me. His eyes and his stance told me all I needed to know. It seemed like he knew I was a nervous wreck. His eyes smiled at me, seemingly telling me it was OK to be a freak. I still couldn’t find a word. I again looked at my hands. I looked up one more time. His eyes were still smiling at me.

The next night in Knoxville, I learned how special Houser was. Danielle dragged me to the front row and she planted me right in front of Mikey. There I stood for the rest of the evening. A zeppelin-sized bladder and beer spilled down my back could not move me from my spot. Houser had taken hold ... and pulled me in. There was no flash, he had no desire to make the crowd look at him. But I couldn’t move my gaze away. The thing that amazed me was that he seemingly played the whole concert with his eyes closed. The fingers strutted up and down the Fender, and his foot hit the pedals like a stock car racer gone mad. But when I looked at his face, all I saw was peace.

I have yet to remove the chair from its setting. It’s my little tribute, and it will take the fury of a monsoon to move it. Even if Mikey and Widespread Panic were not your cup of tea, take a moment to raise a tribute to not only a fine musician, but also a loving husband and father, a caring friend, and an exceptional human being. Raise a glass, raise a candle, raise hell ...whatever moves you, and celebrate a light that was short, but enough to illuminate in all of us forever.