Almost 20 years after his breakout single “A Drop In the Ocean”—which has amassed over a billion streams collectively—Ron Pope spent 2025 with a lot on his plate. For one thing, the 42-year-old troubadour was pushing his 11th album American Man, American Music, which brings out his inner wisdom about mortality (“Nobody’s Gonna Make It Out Alive”) and humanity having shared so many of the same experiences without even knowing it (“Klonopin Zombies”).
Not long after, Pope dropped Things Jesus Didn’t Say, a five-track EP written through the eyes of a selfless father wishing for a easier, more humble world. And its title track lives up to its name too, specifically calling out the most common misconceptions of certain Biblical teachings made in fake Christianity.
His Clearwater debut next weekend is part of a quick, Florida-exclusive spring tour, which appears to be his first-ever full run of shows in the Sunshine State in over a decade. Before kicking things off, Pope told Creative Loafing Tampa Bay about the album that opened his eyes. Read his full quote below.
Growing up, I tried on a lot of different outfits. Tried to be a bad kid, tried to be a smart kid, tried to be an athletic kid; at some point or another, I was play-acting as every character in “The Breakfast Club.” And doing a little bit of everything made me feel like I didn’t exactly belong anywhere. I loved hip hop. I felt the same way about Tupac as I did about Mötley Crüe; people who were having fundamentally different experiences than I was were all finding ways to express their worldviews through the art they created. Some of it was serious, some of it was fun, but all of it meant something to somebody. That felt admirable to me, but I didn’t really understand it. Mostly, I wanted to drink warm Bud heavies in the woods with my buddies and talk about getting out of the suburbs. Nobody was musing on starting a revolution or even a band, for that matter. It just wasn’t on our radar. Our dreams were smaller then. We wanted to play pickup basketball, maybe meet a girl or at least talk about the possibility of meeting a girl.
In the fall of 1996, Counting Crows released their sophomore album Recovering The Satellites. I was thirteen at the time and deeply immersed in urban music. At that point, I couldn’t have told Adam Duritz from Adam Ant. Tupac was gone; they were mournful times. But years passed, I started wearing pants that hung on me differently, changed my hair a few times, spent a month secretly listening to the Temptations every night in my bedroom. For my birthday one year, I got multiple copies of Blues Traveler’s Four. I sang along with Tori Amos and Fiona Apple. I was rewiring my brain; to what end, I did not know. Someone showed me Dave Matthews; I bought a hacky sack and cargo shorts. None of that fit quite right either, but I was on my way someplace.
Ron Pope w/Zac Berkman
Time Tue., March 10, 8 p.m.
Location The Nancy and David Bilheimer Capitol Theatre, 405 Cleveland Street, Clearwater
And then I heard “A Long December.” The piano part was simple, the lyrics felt confessional but opaque enough that they could be about anybody, could be about me. And there’s an accordion in there! Who puts accordion on a rock record? I was riveted! The CD, I borrowed from my first girlfriend. I wonder if I ever gave that back? Everything about that album felt right for me in the angst ridden pre-dawn that was sixteen. “Angels Of The Silences” was my brand of rage; it was angry but it was still articulate. “Have You Seen Me Lately” told us all that becoming a rockstar might not be all it’s cracked up to be because you could lose your true self in it.
That record made me want to join a band. No, it made me want to join that particular band. I didn’t just want to be like Counting Crows; I wanted to be a member of Counting Crows. I loved that they seemed like regular guys; weird facial hair and no real sense of fashion. Dave Grohl looked too cool to be my friend. Dave Bryson seemed like he would pick you up from the airport without you even having to ask (he’s the rhythm guitar player for CC, in case you’re keeping score at home). They were occasionally the butt of jokes. I loved Adam’s voice but so many other people seemed to think he wasn’t much of a singer. Loving a band that was somehow both very popular but also widely reviled was an identity that fit me like a glove. I was home.
They became my Grateful Dead. I’d follow them on the road in the summers, sometimes seeing multiple shows in a row. I lived and loved their first four albums, growing up as the band evolved. Frontmen all steal from each other. I loved James Brown and Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler (just like every other boy who ever put on his tightest jeans and spun around in front of a mic stand) but I stole more from Adam Duritz than I did from anyone else. At the height of his powers, he was a sight to behold, howling at the moon above an amphitheater, flying off the riser, stomping around like a dreadlocked Godzilla. I loved every minute of it and for the first time, I felt like I’d truly found a place where I belonged. Hearing that album, made by that particular group of guys, at that exact moment of my life is what led me to believe that maybe I could become a musician. I was seeking and they found me and I figured that if they could do it, why not me? Without Recovering The Satellites, I don’t know what I would’ve become, but I doubt I’d be a guy who makes records for a living. -Ron Pope
Josh Bradley is Creative Loafing Tampa's resident live music freak. He started freelancing with the paper in 2020 at the age of 18, and has since covered, announced, and previewed numerous live shows in...
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