Wyrd Outlook by Grogh — Ghostwritten by Vikki Vexum.

Remembering Ryan “Rhino” Noblitt: A True Show Bro, with a Genuine Heart

A microphone. A sarcastic chorus. That familiar feeling when somebody with their own closet full of skeletons starts inspecting yours.

For me, that’s the entrance into remembering Ryan Noblitt—Rhino, Ryan Fleshsuit, and a solid show brother.

The song is “Perfect” by Fleshsuit. Ryan made plenty of music, and people will have their own favorites. This is the one I recognize as a legacy track. It speaks to something I knew in the Indianapolis scene: a blunt understanding that everybody had problems, and nobody needed to act like their shit didn’t stink.

Ryan gave that understanding a voice with teeth.

The brother who could say “I love you”

Ryan was the kind of bro who wasn’t afraid to say, “I love you, bro.”

And he meant it.

He could say it to his friends, his fans, his show family. Affection didn’t have to be dragged out of him or buried beneath a joke. He was willing to love people and let them know.

He was also willing to be frank. I think he was the same guy who would tell you your music was off. He could give you an honest opinion without trying to hurt you. You could trust the affection because you could trust the honesty.

That’s something I valued about him. He was genuine with people.

From what I saw, he also knew how to enjoy himself without making excess the whole purpose of the evening. He drank, smoked, rocked, and had a good time. My experience of him was somebody who kept things at a decent level, who could enjoy a show and still be there as a brother.

I hadn’t seen him in person for quite a few years, but we still talked occasionally online. Hearing that he was gone was heartbreaking.

Ryan was 52.

“Perfect,” and the place I hear inside it

In the Indianapolis scene I remember, people had challenges. Money trouble. Addictions. Family problems. Bad decisions. Ghosts that followed them home after the amplifiers went quiet.

There was roughness, and there was warmth. People could be terrible. People could also be remarkably honest about where they stood.

“Don’t act like your shit don’t stink” was a phrase with a job to do.

It called out the person who looked down on everyone willing to admit they were struggling. The person pointing at somebody else’s flaws while treating their own as invisible.

That attitude lands particularly badly around people who have learned how much honesty matters during hard times. You need to know who you’re standing beside. You need to be able to say things are rough without somebody using that admission as a platform to stand above you.

To my ears, “Perfect” puts that whole understanding through a distortion pedal.

The sarcasm gives it a visceral entrance. You can hear the frustration with someone’s claimed perfection. It’s the familiar local phrase arriving in another form, carrying the force of a song you can shout back.

That’s why I hear it as a Rust Belt anthem. I’m speaking from the places and people I knew, and from what the song says to me. It has that frankness, that willingness to deliver a kick in the dick to somebody’s inflated self-image.

And Ryan could sing it while being the brother who would listen to your troubles and tell you he loved you.

Those qualities belonged together.

His show family remembers

The memories people have shared bring that brother into focus.

Eric Rankin remembered Ryan as a musician, writer, friend, and brother. One line fits the man I knew particularly well: “You were always real, never put on a front.”

Melissa Bland, signing her message as Star, remembered sitting outside Visions with him, singing and crying together. When she needed somebody, he was there.

Caitlynn Fox thanked him for his kindness, for his performances, and for checking on her.

Those are the moments that make “show family” mean something. Somebody notices you. Somebody asks how you’re doing. Somebody sits beside you when the night gets heavy.

Michelle Renea Howson recalled good times with Fleshsuit at Birdy’s and around Indianapolis, shared by her whole family—including her father in his seventies.

There was humor, too. Sherry Robertson Mccracken remembered his performances at Red Roof and the way he would surprise people with Jack Black impressions. Sandra J Hankins Wallace remembered his jokes, funny faces, silliness, musician impressions, and, most of all, his kindness.

Bobby Ingals remembered the songs, guitar playing, singing, personality, and good times. Celso Guimarães remembered sharing a stage with him and the energy he brought into the world.

Reading these accounts, I recognize the Ryan I’m talking about. The warmth had witnesses. So did the talent. So did the bullshit detector.

He still had songs to make

Some of his recent posts are especially hard to read now because they contain so much forward motion.

On October 15, Ryan was talking about his guitar rig, a studio set up, and songs waiting to be recorded. His guitars needed some work, but he intended to make do with whichever ones were working. He was getting ready to write drum tracks for a new song.

He also wrote honestly about depression and feeling bad. He wanted to get busy and hear what those songs sounded like.

The following day, he described getting up early, cleaning the kitchen, making a big breakfast, and heading for his studio chair.

He was having a good day among the rough ones, he said, and intended to take full advantage of it.

That image stays with me: breakfast finished, kitchen clean, studio chair waiting. A musician with something left he wanted to make.

Another October 15 post carried a familiar combination of peace and backbone:

“Today is a day of good perspectives, productivity, calm,peace and zero tolerance for stupid bullshit.”

There’s a lot of Ryan in that sentence.

A head nod and a high five

Hearing “Perfect” again sent me back into my own unfinished music. I found a song I had started years ago that speaks to a similar theme.

I want to finish it in his honor.

A head nod. A high five. My own contribution to a conversation his song still carries: own your flaws, be real with people, and quit pretending you’re above the struggles everybody else is willing to acknowledge.

When it’s finished, I’ll share it here.

For now, “Perfect” is the song I’m choosing to remember him by. Other people will choose other tracks, other performances, other moments. There’s room for all of them.

Mine brings me back to a brother who could tell you the truth and tell you he loved you—and mean every word.

Love you, bro.

Captain’s note: This is an ongoing personal remembrance. By the personal accounts reaching me, Ryan passed away Wednesday; that timing remains unconfirmed. I’ll update this article as reliable details become available and when my tribute song is finished.