Raven is associated with another mind-boggling number: 1,800. That's how many songs Raven says he has written.
Much like the cliché that what every actor really wants to do is direct, Miami's most famous runner really wants to be known as a singer-songwriter.
Anyone who has spent time on South Beach has seen Raven doing his daily evening run. Even if he wasn't often flocked by a posse of Raven Runners, joggers who make the pilgrimage to join his trot, he cuts a distinct figure with his beard, sunglasses, and impossibly short shorts.
Sometime last winter, flyers were plastered on every lamppost in South Beach with a cartoon caricature of Raven accompanied by a bunch of bird-masked musicians playing instruments advertising Raven and the Dark Shadows. Around that time, I received a request from Raven's Instagram account asking me to check out the band's debut concert at the Wolfsonian. I couldn't make it, but I listened to the band's album, An Unkindness. I wrote back, telling him I enjoyed his deep-voiced Americana, which reminded me a bit of the great, fallen singer-songwriter David Berman of the Silver Jews and Purple Mountains.
A few months later, I see Raven turning around on his route at South Pointe Pier; I shake his hand and explain our online conversation. He says he doesn't run the Instagram account; that was someone named Backpacking Beaver. His pace is slow enough that I'm able to walk at the same speed as his jog while he recounts a bit of his story. As Raven recites the precise number of days he's run and the number of runners he has run alongside, it gets to the point that I wonder if he knows how many grains of sand are on the beach."You have no idea how good his memory is. Tell him the name of any celebrity."
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"You have no idea how good his memory is," a nearby Raven Runner chimes in. "Tell him the name of any celebrity."
I mention the Bee Gees because I figure Raven will tell me of a time he ran into the Disco Kings, who were longtime residents of Miami Beach.
Instead, Raven squawks back, "Barry Gibb was born September 1, 1946. Robin Gibb was born December 22, 1949." It turns out he could tell you the birthday of just about anyone who found fame in the 20th Century, along with most of Raven's Runners.
I don't have my notebook with me to write all these details down, so he tells me to come by the Fifth Street lifeguard stand at 5:30 p.m. any day. Much like the tide and the sunrise, I can count on him being there.
During his daily runs, Kraft is often accompanied by a posse of Raven Runners.
Photo by Scott McIntyre
Joining the Flock
On a not-so-hot June Monday, I join Raven and his flock armed with questions. He is stretching among the sunbathers and a bikini-clad model filming a video as he's telling me the rules: If you finish the entire eight-mile route, you get a nickname. He can recite more than 3,000 of the nicknames he's bestowed on runners from memory. As we start the journey south, I figure I could ask him a first question: When did you first fall in love with music?"Hold on," he warns. The interview had gotten in the way of tradition. At the start of every run, in his radio baritone voice, he introduces each runner by their nickname. On this weekday, I'm in the presence of Psychological Thriller, Green Thumb, and Lobotomy.
Only after the introductions is Raven happy to answer the question. "In the late Fifties, the first song that really hit me was 'The Ballad of Davy Crockett.' I loved story songs. In 1965, I heard Bob Dylan; his songs really meant something, and he had a different voice."
As a teenager living in 1960s Miami Beach, Raven began penning his own lyrics. "I had a buddy who played drums; I saw how much fun he was having," he says. "He was the first guy I knew with a girlfriend. We hung out where Nikki Beach is now, and I'd sing along while he played. He said I sounded like Lee Hazelwood."
According to Raven, on November 2, 1966, he dropped out of Miami Beach High School. "For a year, I did nothing but walk around and write songs." In 1967, he moved to Las Vegas with some friends, partly because he wanted to get to Los Angeles to meet his absentee dad. "I wrote a song about seeing him, 'I Wish I'd Known You Better.' That was the last time I saw him. He had two lessons for me: Money goes quick if you're not working, and if you're not going to be in school, read as much as you can."
After failing a physical that kept him out of the Vietnam War on June 9, 1969, Raven moved to Nashville on February 23, 1970 — he later points out a giant piece of driftwood washed onto South Beach on September 10, 2017 — to make it as a singer-songwriter. "I'd go to every taping of The Johnny Cash Show. One time, I sat next to his dad. I got to meet Johnny a couple of times, and I handed him my lyric sheets. Johnny said, 'I'm kind of writing my own songs. Maybe this guy can help you.'""In the late Fifties, the first song that really hit me was 'The Ballad of Davy Crockett.' I loved story songs."
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Raven trusted this unnamed music executive with his creativity but was ghosted. "Then a couple months later, I turned on the radio and heard my song." Raven refuses to say who the shady plagiarist was or which song ripped him off. He'll only swear that "Johnny Cash had nothing to do with it." (A 2012 New Times article says it was outlaw country singer Waylon Jennings.)
Heartbroken and defeated, Raven moved back to Miami Beach. "I was disappointed and angry. I came back and worked as a dishwasher at an old-age home."
For a man who can tell you Muhammad Ali and Bob Dylan's birthdays, Kraft has trouble memorizing the lyrics.
Photo by Scott McIntyre
Can't Stop, Won't Stop
On January 1, 1975, Raven began his daily eight-mile runs. At first, he planned to exercise to improve his mental health, but one year ended, then a decade, then the 20th Century. New Year's Day 2025 will mark Raven's 50th anniversary of his daily routine. And throughout that time, he has been writing songs."When I started running, I only had a hundred songs. I've written at least one song every year since 1965," he shares.
A lot of writers find inspiration when they run. It seemed like it would be hard to come up with lyrics during Raven Runs, which are more like social events, but Raven pointed out, "Sometimes I run alone or part of the run alone. I'll get four lines or a verse. I'll have to sing it to myself the whole way home until I can write it down."
He'll also find inspiration in the conversation he has on his runs, like one with a runner he dubbed Taxman. "He told me a story about one time he got so mad at his wife on a trip that he came home alone. That became 'I Left Her in Detroit.'"
Around this point, his bandmate shows up. He gets a hearty introduction from Raven, "Here's Backpack Beaver," a bearded, newlywed, soon-to-be dad. During the pandemic, Backpack Beaver started fooling around with some friends and playing the guitar. He knew of Raven's musical ambitions and invited him to provide some lyrics and vocals. Their first collaboration was "Digging Her Grave."
"Raven heard it and in ten minutes wrote the lyrics," Backpack Beaver shares. "There's no set way. Sometimes he brings the lyrics first, sometimes he'll sing us how the tune should go, sometimes I'll have a riff first."
"But it goes better when I bring the lyrics first," Raven insists.
The Dark Ravens are deep into sessions on a second album they hope to release later this year. "Apartment 14" will be the first single. Raven describes it as "dark noir. It's haunting, like a movie. It's about a place where a murder happened, and I got a black cat in there since I'm a cat lover.""When I started running, I only had a hundred songs. I've written at least one song every year since 1965."
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Controversially, the band enlisted a horn player for "Apartment 14." Raven thinks horns don't belong in outlaw country, his genre of choice. "But the rest of us aren't outlaw country," Backpack Beaver reminds him.
Raven had recorded music before. He put out a couple of solo albums, 2013's Unstoppable and 2021's The Road Is Long. He also recorded a single on vinyl in 1972 that one of his runners was able to track down. But joining forces with the Dark Shadows is the first time he was a part of a band where decisions are made democratically.
Creative differences are a staple of any band, but Raven admits it can be difficult to compromise. Playing another concert is one point of contention. The band has only really played two shows. They busked on Lincoln Road on Halloween, where they got $150 in donations from passersby, and then there was that sold-out November show at the Wolfsonian. "It was stressful. The drums were loud because of the echo. I tried not to look into the crowd, but a lot of people already knew the words and sang along," Raven says.
Surprisingly, for a man who can, off the top of his head, tell you Muhammad Ali and Bob Dylan's birthdays, he says he has trouble memorizing the lyrics. "I have to have them written out in front of me and look at them every few lines."
As eager as the rest of the Dark Shadows are to play more shows, scheduling another gig in Raven's comfort zone is hard. Mornings, he says, his voice is terrible; evenings revolve around his daily run. Plus, he's never too keen to cross the bridge to the mainland.
As one mile bleeds into another, it becomes apparent why Raven doesn't feel the need for adulation and connection that inspires so many musicians to take the stage. On his run, he is a rock star. Countless runners, walkers, and other assorted beachgoers shout out Raven's name and give him a wave, a smile, or a cheer. He gets the love every day at 5:30 in the afternoon — something most musicians can only dream of.
