By the time Sammy Brue finished recording The Journals, he already knew something unsettling: this might be the most meaningful work he ever makes. Not because it would be his last, but because it arrived fully formed, heavy with inheritance, responsibility, and grief.
“If I never made another album again,” Brue said, almost laughing at the impossibility of topping it, “this was it.”
The Journals (out January 23 on Bloodshot Records) is a spare, intimate record built from the handwritten notebooks of Justin Townes Earle – Brue’s mentor, hero, and one of the most restless, brilliant American songwriters of his generation. Earle died of an accidental drug overdose in 2020 at age 38. What he left behind, scattered across hotel rooms, trains, taxis, storage units, and decades of living, was a vast, unfinished body of work. Hundreds of pages of lyrics, fragments, revisions, false starts, and songs carved and recarved like stone.
Entrusted with those journals by Earle’s widow, Jenn Marie Earle, Brue didn’t approach them as artifacts. He approached them as living documents. “I never got to write a song with Justin,” he said. “And then I thought – maybe I could.”
The result is neither a covers album nor an act of ventriloquism. Some songs on The Journals emerge directly from lyric sheets Earle left behind. Others are co-writes in spirit, with Brue completing ideas Earle had shaped over years. A few are Brue’s own songs, written from compilations of Earle’s images and themes. One track, “For Justin,” is entirely Brue’s – a quiet, aching letter written two years after Earle’s death, “by a Justin fan for Justin’s fans.”
The record was made quickly, almost violently so. With GoFundMe money raised to finish the project, Brue booked two days in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, a nod to the sparse manner that Earle once cut Yuma, his breakthrough 2007 debut. Brue wanted to honor that lineage directly: no band, no overdubs, no safety net. Just voice, guitar, microphones.
“I wanted it all live,” he said. “No tracking. No instrumentals. Just me.”
Brue practiced obsessively for months, then walked into the studio and recorded ten songs in a single day. When nerves crept in, he leaned on a conversation with Joshua Black Wilkins, Earle’s longtime collaborator, asking how Yuma had been made so quickly, so ferociously. “He said Justin was desperate,” Brue said. “He had to make it happen or he was going to sink.” That urgency – career, life, survival – became Brue’s template. The next day, they listened back, drank, and let the record sit where it landed.
Brue has been playing these songs live since the moment they were finished. Unlike most of his own catalog, they haven’t worn thin. “I’ll never get sick of playing these,” he said. “I’ll play them until my demise.”
To understand why requires also understanding what Earle represented to Brue long before the journals ever entered the picture. Brue grew up in a household steeped in American roots music – Justin Townes Earle, the Avett Brothers, Old Crow Medicine Show, Dave Rawlings. As a child, he assumed Woody Guthrie and Lead Belly were simply what came on the radio. At 10, he asked his father to take him to see Earle play in Salt Lake City, only to discover the show was 21-and-over. Fate intervened: Earle was outside the venue, smoking, when they pulled over. He signed Brue’s guitar. Years later, Earle invited him to open shows, tour, and appear on the cover of Single Mothers as a kind of “mini-Justin.”
They stayed connected. Brue watched Earle fall in love with Jenn, watched his life oscillate between discipline and chaos, sobriety and relapse. “He always treated me the same,” Brue said. “He put on a strong front for me.”
When Earle died, Brue felt the loss in stages – shock, numbness, then collapse. He later read Earle’s rehab journals but couldn’t bring himself to take them home. The pain on those pages was too raw. “Some of the most heartbreaking stuff I’ve ever read,” he said. “You want it released. You don’t want it released.”
What struck Brue most, beyond the suffering, was the work ethic. Earle wrote obsessively, filling 150-page notebooks song by song, revising endlessly. Saint of Lost Causes alone contains nearly 80 pages of drafts. “He carved songs like marble,” Brue says. “No wonder they’re undeniable.”
That rigor reshaped Brue’s own sense of craft. Archiving Earle’s journals – more than 800 pages total, still only a fraction of what exists – forced him to confront the fragility of legacy. “I’m looking at my own songs now like, why was I writing in the Notes app?” he said. “I need a box.”
The emotional core of The Journals came together when Brue met with Jenn and Etta, Earle’s daughter, flipping through the notebooks together. Etta clung to Brue’s arm as they turned the pages. “It felt like she was closer to her dad,” Brue said. “Jenn, closer to her husband. Me, closer to my idol.” From that moment on, failure wasn’t an option.
The album arrives alongside renewed attention to Earle’s life and work, including Jonathan Bernstein’s authorized biography, What Do You Do When You’re Lonesome. Together, they suggest something rare: a continuation rather than a conclusion.
“I feel like I’m a link in the chain,” Brue said, naming the lineage he feels bound to – Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt, Steve Earle, Justin Townes Earle. “It’s rough and tumble right now. Which is perfect.”
For all its weight, The Journals isn’t morbid. It’s alive. It moves forward. Brue knows he doesn’t have to top it. He only has to honor it. And for now, that’s enough to keep the fire lit.
We wouldn’t ever begin to even try to define it. Good Country is a place. A feeling. A sense of knowing it when you hear it. Whatever you consider to fall under the term or qualify for the moniker, there certainly is plenty of Good Country to be found these days – and especially in 2025.
To wrap up the year in country, we asked our GC contributors not to simply select their favorite country song or album of the year, but to consider that titular question. We gave our writers no parameters or qualifiers for what their picks could be or include, leaving the prompt as open-ended as possible, asking our folks to focus in on the music that stuck with them, whatever the reason or impulse or staying power. Most selections are albums and songs, but some are artists, books, soundtracks, live shows, or other more intangible moments.
The results perfectly illustrate how much easier it is to triangulate the location of Good Country by showing, rather than telling. Spanish-language and Mariachi-infused country fall alongside twangy Mississippian working class messages over hip-hop beats and contemplative singer-songwriter mental health reckonings. Bluegrass pickers can be found beside books and motion picture soundtracks and songs sung in te reo Māori. Smash hits and household names bump up against newcomers and fresh discoveries. It’s all here. It’s all Good Country.
As you scroll, we hope you enjoy the broad, borderless, and endlessly entrancing territory we’ve come to know as Good Country. As we turn the page from 2025 to 2026, we’re proud of the community of folks who love and make Good Country – and beyond excited to hear what they’ll continue to bring to us in the very near future.
Sammy Arriaga, “Before The Next Teardrop Falls”
Freddy Fender’s masterful 1974 hit, “Before The Next Teardrop Falls,” with its Tejano guitar and half-Spanish chorus, is so cemented into the history of the place it was made that it sounds as contemporary as Willie in Austin, and older than the Carter Family, even maybe older than Nashville itself. Recording a cover of it, especially in this era of ICE raids and xenophobic facism, is to argue for a kind of double heartbreak – where the loss of a lover and the oppression of a culture work concurrently. I would have never thought that Sammy Arriaga was capable of this, his previous work was often vapid and derivative, but 2025’s Heart in Texas has an immediate, difficult tenderness.
If Fender’s work has hope that his lover will eventually need him in the same way that country music will need him, then Arriaga’s work is devastating because he knows that he will not be asked to be there at all. – Steacy Easton
William Beckmann, “Por Mujeres Como Tú”
Few things brought me more joy this year than videos of country crooner William Beckmann performing Pepe Aguilar’s “Por Mujeres Como Tú” at Floore’s Country Store in Helotes, Texas, in September. Beckmann was joined by Mariachi Campanas de America, a San Antonio-based group that’s been active in different iterations since 1978.
A native of Del Rio, Texas, Beckmann has made no secret of his bilingual roots – he sang Vicente Fernández’s “Volver, Volver” during his Opry debut in 2023 and included a cover of “Por Mujeres Como Tú” on his major-label debut, Whiskey Lies & Alibis, earlier this year. But this was clearly a special moment, as evidenced by the triumphant expressions on Beckmann’s and the mariachis’ faces and the sounds of the delighted crowd singing along. It offered proof of what many generations of Texans already know to be true: Mariachis make everything better. – Will Groff
Luke Bell, The King is Back
Luke Bell was a country music chameleon like no other. Western swing, country blues, classic country, outlaw, cowboy, trucker songs, and rowdy barroom country – he sounded at home in it all. Enigmatic and tough to pin down, Bell was a quintessential driving force in the Americana and independent country scene as it blossoms now. He also struggled with mental illness and substance abuse, and was found dead at 32, truncating his musical contributions.
Now, a posthumous double album, The King is Back, delivers both Bell’s ineffable joie de vivre and his remarkable songwriting in the most complete form yet. The King is Back’s 28 tracks range from bravado on “Rattlesnake Man,” “Long Gone Love,” and “Cold Stew,” to vernacular country with “Roofer’s Blues” and “Irrigator’s Blues,” and classic country weepers like “Seven and Steady” and the album’s spectacular, tragic closer, “Tiger’s Mouth.” Bell’s songwriting was often stunningly prescient. And on the album’s title track, it’s easy to imagine Bell’s just stepped back on stage with a wink and a grin: “I heard things just ain’t the same without me/ Hold your hats, the party’s on, the king is back,” he sings. This album is as close as it gets. – Meredith Lawrence
Cole Chaney, In The Shadow Of The Mountain
In 2023, as I was wrapping up an interview with music industry counselor JT Nolan about the mental health benefits of playing music, he asked, “Have you heard Cole Chaney? Go to YouTube and listen to ‘Spirit.’” When friends and family turn away, houses of worship slam-lock their doors, and society at large stigmatizes and ostracizes, the broken take refuge in the arts. Sometimes it’s complex work. Sometimes it’s the gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar and a high lonesome refrain: “I want to let go, I don’t want to hurt no more, I want to let go … spirit … I’m tired of holding on …”
A lot can happen in two years. Cole Chaney grew his hair, plugged in, turned up, and released In The Shadow Of The Mountain. The result owes as much to Cobain and Cornell as it does to Doc and Merle. Chaney describes it as “a little bit of a darker album.” That’s saying something, considering the emotional outpouring that is his debut, Mercy. Settled in midway on the new release is a revisited “Spirit,” somehow even more plaintive than the OurVinyl session.
Albums like In The Shadow Of The Mountain, in all its aching beauty, are reminders that while our brokenness may never truly leave us, music is the kintsugi that helps fill its deepest cracks. – Alison Richter
Tyler Childers, Snipe Hunter
Sure, Tyler Childers’ grungy Rick Rubin-produced masterpiece, Snipe Hunter, has been nominated for a GRAMMY Award in the Best Contemporary Country Album, but placing the project alongside releases by fellow nominees Miranda Lambert and Kelsea Ballerini illustrates how limiting this buzzworthy category split really is. To this listener, every single fascinating song on Snipe Hunter is built upon a centuries-old foundation of country and Appalachian tradition.
While the album has certainly had a polarizing effect among those who describe themselves as Childers fans, folks “in the know” inside and outside of the region – be it central or southern Appalachia, Kentucky, the South, or rural haunts in general – found endlessly artful complications and narrations of country (and country-ness) throughout the collection. Childers’ lyrics are all at once demonstrable and fantastic, far-fetched and absolutely grounded in reality. Over the half-year since its release, I find myself returning to Snipe Hunter over and over again to delight in new discoveries and freshly raised eyebrows and first time laughs-out-loud as I find more and more whimsical magic flowing from Childers’ true country pen. You may not see yourself reflected in this EP, but to those of us who do, the sensation is joyous – and addicting. – Justin Hiltner
Madeline Edwards, FRUIT
When Madeline Edwards started turning in songs for her 2025 album, FRUIT, an “industry leader” on her team suggested she package the project as a “grief EP” – a moment of catharsis in the wake of her younger brother’s death that would not distract her from more commercially viable musical pursuits. But the grief songs kept coming and the suits lost faith.
Edwards stuck to her guns and delivered the brilliant concept album independently. The pangs of mourning ring out throughout FRUIT, but so do hard-won determination and joy. Edwards’ range as a storyteller is on marvelous display from the instantly memorable piano ballad “Just A Dream” to the wall of guitars on “American Psycho” and gospel timelessness of “Holy Fire.”
Edwards is at home among the many different shades of contemporary country, while also dipping her toes in soul, rock, indie and her very own brand of classical pop vocals. Somebody please put this multifaceted performer on a massive headlining tour ASAP so we can watch her soar to even greater heights. – Lizzie No
Sierra Hull, A Tip Toe High Wire
With the release of her latest album, A Tip Toe High Wire, Sierra Hull has broken through a new level of national and international notoriety. With a songbird voice and soothing stage presence, the mandolin virtuoso took her deep bluegrass roots and blended it with a heady helping of Americana and indie-folk stylings.
Always cognizant of her traditional bluegrass foundation, Hull continues to use that steady footing to step over musical fences and into new realms of sonic possibilities, as seen with her appearances onstage in recent years with the likes of Slash, Cory Wong, and the Allman Betts Family Revival. If anything, A Tip Toe High Wire is, in many respects, Hull finally arriving into her own space and signature sound, something she’s chased after since she was a young kid playing alongside legends like Alison Krauss, Sam Bush, and Béla Fleck. The album itself is a testament to the unlimited possibilities she possesses and radiates with such ease and pure enthusiasm.
Not to mention, Hull also took home her seventh Mandolin Player of the Year honor at this year’s International Bluegrass Music Association Awards. – Garret K. Woodward
Nicholas Jamerson, The Narrow Way
Those plugged into Kentucky’s music scene will often put Nicholas Jamerson’s songwriting on the same level as that of Tyler Childers, Chris Stapleton, and Sturgill Simpson. With his latest record, The Narrow Way, it’s easy to see why.
On the 12-song project, the singer’s humility shines through as he tackles topics like the bond he’s built with his partner (“One With You”), remaining hopeful in life’s dim moments (“Dark In Every Day”), not taking your time for granted (“Running Out Of Daylight”) and reflecting on moments you can’t get back (“Prater Creek”).
Further recognition of Jamerson’s prowess as a writer can be found in the feature spots littering the project, which range from its producer Rachel Baiman to Ketch Secor (Old Crow Medicine Show), Tim O’Brien, Shelby Means (Molly Tuttle & Golden Highway), and his sister, Emily Jamerson (another artist to keep your eye on). Altogether, The Narrow Way follows the same formula Jamerson has rode to success for over a decade now – serving the song above everything else – and the best part is he’s showing no signs of slowing down. – Matt Wickstrom
I spend more time on TikTok than I’d like Good Country’s readers to know, and it seems like most country artists’ content sits on a continuum between “here’s a bonfire scene that cost two million dollars to produce” and “pardon my PJs, the label made me post this :(.”
Mississippi songwriter KIRBY, however, used short-form vertical video as a canvas for her Southern Gothic storyscapes to great effect all year, turning album promotion into an opportunity for site-specific performances. In July, KIRBY posted a lyric video for “The Man,” a song from her then-forthcoming album, Miss Black America. She sings straight to camera in front of the yellow Dollar General sign you see on every block in the hood. Her vocal winks at Ann Peebles and the caption explains the prevalence of food deserts in America.
This fall, clips of “Na$ty” created their own cultural moment on the Black Internet. You kinda had to be there, which is a lesson in itself. On KIRBY’s internet, everything is text and anything can be useful. Hair, thighs, grooves, intertextual comparisons, and accents are thick, and AAVE will not be translated. We are cordially invited to keep up. – Lizzie No
Olivia Ellen Lloyd, Do it Myself
West Virginia native, now New York-based songwriter Olivia Ellen Lloyd taps into a deeper sense of love, heartbreak, liberation, and resilience on her sophomore album, Do it Myself. The release features an all-star band with Dave Speranza on bass, Connor Parks on drums, Duncan Wickel on fiddle, James Woodall on pedal steel, Sarah Glades on percussion, and Mike Robinson as producer – as well as playing guitar and pedal steel.
Lloyd’s storytelling is vivid, emotional, and quite powerful. Listening to both this album as well as her first, it’s beautiful to watch her story unfold in sentimental songs, which have a country twang, but you can also hear influences from other genres. Whether punchy songs or soft ones, all of her music has a groove that makes you want to sing and dance along – while also giving you a space to experience your own feelings, as she does while singing. – Emma Turoff
Rob Miller, The Hours Are Long But The Pay Is Low: A Curious Life in Independent Music
A question anyone who pursues a creative life will ask themselves: Why do we take a vow of poverty to put art into the world? As put forth in Bloodshot Records co-founder Rob Miller’s memoir, The Hours Are Long But The Pay Is Low, it’s because not doing it is not an option.
Chicago-based Bloodshot caught the wave of mid-1990s alternative country, releasing seminal works by Old 97s, Waco Brothers, Robbie Fulks, Sarah Shook, and more. Miller comes across as an OCD character straight out of High Fidelity, and his memories of the label’s hardscrabble early days are refreshingly unpretentious.
Bloodshot’s story wasn’t entirely positive. Its original incarnation ended badly amid disputes between Miller and his business partner (the label was ultimately purchased by Exceleration Music, which operates it now under new management). But Miller summarizes the bad-vibes part only briefly, concentrating instead on telling one man’s love story for music. It’s honestly impossible to imagine him doing anything else. And as the cherry on top, Miller dedicates the book to a pair of late friends including Dex Romweber, who he writes “left this world before he could read what his music meant to me.” – David Menconi
Kristina Murray, Little Blue
Little Blue is an understatement. Kristina Murray’s sterling third LP could convincingly have been called “Huge Bummer,” which is coincidentally the mark of a great country record.
“It’s gonna get worse, just give it time,” Murray incants on “Has Been,” a cheekily dour turn-of-phrase that just may stop you in your tracks. (Surely she means it’s gonna get better, right?) Later, on the dreamy “Fool’s Gold,” Murray tries her best at seeing beyond the proverbial grey skies, only to come up short: “It’s just more clouds,” she sighs. Such moments are appropriately slathered in pedal steel, but there’s also a swampy, rock ‘n’ roll groove to tracks like the deliciously jaded “Watchin’ the World Pass Me By” that makes the whole set go down easy. – Will Groff
Drew Parker
My introduction to Drew Parker was his 2020 single “While You’re Gone,” about missing a girl and drinking a gas station PBR while waiting for her to come back. That song had the classic hallmarks of a contemporary country breakup song. Little did I expect the curveball to come five years later.
For over a month earlier this year, Parker teased a big announcement with cryptic social messages like, “Some chapters end. Some chapters begin. This one… isn’t about me. 9•15•25.” The day came and Parker revealed in a short film testimonial that he’s felt God speaking to him, culminating in Parker’s non-religious manager calling and saying Parker should record Christian (country) music. This “moment” stuck out to me not only for the unexpected manner in which Parker revealed his decision, but because it’s obvious this isn’t a creative “phase.”
I don’t see Parker putting together a “token” record about believing and then going back to just girls, beer, and his pickup. Furthermore, Parker exudes unwavering peace about it all – whether he loses fans or faces mean-spirited judgment. There’s tangible risk to this move and there’s something to be said for Parker’s resolve and frankly, his faith in making this change. – Kira Grunenberg
Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats Live at the Kia Forum
Thinking back on all the great music I saw this year, the concert topping my list is one I saw at Los Angeles’ Kia Forum in February. The amazing triple bill – a solo Sam Beam, Waxahatchee, and headliner Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats – all delivered dynamic performances. But it was the unexpected parts of the concert that really made it so memorable.
During his set, Rateliff welcomed several special guests: Lucius’ lead singers Jess Wolfe and Holly Laessig, Taylor and Griffin Goldsmith from Dawes, and Grateful Dead bassist Bob Weir. What especially impressed me, however, was how Rateliff generously let his guests take the spotlight – a gesture that conveyed his joy for making music, particularly in a “more-the-merrier” collaborative way.
The Colorado-based Rateliff and his band also made the extraordinary gesture of using the concert to raise funds for victims of Southern California’s January wildfires as well as partnering in a purchase of a mobile food pantry to assist those left homeless by the destructive fires. This night reminded me how musicians can not only create a genuine sense of community through their rousing performances, but also through their inspiring actions. – Michael Berick
Sinners (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is the horror film of 2025. It’s been hard to ignore, and for good reason. Michael B. Jordan, who plays double duty as twin outlaws Smoke and Stake, leads the cast which also includes Hailee Steinfeld, Wunmi Mosaku, and Thomas Pang (also known by his stage name, Yao). The film ultimately raked in $367 million in worldwide box office receipts. From its unique spin on vampires to its rootsy, blues-driven music, Sinners excels in celebrating the rich history of Black music and connects the dots between African tribal music to modern day hip-hop and R&B.
Songs like “Travelin’” (a standout moment from newcomer Miles Caton as musician hopeful Sammie) and the mind-blowing time-traveling song “I Lied to You” (paired in the movie with a visual mixing all the styles of Black-made music throughout history) mark the soundtrack as one of the year’s best releases. It’s sure to give the audience a renewed sense of Black history that’s often correlated to specific moments and eras in time. The film and its soundtrack will be talked about for decades as being a vital cinematic moment. – Bee Delores
Ringo Starr, Look Up
Way back at the beginning of 2025, Ringo Starr reminded us how different the world would look today if not for his love of American roots music. Teaming up with GRAMMY-winning producer T Bone Burnett, Starr’s country album Look Up is a love letter to the sound that drove his imagination.
Over 11 new songs written mostly by Burnett for the occasion, a classic American art form got a British Invasion makeover, with modern masters like Billy Strings, Molly Tuttle, and Alison Krauss joining Starr’s fun. Yet, what made this project a year-end highlight was not just the tunes. It was what they represent. As Starr openly declared, his first musical love was American blues and country. Artists like Lightning Hopkins sparked a creative impulse that would ultimately help redefine pop forever. From releasing music as a self-contained band and writing their own songs, to making youth culture a dominant force, The Beatles would change the world – and who knows? With a different drummer behind the kit, maybe none of it happens. Look Up shows where Starr was coming from. – Chris Parton
Vandoliers, Life Behind Bars
Vandoliers’ fifth studio album, Life Behind Bars, is both joyous and contemplative as the raucous country-punk band dive deep into themes of gender, grief, and sobriety in equal measure. “Dead Canary” blasts eardrums with a Mariachi flavor that barrels full steam ahead, setting the stage for their most impressive record to date. Other essentials such as “Bible Belt” and “Thoughts and Prayers” take aim at the current social and cultural moment, addressing religious fanaticism and how it clouds any sense of empathy.
Songs like “You Can’t Party with the Lights On” and “Valencia,” another Mariachi-intoned moment, are just plain fun. These round out the album into a well-crafted snapshot of the group right now and where they fit into the ever-changing world. Additionally, Vandoliers have never sounded so in tune with one another, vocally and musically, opting for compelling and intricate choices that expand their style without sacrificing what’s made them so good. – Bee Delores
Kelsey Waldon, Every Ghost
As the editor for Good Country and BGS, I listen to hundreds of albums a year, but they rarely stop me in my tracks. That happens even more rarely when album creators are longtime close friends of mine. But despite having met Kentuckian singer-songwriter Kelsey Waldon nearly 15 years ago and adoring all of her LP releases in that time, when Every Ghost first arrived in my email inbox earlier this year, I was floored.
In a world – and industry and genre – absolutely dripping with affectations of country music in lieu of the “real deal,” Waldon’s sixth studio album is dyed in the wool, but unconcerned with meeting those expectations or checking the boxes of trends and salability. These honky-tonking songs are infused with old-time, bluegrass, outlaw, confidence, and Prine-ian philosophizing. Waldon somehow turns introspection and identity into gritty and engaging wit and metaphor, without ever needing to obscure her messages to make them feel artistic or serious or poetic.
Even listeners like myself, who have been in Waldon’s fan club for a decade and a half or who have swapped vegetable seedlings and chicken pics with her, or who have crisscrossed her Ohio river floodplain homeland dozens of times, will learn much more about Waldon, her approach, her sonic loves, and her inner machinations as she pulls back the curtain for all of us on Every Ghost. – Justin Hiltner
Marlon Williams, Te Whare Tīwekaweka
Down here at the bottom of the globe in Aotearoa and Te Waipounamu (the North and South Islands of New Zealand), 2025 has very much been the year of the Māori singer-songwriter Marlon Williams (Kāi Tahu, Ngāi Tai).
Back in April, I interviewed Williams for a Good Country cover story to celebrate his stunning fourth solo album, Te Whare Tīwekaweka (The Messy House) and director Ursula Grace Williams’s equally affecting documentary film Marlon Williams: Ngā Ao E Rua – Two Worlds. Since then, he’s brought his antipodean blend of country and western, folk, rock and roll, and mid-to-late 20th-century pop to audiences across the U.S., UK, Australia, and at home, culminating in taking home the coveted APRA Silver Scroll songwriting award for his single “Aua Atu Rā” in late October.
Written and sung entirely in te reo Māori, the indigenous language of New Zealand, Te Whare Tīwekaweka is a masterful example of how music can use mood and emotion to cross geographic borders and linguistic barriers effortlessly. Even when we don’t speak the same language, we can still find common ground. Sometimes a sense of connection is only a song or two away. – Martyn Pepperell
Photo Credit: Tyler Childers by Sam Waxman; Kelsey Waldon courtesy of the artist; Olivia Ellen Lloyd courtesy of the artist.
Sitting in a Nashville hotel room one recent morning, Tim Heidecker is awaiting his Americanafest showcase. It’ll take place later that evening at 3rd & Lindsley. And Heidecker’s dreading the gig. Not because he doesn’t enjoy the act of performance. It’s simply the format in which the show will be set up: solo.
“It’s not my preferred way of presenting my songs,” Heidecker says. “I just came off the road with my band. Playing every night for two weeks. I’m a little road tested and warmed up. But, these songs benefit from other people playing them with me.”
That sense of vulnerability and, perhaps, a slight fear of what may or may not lie just around the corner of the grandiose ether surrounding all of us are core themes at the heart of Heidecker’s latest album, Slipping Away.
Though many may know Heidecker for his comedic brilliance – as part of innovative comedy duo Tim & Eric, on an array of beloved TV shows or across the big screen in major Hollywood films – he’s also been a lifelong singer-songwriter. And a damn fine one, too.
Now 48, Heidecker offers Slipping Away (available October 18 via Bloodshot Records) as a genuine snapshot of a human being wrestling with middle age and the intricacies of daily life. Just like many of us in the same boat of age and awareness.
Sonically, Slipping Away straddles psychedelic alt-country, surf rock, and indie folk. The ethereal attitude and lyrical ethos flows in the same river as Pavement and Wilco, with hints of Guided By Voices and They Might Be Giants felt throughout.
In an era of doom and gloom, Heidecker’s humor and zest are much needed – the notion that sometimes all you can do is laugh in pure amazement at the absurdity of what’s outside your front door.
“They say that Jesus Christ is coming back some day/ But if I were him, I think I would stay,” Heidecker sings during “Bows and Arrows.” “Up in the clouds, hanging out with dad/ Cuz things down here, things are going bad.”
In truth, much like his comedy, Tim Heidecker’s music is aimed at the idea of connectivity. Finding common ground with you and me. And his constant yearning to expose the lunacy and mysteries of one’s existence within the cosmic universe is why we’ve come to turn to Heidecker for comfort and solidarity in uncertain times.
I replayed the album this morning while having coffee with my girlfriend. And, in a good way, I started having existential thoughts. It made me think, “This is an honest snapshot of someone on the cusp of 50, who’s looking at the chaos of their youth in the rearview mirror and looking at the unknowns of growing older through the windshield.”
Tim Heidecker: That’s beautifully put. Can I use that? [Laughs] I mean, yes, I agree with that. It’s funny, you writers, critics and journalists are always better at vocalizing what I’m trying to say than I am. And I appreciate it. These things come from such a subliminal place for me that it’s nice to hear how it’s received or how it’s perceived. A lot of the writing of this record came right after the pandemic. There was this real, palpable feeling of an apocalyptic kind of mentality happening.
It still feels like that every day, though. That’s the world we live in now.
Yeah, for sure. And it was very crisp in 2020, 2021, 2022. In my comedy, I’ve tried a few different times to write shows about that. I’ve had a couple of projects that didn’t go very far, that were sort of about the end of the world. So, it’s been on my mind for a while and I wanted to do a record with that sort of concept or theme. And I started writing songs, letting the record be this way of getting those ideas out of my head.
With the title, Slipping Away, is that a reference to how fast time goes?
Picking the title of a record is always a pain and challenge to crystallize it. But, to me, there’s two meanings. The first half of the record is maybe a little more upbeat and positive and there’s this feeling of being content or being happy. Then, it can also mean things falling apart and disintegrating [in the second half]. There’s Slipping Away Side A and there’s Slipping Away Side B.
There’s also a very ethereal vibe to the album, too, where it’s like a dreamlike state.
Mm-Hmm.
With the song “Hey, Would You Call My Mom for Me,” was that a real encounter you had with somebody?
It was. We were on tour up in Vancouver. They have a big area of Vancouver that’s kind of been surrendered to addicts. They call it “Zombie Town.” I was walking around there and a kid asked me that. It was early in the morning and it took me off guard. I gave him 20 bucks and was like, “Sorry, I can’t.” I just couldn’t get involved. But, I came back to that line of, “Hey, would you call my mom for me?” Especially after the pandemic and living in Los Angeles, seeing a lot of people on the street. I felt like I wanted to capture that moment. Little journalistic songwriting there.
I’ve read that you’re an atheist/agnostic. And I wonder – with the pandemic and just life in general – if you’ve started to have maybe a crisis of faith or identity as you’ve gotten older?
I wouldn’t say crisis.
Recalibration, maybe?
Recalibration is fair. Honestly, I’m fairly firm in my agnosticism. I wouldn’t consider myself an atheist. I think it’s kind of an irrelevant question for me [about] what’s going on outside of reality. But, I’ve started therapy and working on some personal issues, health issues and stuff this past year. I don’t want to say midlife crisis. But, it’s this feeling of like, “Alright, I’ve been kind of coasting on my instincts for a long time. And it’s gotten me to where I am, which is a pretty good place. But, I’d like to figure out how I’m going to spend the rest of my life here – maybe a little happier, a little less anxiety-ridden, easier to be around.”
It’s been a couple years of taking the old car into the shop and getting it adjusted for long-term use. I mean, I’ve been touring with this band for the past couple years. And part of me is like, “Man, love this so much. How many more of these am I going to get to do? How many more of these runs where you’re just on the bus and you’re playing every night?” It takes a lot of work to get to that place where things are going well.
There’s the line on the record – I think it may be my favorite line on the record – [in the song “Something, Somewhere”] that goes, “There is a feeling I get, when things are going good but it’s coming to an end.” You’re at that place where things are working, something you’re working on or a project where you see the end. It’s that end of summer melancholy feeling. And I think you can zoom out and look at your life a little bit that way, too.
I couldn’t find much about your early music years. And I was curious about where music begins for you, and as somebody like yourself who came of age in early 1990s Pennsylvania. Was music just something that was always there?
Yeah. I came from a very musical family. My grandmother was very religious. She could play piano and she could play by ear. So, she could sit at the piano and figure out songs. My mom loved music and my dad was a big classic rock guy. He had a great record collection, then he updated his record collection to tapes as we were driving around in the ’80s. He would play the golden oldies and the best of the Beatles, [those] red and blue compilation [albums] a lot. I was always very performance driven, dressing up and doing shows and playing from as far back as I can remember. We had a piano in the house, and eventually a guitar came around. It was just something my parents really encouraged, I guess. My sister took piano lessons. It was just part of our education. I went to Catholic school, so there was a lot of singing. Just a lot of music around all the time.
Eventually, that led to bands being formed. My cousin had a hardcore punk band. And I gravitated towards those kinds of people who were also into music. I had an uncle who had really great taste in music and turned me on to all kinds of artists in the ’80s and ’90s [like] Billy Bragg. I remember him being a big fan of [Billy]. And it was fairly easy to put a band together. We all wanted to be on TV or make movies or create stuff. But, the band was the thing that you could put together after a good Christmas of getting a practice amp and a starter guitar. Your friend has a drum set and you could go into a basement and make something. We used to rent four-track tape recorders from the music store and make demos.
I hear a lot of influences on Slipping Away – indie rock, folk, alt-country. I hear a lot of stuff, too, that I grew up in the ’90s loving. I hear some Pavement influences. With Pavement, they always came across as a band where you could do whatever you wanted, and a song can be whatever you want it to be – something I always loved about them.
I loved Pavement. In fact, they’re a really important band for me, because when I was in high school my head was really firmly in the classic rock ’60s and ’70s world. I didn’t really connect to anything modern. I didn’t like pop punk music. I mean, it was okay. But, I didn’t really like the hardcore scene, the emo scene. I found it really boring and exhausting to listen to, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I didn’t like a lot of hip-hop. Whatever was happening in the early ’90s, I was not connecting with it.
And then I heard [Pavement’s] Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain record. I remember hearing the drumstick in [opening track] “Silence Kid.” And I was really into Exile on Main St. by The Rolling Stones, so it was a connection, a through line from the Stones to Pavement, where it felt like, “Oh, these guys are happening now.” That opened me up to Guided By Voices, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Yo La Tengo, and that Matador Records scene. I was like, “Oh, I am of my age now. I’m of my time.” [Laughs]
When you’re touring, is it weird people may have preconceived notions of what to expect and expectations that aren’t accurate?
Yeah. I mean, that’s diminishing a little bit now. I think people are getting the message. There’s still people that are confused. They’re waiting for the punchline to drop. It took me a while to figure out how to behave as a performer when I’m doing my music. I’ve found this little sweet spot, where I can still be funny and I can still be myself. I don’t have to pretend to be this pretentious singer-songwriter, because I’m not. I’m just me. I don’t want to keep it too serious, so I lighten the mood enough where people get a little bit of both – they get the full picture, they get the full version of me.
One of the songs on Slipping Away is “Dad of the Year,” where you sing about how you had all these expectations growing up and conquering the world, as we all do. And now you’re in your late forties and you’re like, “Well, that didn’t really happen. But, in this other way, I’m actually really happy with where I landed.”
For sure. The goal is to get to that place where you’re content and satisfied with wherever you are. And in the way the world is, it’s very hard to not compare yourself to everything else that’s going on, to people you don’t know. Why do people care about Ben Affleck and J. Lo? [Laughs] When I see a picture of them, there’s this intrusive thought of, “Why aren’t they taking pictures of me?” And if you really are honest, I think everybody has varying degrees of that. And that’s the battle of life – to find ways of knowing how to be happy with where you’re at. But, don’t squash ambition, because ambition is very important, too.
To that, it does feel like you’re in a good place right now.
I’m in a great place. I’m in Nashville. I’m excited for the record to come out. I hope people sit with it. Some records you just need to sit down and listen to. I mean, Slipping Away is only 30 minutes. [Laughs] This isn’t coffee shop music.
This week on The Show On The Road, we catch up with acclaimed roots-rocker Sarah Shook. For most of the last decade, Shook has been making cut-to-the-bone country music of her own outlaw variety — first with her early band The Devil and now with her seasoned group of sensitive twang-rock shitkickers, The Disarmers.
Homeschooled in deeply religious seclusion in upstate New York and North Carolina, Shook largely only heard classical composers growing up. As a loner, creative teenager trying to process her hidden bisexuality, she described hearing Elliott Smith and Belle & Sebastian as revelatory — finally someone felt like her and found a way to share it with the world. But it was after encountering the raw honesty in the songs of Johnny Cash that she found a purpose and a place for her achy-voiced folk songs.
With a little encouragement from her longtime lead guitarist, who saw how powerful her presence (and her songs) could be on stage, an openly reticent Shook took the leap and started playing professionally in 2013. She gained national attention with her stellar back-to-back albums Sidelong and Years, which caught the attention of famed alt-/outlaw country label Bloodshot Records (they signed her) and sent her on a relentless round of touring.
With confessional, lived-in songs like “Fuck Up” and “New Ways To Fail” Shook is a master of getting to the point, processing her tough transition to sobriety with grace, humor and wit. Much like her hero Johnny Cash, she suffers no fools when it comes to love and its tricky late-night detours. With her signature half-smile/half-grimace candor Shook sings about another love affair gone wrong: “I need this shit like I need another hole in my head.”
Stick around to the end of the episode to hear a live-from-home acoustic rendition of her deliciously twangy kiss-off, “Gold As Gold.”
This week on the show, Z. meets up with cerebral, Texas-born roots rocker Jason Hawk Harris, who has recently struck out on his own, poking one foot through the torn tinsel of a Houston honky tonk and another through a haunted, California Black Mirror episode set in a tilted sci-fi future.
While most songwriters hide behind walls and trapdoors of metaphor, Harris isn’t afraid to openly process his recent family traumas and loss on his stunning (and aptly titled) debut solo album, Love & The Dark, released by Bloodshot Records in 2019. Despite his youth, Harris has much to tell us and if this equally sensitive and swaggering sound is where the future of modern country music is headed, we’re in.
BGS is proud to announce we will once again be partnering with our friends at Bloodshot Records and IVPR at Folk Alliance International 2020 in New Orleans, Louisiana. In past years, folk, bluegrass, and Americana artists of all varieties have performed in rooms sponsored and co-sponsored by the three staples of the American roots music industry. Over time these lineups have perfectly balanced the truly unique atmosphere of discovery at FAI with showcasing the best of the best in folk music. As Folk Alliance moves to New Orleans for a singular year, BGS, Bloodshot, and IVPR are excited to fully incorporate this integral American music city, its sounds, its songs, and its local scene into their programming as well.
The full schedule for the Bloodshot + BGS + IVPR room at Folk Alliance International 2020 is available now! Make plans to join us each night starting at 1o:30pm, Thursday through Saturday, at room 1020 at the Sheraton New Orleans.
Bloodshot Records’ 25th anniversary party is taking place in Chicago this Saturday, and they’re gonna party like it’s… 1994.
Long before the term Americana was coined, this fledgling Chicago label was issuing records by Robbie Fulks, Old 97s, and other road-worn musicians who built their careers on a mix of country and punk that the label initially termed “insurgent country.” That description didn’t last but the label forged on, with compelling artists and songwriters like Jason Hawk Harris, Sarah Shook & the Disarmers, and Luke Winslow-King now on the roster.
Bloodshot Records co-founder Rob Miller fielded some BGS questions by email. Check out the newest release, Too Late to Pray: Defiant Chicago Roots, at the end of the interview.
BGS: Launching a record label is a pretty big risk, then and now. Was there a specific moment that convinced you, “OK, the time is right to do this”?
RM: Au contraire! Risk never, ever crossed my mind. When you don’t have a business plan, an expectation of success — let alone longevity — or any idea what you are getting yourself into, ignorance and naiveté are powerfully liberating. The whole idea was, at the very least, a release from the drudgery of drywalling shitty condos in Wrigleyville and Old Town.
The three original partners ponied up a couple of grand from our day jobs, put together our first release, For a Life of Sin, and the day the CDs came back from the manufacturer, POOF!, we were a “label.”
I can’t imagine doing something as ridiculous as that now.
What do you remember about those first few conversations with your friends and your peers when you shared your plans to launch Bloodshot?
Practically nothing. It was a very blurry time. It was at a time in all our lives when all was action and creating and the moment without much thought to consequences. We were just so excited at the prospect of shining a light on this weird little scene in Chicago that I doubt anyone could have talked me out of doing it. The real world had not yet muscled itself to the table and I’ve managed, in many ways, to keep it at bay all these years. Oh, and then there was the tequila. As I said, very blurry.
Why did the phrase “insurgent country” fit the Bloodshot Records vibe, do you think?
It’s something Eric Babcock (one of the original founders) and I came up with one day drinking beer in my backyard — never let two English majors get drunk when there’s a thesaurus within reach, by the way.
We were looking for a catchy way to describe what we were doing, something that spoke to the outsider aspect and added an edge to the frequently off-putting “C” word. At the time, there wasn’t much critical language or reference points surrounding the melding of roots and punk. So, before someone else hung a dreadful tag on us like cowpunk or y’alternative, we thought it would be wise to TELL them what to call us.
Print media was so prevalent as this label was getting off the ground. What role did music journalists play in making Bloodshot a success?
Wait, we’re a success? Who knew? Where’s my pony, dammit!
Having spent my formative years reading fanzines and indie publications, persuading glossy mags or acclaimed daily newspapers to pay any sort of attention to us never crossed my mind. We did then, as we do now, focus on the grassroots. We work from the bottom up, rather than wait around for some “tastemaker” to tell the world it’s OK to like us or our artists. It was in those locally-based outlets where people could write about us with passion and without concern for circulation or broad appeal.
However, there are times when our tastes and popular culture intersected (Neko Case, Justin Townes Earle, Ryan Adams, Old 97s, Lydia Loveless, among others) and the wider world and folks higher up the media food chain paid attention to us. Usually that would take the form of a “trend” piece along the lines of “the new sound of country” or “Whiskey-soaked barn-burning punks” or some such shit. They’d be reactive and reductive, but tried to sound bold and cutting-edge by calling out some hot, fresh underground movement.
And that’s all great, but it doesn’t influence what we like or how we go about what we do.
Don’t get me wrong, or think me the King of Cynics (I am merely a prince), there were some insightful and humbling pieces in places like Rolling Stone, GQ, Village Voice, New York Times and the like. In NYC 1996, we had an afternoon barbeque on the Lower East Side with the Old 97s, Waco Brothers, and others. It was during CMJ and since they wouldn’t let our bands into the festival, we put on our own party (a precursor to our longstanding shindig at the Yard Dog Gallery during SXSW). I went outside to check on the line that snaked down the block and saw a couple writers from Rolling Stone and the legendary Greil Marcus trying to get in. Yikes. Things like that helped lend an air of legitimacy to our strange little crusade.
Who were some of the earliest champions for the label?
Fans, largely. Weirdos like ourselves who quickly responded to what we were trying to do. People who were fed up with the co-opting of the underground, of Lollapalooza, of Martha Stewart “grunge-themed” parties; people who were looking to classic country for the freshness, excitement, and freedom that they used to find in punk; people who were discovering that Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, and Hank Williams were 1000 times more interesting and relevant than the Stone Temple Pilots or the Red Hot Chili Peppers would ever be; people who were starting up, or involved in already, their own scenes in their cities who saw us as willing collaborators.
Fortunately, many of these collaborators also worked in the biz, as writers, DJs, promoters, record store owners, distributors, and club owners. We were able, in pretty short order, to stitch together an ecosystem of people who genuinely dug what we were trying to do and could help spread the word to the benefit of all. It was very much a community spread out across the country.
How has the Chicago music scene factored into the Bloodshot Records story?
There isn’t so much a Chicago music “scene,” as there is a Chicago “hustle.”
When I moved to Chicago, I was floored by the vast array of music available to me on any given night. So many clubs, so many bands, so many neighborhoods, so many options. Given our position in the middle of the country, most touring bands stopped here. Rent was cheap. Labels arose in a non-competitive environment which fostered a vibrant, organic and sustained creative burst. Since Chicago is a working town, rather than a company town like NYC, LA, or Nashville, there was an incredible amount of freedom to create and perform without fear of upsetting the “industry” or making a jackass of yourself and failing during your “shot” in front of A&R goons from a major label.
Do what you do. Try new things. We didn’t break rules so much as we never knew what the rules were in first place. Club owners took chances on our bands early on and became fans and advocates, the media cared and wrote about what was happening at the street level, and there were plenty of record stores and left of the dial radio lending encouragement. Coming from a place that lacked such a supportive infrastructure, I never, ever take it for granted.
I firmly believe that Bloodshot would not have thrived anywhere else.
At the time the label launched, vinyl pressings of new releases were very rare. How did the label respond when you all realized that vinyl was making a comeback?
Very true. Early on, other than a series of 7” singles, we didn’t do any vinyl. Occasionally, a European company would license a title and press up 500 LPs or so, but otherwise, it was a dead format. That pained the record nerd buried deep in my DNA.
So, we were quite happy to help with the resurgence of LPs. At first, we’d tentatively press up 500 or 1000 of only the releases we expected to do quite well; LPs are expensive, time-consuming and temperamental to manufacture, and unsold LPs take up a lot of space in our tiny warehouse. AND no one was sure if this was a quick blip or a passing fancy, so all the extant pressing plants were log-jammed for months at a time. But now, with new pressing plants finally opening up, virtually every release has a vinyl component to it and we’ve re-released music never before available in that format as well.
I think people who, by and large, grew up with downloads and streaming respond to vinyl because of its tactile and totemic connection to the music and the artist. As the saying goes, you can’t put your arms around an MP3. It makes the LP a very durable and loveable format.
What do you remember about Bloodshot’s first website?
Funny, I was just talking to an IT person about this the other day. When we moved into our current office 20 years ago, we had one modem for the entire office. If someone needed to get online, they would run through the office telling people to get off the phones so they could log on. We wrote letters and used faxes. We even called people on the corded telephones and talked to them — how very quaint.
If we wanted to edit our site, we’d have to compile a list of changes, and fax them over to our “programmer.” We did that usually every two weeks or so. From where we sit now, it feels so distantly and hilariously primitive, like I was the chimp smashing bones with a femur when the obelisk appears in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Every once in a while, someone will say something like “I googled that DSP” or “the Wi-Fi crashed and I can’t download the WAV files” and think, good Lord, what would such utterances have sounded like back then? They would have locked you up or tossed you off the bus for being a loony.
In this era, having a record label isn’t essential to release music. However, from your perspective, what are some of the benefits of having label support?
Several years back, the conversation did turn rather aggressively towards “why even bother having a label?” True, the monolithic aspect of THE LABEL has been wholly and, in many cases, rightfully demolished by the internet.
However, artists are artists. They should create and perform. They should not be burdened with the time-sucking (yet necessary) banalities of promotion and business.
That’s where a “team” like us comes in — perhaps that’s a more relevant term than “label.” We can take all those nagging organizational bits off their plate and build the brand. We keep the trains running on time (I refer, of course, to European and Japanese trains, not Amtrak). And, let’s face it, many possessing the — how shall we say? — artistic temperament do not also possess the logistical grace to tackle all the infuriating minutiae that make the whole machine run. No one asks me to write a catchy melody or craft meaningful lyrics delving into the human condition. No one should ask the artist to make sure the digital service providers are given the proper metadata or set up an in-store performance in Fort Collins Colorado.
What excites you the most about the next 25 years?
Ivanka 2040?
The death of the Death of Irony?
Jet packs?
(Hopefully) outliving Henry Kissinger.
Florida and Mar-A-Lago sinking into the sea once and for all?
Making sure the soundboard at the old folks home is powerful enough for Jon Langford’s shouting to be heard over the Matlock re-runs?
Artist:Vandoliers Hometown: Dallas-Fort Worth, Texas Song: “Tumbleweed” Album:Forever Release Date: February 22, 2019 Label: Bloodshot Records
In Their Words: “I wrote ‘Tumbleweed’ for my father. The poor guy’s has to watch me struggle for a dream he doesn’t really understand — I travel too much, and I know it affects my health and my family. When I get home I’m a wreck most of the time; I’m tired from the long drives, late nights, and spending a month in a different bar or festival every night. But it’s a necessary evil when you’re a mid-level band that’s still cutting its teeth. The album Forever starts with a feeling of wanderlust in the lead track ‘Miles and Miles,’ about a dream of leaving my home town in hopes that I won’t be stuck in the same place the rest of my life. ‘Tumbleweed,’ then, is my return home song — but told from the perspective of my Dad, opening the door to see his son for the first time in months, beat up, broke, and tired from a long adventure. ‘A littler older and no wiser for the wear.” – Joshua Fleming, lead singer/guitar
Artist:William Elliott Whitmore Hometown: Lee County, Iowa Song: “Busted” Album:Kilonova Release Date: Sept. 7, 2018 Label: Bloodshot Records
In Their Words: “This song was written by the great Harlan Howard. It tells an all too familiar story, being broke but persevering nonetheless. It’s something a lot of folks can relate to and I wanted the video to reflect that.” — William Elliott Whitmore
If you’re attending Folk Alliance International next month in Kansas City, Missouri, be sure to stop by suite 621 at the Westin Crown Center Hotel where BGS and Bloodshot Records will team up to bring you some great music by wonderful emerging and established artists.
AMA UK Artist of the Year nominee Danni Nicholls kicks things off on Thursday, February 15, at 10:30 pm, followed over three nights by a slew of stellar artists, including Molly Tuttle, Rose Cousins, the War & Treaty, Ruby Boots, Jon Langford, Giri & Uma Peters, Jamie Drake, Joe Purdy, and more. (For those not in attendance, rumor has it that we might stream some of the sets live on Facebook.)
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