Tag: Good Country

Thomas Csorba is Bringing Tender Country Back

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Thomas Csorba’s new album, Tender Country, is a tip of the hat to a gentler time in country music, when songs about family life and nostalgia were easier to find on the radio dial.

For this album, his fourth, Csorba (pronounced Chor-ba) drew songwriting inspiration close to home – specifically his wife and two young sons. Raised in Houston, Csorba naturally found an early affinity for Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt, and Don Williams, all of whom came up in that city’s live music scene. In 2019, Csorba graduated with an English degree from Baylor University in Waco, Texas. It’s no surprise that his literary leanings are evident in his lyrics, while his low-key vocals fit right in with his musical heroes.

“I’m obsessed with Don Williams, and what I love about Don is that it sounds like he’s sitting down on every recording, every vocal delivery,” Csorba says. “The thought and spirit behind this album was like, ‘Let’s make a record like those Don Williams records that I want to listen to when I’m doing laundry.’ I’m not in the business of making ‘exciting music,’ or what the world says is exciting. What’s exciting to me is something disarming and something thoughtful.”

Now based in Dallas, Csorba will hit the road later this summer with fellow Texas artist David Ramirez. In the meantime, calling in from a family vacation in Colorado, Csorba chatted with Good Country about his responsibility to share good music with his kids, the revelation of Tony Rice, and his long-held Grand Ole Opry aspirations.

I like that kind of comfortable, relaxed feeling on this record. What was the vibe in the studio during these sessions?

Thomas Csorba: It’s funny how relaxed and comfortable it was, in contrast with how quickly we worked. Most people would think that when you’re trying to record 10 songs in two days it’d be pretty uptight and stressful, but the goal was really like, “Hey, I got two extra days, let’s go record whatever we can.” Because I felt so comfortable with the guys, because I felt so comfortable in the studio, and because the players are so damn good, I was able to say, “Hey, here’s the next song.” Everybody charts it and I’m like, “All right, you want to try it?” And by the third take, it’s like, “All right, that feels good.”

Obviously, we live in a world of perfect and auto-tune and Melodyne and AI integration into Pro Tools. And, for better, for worse, I can’t understand how and why. I just can’t see myself getting into that. I don’t have the time or energy, so I’d much rather turn and burn with guys in the band, overdub a couple things, and what comes out of it is like, “Oh, this feels nice.”

I was curious about “Homemade Margaritas,” because to me it sounds like the spirit of Guy Clark and “Homegrown Tomatoes.” Was he an influence on you?

Yeah, absolutely. When I was a kid, my mom sang Willie Nelson songs to me. The mother-son dance at my wedding was “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” She’s a Texas gal and loved Jerry Jeff Walker and Willie and all those guys. She knew about Guy, but my older brother, Will, who’s a phenomenal old-time player, who’s wicked smart and wicked talented – he’s the kind of guy that’s frustrated with me and doesn’t think I’m cool because I have words in my songs. He’s quite the purist, but he was the one who introduced me to Townes Van Zandt’s music when I was 14 or 15 years old. And my parents are rolling their eyes, thinking the older brother’s corrupting Thomas.

I fell in love with Townes and my brother was like, “Great, if you like Townes, you’ve gotta like Guy and Blaze Foley and Rodney Crowell.” Then I went down that deep dive and his response to that, he just kind of walked through with me and said, “If you like all these guys, and if Townes is your favorite and Guy is your favorite, you’ve got to like the people they were obsessed with.” So, Lightnin’ Hopkins and Blind Willie McTell, and this kind of lineage.

I don’t know how relevant this is, but the big through-line there is that everything I love, in some way, comes from the bedrock that is Black American music. Guy certainly embodies that, Townes certainly embodies that. Guy was a big influence, and Texas Cookin’ is one of my favorite records of all time. Especially on “Homemade Margaritas,” I’m like, “Man, let’s do something fun like that.” … Anything I can do as a songwriter to have somebody listen to my record and be like, “Oh, this reminds me of Texas Cookin’,” mission accomplished in my book.

Since Good Country is on the Bluegrass Situation, I do have to ask about “Tony Rice & Beans.”

Hell yeah! I wrote that song with Matt Tedder. He plays guitar for me and he’s a phenomenal thumbpicker. He can play Western swing stuff. He played all over my record, has toured with me, and has been a dear friend for ages now. Matt knows the songbook. If I get booked for a private gig, and I know I’m gonna have to play covers, I bring Matt because he knows every word to every Merle Haggard song, and I can just sit there in a cowboy hat and strum.

He can tell where I am musically and what I want musically and point me in the right direction. All that to say, over the past 10 years, especially, a lot of our heroes from the ‘70s, who made those recordings that I love, have passed away. Jerry Jeff and Merle and obviously Tony Rice. For half of these folks, like in memoriam, it’s like, “I’m going to go listen to Jerry Jeff today,” in honor of Jerry Jeff, and I know exactly what deep cut I want to listen to.

Other people of that era have passed away, and I’ve been like, “Man, I know ‘Church Street Blues,’ but why have I not done the deep dive?” That was Tony Rice for me. When he passed, I did the deep dive, and Matt was there to hold my hand and point me to the right records and tell me what to listen for, because I’m much less musically advanced, as a way to put it. So, he pointed me through those records and I just fell in love. It made me want to start trying to practice guitar again, and get better flat-picking, which I am still a beginner at.

I think it’s because I was so new to the idea of Tony Rice that I was like, “Why is there no song called ‘Tony Rice & Beans’?” So, Matt and I wrote that tune and tried to shoehorn about as many references from the country and American songbook as we could. In Matt’s favorite line, the fact that we fit “The mule and the grasshopper are eating ice cream” from “Stay All Night, Stay a Little Longer,” from Bob Wills and Willie… It’s like, “What the hell does that line mean?” I don’t know, but there it is in my song, too.

Is it fair to say that one of the obligations of fatherhood is introducing your kids to good music?

Oh, totally! Maybe this is hyperbole, but I’ll say it anyway: There’s no better feeling as a father than your kids sitting in the back seat and saying, “Dad, can we listen to ‘Working on a Building’ but the Stanley Brothers’ version?” It’s like, ‘Dude, you’re not even four. Why do I want to cry right now?” Our oldest son turns four in July, and he’s requesting Dolly Parton and Linda Ronstadt and the Trio records, and loves Doc Watson.

Obviously he wants annoying brain rot songs, as well. There’s this song called “Chicken Banana” that he’s obsessed with that’s just terrible. We listen to soundtrack stuff and even in movies, it’s like, “Yeah, let’s watch Robin Hood, and let me tell you about Roger Miller.” It makes it much more enjoyable for me. … I think our kids need to listen to stuff they don’t understand, and I think they need to sit there in adult conversations about music and about art that they may not understand. But they’ll sit there and they’ll absorb it.

I just think my responsibility as a parent is to put the right things in front of them and bring them alongside of where I am creatively, where I am socially, and not draw the line between what Dad listens to and “Dad music,” and what the kids listen to and what “kid music” is. Because it’s unfair to them. It’s unfair to me, too. So, that’s my spiel on kids listening to good music.

I did want to ask about “He Would’ve Loved This.” In country music, there are a lot of songs where Dad is talking about the lessons he’s learned, or saying something with wisdom, but this song has a list of action items that show love. He’s trimming the trees and checking the gravy, and so on. Who were you thinking about when you wrote that song?

I was thinking of my granddad. We called him Papa. He passed away when I was in high school. My oldest son carries his name, which is really sweet. The guy was a chain smoker since he was 12 years old, and worked drywall in Canada after he moved over from Hungary. He’s got this amazing story, and because of his history and his background, his whole spirit was kind of like, “Isn’t this awesome?” Even the little things. And that permeated through all of his life.

You know, he was certainly a crotchety old man at times, but there was a sense of gratitude that was kind of unfathomable, literally. I couldn’t understand it, even if I tried, just because of where he came from. All he wanted was to survive and start a family one day, and there he was watching me grow up and taking me to baseball practice, and trying to correct my attitude on the golf course as a 10-year-old. It’s like, the fact that he was there embodied that gratitude.

So, as my wife and I are watching our boys grow up doing all these menial, seemingly throwaway things, I have to remind myself that if Papa was here, he would be beaming with joy.

You’re not even 30 years old yet, and I know time passes fast, but do you consider yourself to be a nostalgic or sentimental person?

Yeah, I’m a “hoarder lite.” I hang on to things. On this record cycle, I’ll be transparent here, it’s like my big dream – if there’s any record I’ve put out so far, this is the one that would bring me to the Opry. I think it just fits the spirit of the history of the Opry. That’s been a dream for a long time. I’ve wanted to do that, and my manager and I talk about it, literally, every phone call.

The other day, my wife said, “I understand the historical significance, but what’s the deal? Why do you want to do the Opry so bad?” In the same way I talk about these records being handed down to my kids, I was kind of like, “I really want to have done it. I really want my kids to be like, ‘Dad played the Opry!’” Not to look cool, but mostly as a nostalgic thing, to get them to come and stand side stage, whether they understand it or not.

Those moments of nostalgia, in conjunction with the moments of nostalgia around the house, paint a really idealized, probably, but really beautiful picture of what I am up to, what I want to do, and how I want to show my kids I’m going about life.

Photo Credit: Alex Csorba

Paul Overstreet Joins the Country Music Hall of Fame

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

As a nine-year-old kid in Mississippi, Paul Overstreet was fascinated by Your Cheatin’ Heart, a 1964 film about Hank Williams’ life and career. The Hollywood treatment of Hank’s life sparked such a strong interest in writing and performing country music that Overstreet started entering school talent contests, played honky-tonks in Biloxi while still in junior high, and moved to Nashville after graduating from high school in 1973.

This fall, in a full circle moment, Overstreet will join his hero, Hank Williams, as a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame. In that hallowed rotunda in Nashville, Overstreet’s bronze plaque will hang alongside a significant number of artists who found radio success with his songs, including Kenny Chesney, George Jones, the Judds, Ronnie Milsap, Randy Travis, Tanya Tucker, and Keith Whitley. Overstreet wrote many of his biggest “career songs” with Don Schlitz, thus creating one of the most prolific and poetic songwriting partnerships in country music history.

Overstreet enjoyed a good run as a recording artist, too. He achieved a No. 1 country hit with “Baby’s Got a New Baby” (recorded with songwriters Thom Schuyler and Fred Knobloch under the band name S-K-O) in 1987, and with “I Won’t Take Less Than Your Love” (with Tanya Tucker and Paul Davis) in 1988. By 1991, he’d also notched eight consecutive Top 10 solo hits while signed to RCA. Many of them offer a relatable look at family life, with “Seeing My Father in Me” perhaps his most poignant release.

When Overstreet moved to Music City as a teenager, he didn’t even own a suitcase. (He just threw everything in a laundry basket, grabbed his guitar and some football jerseys, and headed north.) Now, at 71, he’s almost always on the go – he got the call about his Hall of Fame induction while on a sightseeing cruise in Southeast Asia. Good Country caught up with Overstreet via Zoom during a Caribbean beach vacation.

You’ve seen a number of people closely associated with your career go into the Hall of Fame, and now it’s your turn. What was your reaction when you learned that you were chosen?

Paul Overstreet: I have to tell you, it was a shock, actually, to me. I’ve been to a lot of the ceremonies because I always like to go. I watch people and I learn things, and I see people talking about their career. It’s always fun and interesting, but I never really thought I would be one of the people going in, just because I don’t have a manager or any of that stuff. I’m kind of solo as far as what I’m doing now, but through the years I had great publishers and people that I worked with and great co-writers. I was in the mix pretty good there for a long time.

Don Schlitz [a 2017 inductee] sent me a text message, telling me, “Man, you’re going to go through several phases here.” He said he and his wife were screaming and jumping up and down when they started doing the announcement, and heard them say that it’s a writer from Mississippi. He was so sweet about it, and just told me that you’ll go through some phases, and you can’t believe it’s happening, and all this stuff. That’s really kind of the way it was for me. I was just in amazement.

That must have been a great feeling to share that moment with Don.

It was, and it shocked me and my wife both when we got the news that he was gone.

Had you stayed close throughout the years and kept in touch with each other?

Well, we talked a lot. But after we’d written so many songs together, it just kind of started to… he got into another type of writing, and he was doing a lot of things like that, and of course I was, too. I was writing with a lot of different writers. You always wonder why writers that wrote so well together stop writing, and I really don’t know the answer to that, totally, with everybody.

I think there’s a period of time that you have, that an energy is there between the two. At some point it just wanes a little bit. I mean, you could probably still write, but we had such a magic. We kind of both knew when it wasn’t there. It’s no use trying to do stuff that just wasn’t happening. We never really said, “Let’s don’t write anymore.” We just kind of stopped writing. But I think a lot of writing teams might go through that phase.

You also had nothing left to prove. You had written so many incredible songs together, and you could part as friends. There’s something to be said for that, too.

Yeah. And you know, Don was very organized. He kept a little notebook, the kind with the little rings where you can’t move the pages around. They’re locked into place. He said to me one day, “Come here, I want to show you something.” We wouldn’t have known at the time we were writing, but he started flipping pages, and it was one No. 1 song after another. I don’t know if it’s five or six, but it was very consistent. We just kind of laughed and went, “Man, that’s great!” Looking back, it’s a great feeling to know we were hitting it.

After you moved to Nashville, it took nine years before George Jones had a hit with “Same Ole Me.” Did you have people encouraging you at that time, or did you have close calls?

Yeah, and it can be your friends or just people that go, “Man, that’s good. You need to do something with that.” Dolly Parton’s uncle, Bill Owens, was wanting to co-write with me and I wrote some songs with him. I had some songs [before that] and he kind of helped me put them together. We hung out a lot and he wanted to manage me up front, but you wind up finding your own path eventually. Having those people along the way is so valuable. They encourage you and tell you about the industry. I had to learn what publishing was, what a record company was. You go to Nashville, you don’t know all this stuff.

Did you get to interact with George Jones much at that time?

No, not too much. I was around him some, but mostly the Oak Ridge Boys. I was writing for their publishing company at the time. They had a relationship with [famed producer] Billy Sherrill and Billy had told them, “If you ever have a song for George Jones, bring it to us.” They thought that song [“Same Ole Me”] would be a good one for him, so they took it. Tony Brown had heard the song first, and Tony was like, “Man, we need to demo this.” And I was like, “We do?” [Laughs]

So we demoed it, and then the Oak Ridge Boys took it to George, and they said, “If y’all cut it, we’ll sing the backgrounds on that.” That was the first big national recording. I had some other recordings by Stella Parton. She had her own label and I had some songs on a couple of her albums, but they never were released as singles. The George Jones one was the first one I realized how much music meant to people.

This year is the 40th anniversary of Storms of Life by Randy Travis. When that album took off, did you notice a change in the kinds of songs that people were looking for, or wanted to record?

Yeah, because a lot of people were doing crossover country stuff during that time. You had Kenny Rogers, who crossed over into the pop world, and then Crystal Gayle started sounding a little more pop, and then it seemed like everybody was trying to cut those kinds of songs.

I just kept writing country. And along comes an artist that all he wanted to do was country. We had some songs that were right down that road. I had cut “On the Other Hand” at a session to get a record deal with. I didn’t have my record deal in place at the time, though, so Don [Schlitz] and his company pitched it to Kyle Lehning for Dan Seals to record. Kyle said, “I don’t hear it for Dan Seals, I hear it for this new artist I’m doing.” And I was resistant because I’m a new artist and I’ve got a cut on it.

Basically it was a God thing, I think. I heard a little Bible verse in my head one day: “It is more blessed to give than receive.” So, Kyle told me they were thinking that maybe if they sold 35,000 units that they’d get to cut another record, but that album they cut, they had no idea it was going to sell 5 million albums. [Storms of Life] just turned things around in the industry, because it was country. And I think our industry needs that now. It needs those country songs that are new, but they are of that chemistry. Our industry is all separated. It needs something to bring it back together.

How did you get the word “exhuming” to fit so well in Randy Travis’ “Digging Up Bones”?

That word… it’s hard to know how to even say that word. [Laughs] Just putting stuff in a song that’s really off the beaten path… It’s almost like you can talk to people in a language that everybody understands, and a dialect, but sometimes you can add things in there that are different from what you normally use, and it kind of educates as well as entertains. And it’s fun because you get to learn a new word. Don Schlitz learned a new word every day, just to increase his vocabulary.

Sometimes in Nashville, songwriters will write for a specific artist. Did you do that too?

You know, I never really had much success with that, because every time I’d sit down and try to write for an artist, it just seemed like it didn’t work for me. I always feel like the song is the star, and the song should be the most important part that you look for. But some people could write for certain artists and make it work. It wasn’t my thing, but I think as long as the song is great, it’ll lift the artist up as well. But if you’re just counting on the artist to make it a hit, I don’t think the song’s going to be that good. But who knows? It can be done a lot of different ways, I guess. Sometimes you’re just in the right place at the right time, and I think there’s a reason.

Luck plays a role, but the hustle and the showing up – that plays a role too,

I remember “Forever and Ever, Amen” was written after I’d been playing golf in the Music City tournament and I was tired. I’d played 36 holes and I got a call from Don saying, “I got a great idea for us to write.” I said, “You want to do it tomorrow?” He goes, “No, we need to do it now.” [Laughs] I knew better than to put it off. Songs are hot. Whenever the idea is there, it needs to be written.

Since this is for the Bluegrass Situation/Good Country, I did want to ask about bluegrass influences. Keith Whitley and Alison Krauss each recorded “When You Say Nothing at All,” and you had several cuts with Ricky Skaggs when he was on Epic. Was bluegrass an influence on your music?

Yeah, I love bluegrass. I would do a show with an acoustic flat-top picker and a fiddle player, sometimes I’d take steel, and we had an upright bass player who would go with us. I was doing these shows for this all-day event and we would go play right after lunch, when nobody else wanted to play. I’d go out there with just those musicians and it was great! It was more like a broken-down, front porch kind of thing, but we could kick it up.

I used to do some bluegrass things in my show, because I’d learn them from some of the bluegrass groups. Our band learned to play them and just have fun with them, because they always pumped up the night. And if I carried a banjo player with me, it blew people’s minds! I’m telling you, banjo players are great because when they go out there, people love it. It’s just an amazing energy that comes off that instrument.

When I first got to Nashville, the morning I drove there I had 650 AM on, or some radio station, and all they were playing was bluegrass. I was like, “Wow! This is really interesting.” And I used to do “Forever and Ever, Amen” as a bluegrass song. I’d go through it, and when we’re finishing it, I’d just kick it off, almost like “Rocky Top,” and just do it bluegrass, and people would freaking love it.

What do you like the most about this time in your life and career?

I think the beauty of it is I don’t feel pressure to do anything. Like you said, I have proven to myself that I know how to work, and I know how to work hard, because I did that for years. I sustained raising our kids and everything, and still kept doing what I love to do, so that was really nice. And I think now it’s a little bit of me time. I get to relax and do the things I like to do, being on the beach, just playing golf, or being around horses and being around rodeos. I love that stuff. So, I don’t feel pressure when I’m doing it now. I used to think, “Well, I better get back to town and back to work.” [Laughs] Now I can just work anywhere I am. I can write songs sitting on the beach, and I like that.

Photo courtesy of the artist.

20 Years Old, Then Again by Rodney Crowell Is Remarkably Current

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Some records arrive exactly when they’re meant to. Others wait patiently in the dark, gathering meaning with every passing year. For Rodney Crowell, Then Again belongs to the latter category.

Recorded in 2006 but quietly shelved for nearly two decades, the album was never abandoned because Crowell doubted the songs. Instead, time itself became part of the recording’s story. When he eventually rediscovered the tapes, he wasn’t simply listening with older ears. He was listening with a different heart.

“I heard a record I wasn’t tired or bored of,” Crowell said with characteristic candor. “I was no longer tired and bored with myself. That’s what 20 years will do for you.”

It is a remark that says as much about life as it does music.

At 75, Crowell has little interest in nostalgia. He speaks instead about perspective – about learning to regard the younger man he once was with affection instead of criticism. The years have softened neither his standards nor his curiosity, but they have granted him something perhaps more valuable: compassion for himself. Then Again sounds less like an archival release than a conversation between two Rodneys separated by 20 years yet bound by the same restless artistic spirit.

That spirit was forged long before Nashville embraced him as one of America’s premier songwriters.

Crowell’s education began in southeast Texas, where songs traveled not through record collections but from one human voice to another. His father, who grew up on a sharecropper farm in western Kentucky, possessed an extraordinary gift for remembering music.

“He had a butterfly net to catch songs,” Crowell recalled. “Once he had them, he knew them.”

As a boy, Rodney sprawled across the floor while his father sang old Appalachian ballads, heartbreaking country laments, and weathered tales passed along through generations. There were no carefully cataloged albums lining the walls, no elaborate stereo system. The music lived in memory, carried from person to person through an oral tradition stretching back decades. Those songs became Crowell’s first inheritance. When he left home at fifteen to join a band, his father’s advice proved surprisingly prophetic.

“Tell them you write your own songs.”

Rodney didn’t write songs yet. He promptly claimed an Otis Redding classic as his own before the rest of the band recognized the bluff. The deception didn’t last, but the challenge did. His father had planted an idea that would eventually shape American songwriting.

Those early years unfolded across Legion halls, rodeo dances, Gulf Coast clubs, and small-town gathering places east of Houston. The humid Texas evenings smelled of beer, cigarette smoke, and dusty dance floors. Bands moved effortlessly between Beatles tunes, country standards, and surf instrumentals, playing whatever kept couples moving beneath strings of lights hung over community halls. The venues have mostly disappeared.

“I went looking,” Crowell said of one former dance hall. “The location was there, but the building wasn’t.”

Like so much of America, those landmarks surrendered to suburban expansion, leaving only memory behind. Memory also carried Crowell to Nashville, where another education awaited. He arrived knowing few original songs but possessing something the city’s finest writers admired: an encyclopedic knowledge of old country music learned from his father. Around late-night gatherings with Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt and Mickey Newbury, Crowell discovered that his familiarity with forgotten ballads earned him a place among extraordinary company.

Guy Clark became a mentor as much as a friend. Crowell remembers first hearing Clark’s name from an unlikely source before unexpectedly finding the legendary songwriter asleep on the bed he had been renting. Their friendship blossomed into an apprenticeship unlike any classroom could offer.

“Guy was a curator of early Nashville songwriting,” Crowell said.

Clark introduced him not merely to songs but to standards. He played Bob Dylan recordings. He encouraged deeper language. He challenged Crowell to pursue authenticity rather than cleverness.

“Your language has got to be that real.”

Townes Van Zandt provided another kind of lesson. Late one night, around one in the morning, Van Zandt quietly announced he had written something new. Then he played “Pancho and Lefty.” Crowell sat stunned. Inside, he remembers thinking, “This is what you’ve got to do.”

Van Zandt possessed a competitive streak, unveiling masterpieces that simultaneously inspired and humbled everyone fortunate enough to hear them first. Clark, by contrast, nurtured younger writers with generosity. Mickey Newbury demonstrated that lyrical sophistication could coexist with a soaring tenor voice, freeing Crowell from believing every great songwriter needed the baritone gravity of Cash, Kristofferson, or Billy Joe Shaver.

Together they became an informal graduate school of American songwriting. Years later, Crowell would write songs that entered the same conversation. Yet success brought its own hazards.

When a remarkable run of No. 1 country hits made him one of Nashville’s hottest writers in the late 1980s, Crowell sensed something unsettling happening. Walking into rooms, he realized people no longer saw Rodney Crowell, the songwriter. They saw Rodney Crowell, the hitmaker. He began constructing, almost unconsciously, a version of himself shaped by other people’s expectations.

His ego, he says now, became a dangerous collaborator. “If you let your ego get involved, you can get hurt,” he reflected. “It would rather sabotage the art.”

Rather than feeding celebrity, Crowell deliberately resisted it, sometimes awkwardly. During promotional radio appearances, while enthusiastic hosts tried to sell records to morning commuters, he answered questions with monosyllables, refusing to play the role expected of him. Looking back, he laughs at his own stubbornness while recognizing the lesson beneath it: fame is fleeting, but authenticity demands constant vigilance.

That understanding would prove invaluable during another extraordinary chapter of his life – one lived within the orbit of perhaps the most recognizable voice in American music. As Johnny Cash’s son-in-law, Crowell could easily have embraced proximity to legend. Instead, he did everything possible to establish himself as his own man.

“I ain’t coming around here because you’re Johnny Cash,” he remembered thinking. “I’m around here because I love your daughter.” Cash understood. More remarkably, he respected it.

Years later, after his marriage to Rosanne Cash had ended, Crowell discovered just how deeply those family bonds still ran. When Johnny and June learned that Crowell had begun dating Claudia, the woman who would become his wife of more than three decades, they invited the couple to dinner. Driving home, Claudia couldn’t understand why Johnny and June had worked so hard to make her feel welcome.

“I said, ‘Because they love me.'”

It remains one of Crowell’s favorite memories – not because it involved two American icons, but because it revealed the generosity beneath their fame.

Cash also delighted in gently puncturing Crowell’s youthful swagger. Looking back now, Crowell smiles at the younger version of himself who insisted on proving his independence every chance he got. Rather than embarrassment, he feels something closer to tenderness.

“I’ve developed a compassion…for that me,” he said. “Good go, young Rodney. You were just trying to establish who you were.”

It is difficult to imagine a better description of Then Again itself. The album captures an artist still determined to prove himself, while the older Crowell who finally released it understands that proving oneself eventually gives way to understanding oneself. Time didn’t erase the younger man’s ambitions; it simply placed them within a larger frame.

That perspective echoes throughout one of the album’s most affecting songs, “If I Could Speak to Leonard.”

Written years before Leonard Cohen died in 2016, the song has become something more profound with time. What began as an expression of admiration now sounds almost like a farewell whispered across generations of songwriters. Crowell insists it was never intended as an imagined conversation.

“It was a love song,” he said simply. “It’s expressing my love for his work.”

For Crowell, Cohen represented far more than literary songwriting. He offered a blueprint for aging with artistic purpose. While many performers spend their later years revisiting past triumphs, Crowell watched Cohen continue reaching toward new creative heights. Albums like Old Ideas and You Want It Darker became, in his words, breadcrumbs showing how an artist could continue growing even as the body inevitably slowed.

“I want to continue to create art at a high level as I wane,” Crowell said. “I don’t want the art to wane with my physicality.”

That aspiration permeates Then Again. Although recorded years ago, the album feels uncannily current because Crowell himself has finally caught up with it. Songs once left behind now carry fresh emotional resonance, illuminated by experience rather than youthful urgency. The years have also sharpened his awareness of time itself.

“I’m 75,” he reflected. “Time is more precious. I don’t have much time to waste.”

There is no trace of resignation in those words. Instead, they carry the quiet urgency of a man determined to spend his remaining years loving his family well, encouraging younger writers, and pursuing songs that continue asking difficult questions.

He speaks often of longing – not for youth, but for continued artistic growth. That philosophy shapes the songwriting workshops he still conducts, where he finds himself most energized by young writers willing to rethink a lyric or reshape a narrative. Their openness reminds him that songwriting remains an act of discovery rather than certainty.

For Crowell, certainty is often the enemy. The same conviction explains his skepticism toward artificial intelligence creating music. Songs, he believes, are more than carefully arranged words and melodies. They carry the fingerprints of the people who lived them.

As a child listening to worn Hank Williams records spinning across the living room floor, Crowell wasn’t merely hearing music. He was beginning a relationship with another human being. That relationship later extended to Buck Owens, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Merle Haggard, and eventually Leonard Cohen. Great songs invited listeners into another person’s emotional world, something Crowell doubts machines can genuinely replicate.

“I want to wrap my arms around the artist,” he explained.

It is an observation that also reveals why Then Again feels so personal. These are songs created by a younger Rodney Crowell but embraced by an older one, each version reaching across time toward the other. Crowell often compares an album to an art gallery.

“When you walk into the room that is this record,” he said, “there are ten or eleven paintings hanging on the wall in the form of music.”

It is a beautiful metaphor because it captures the experience of listening to a complete album. Each song occupies its own space while contributing to something larger. Rather than rushing past individual tracks, listeners wander from one canvas to another, discovering unexpected connections along the way.

That idea feels increasingly radical in an era dominated by playlists, algorithms and abbreviated attention spans. Crowell remains committed to albums as immersive experiences, invitations to linger rather than scroll. Perhaps that explains why Then Again never sounds like an artifact rescued from storage. Instead, it resembles a gallery whose doors have finally opened. The paintings were always there.

Only, the artist needed twenty years before he could walk through the room without judging every brushstroke. For Rodney Crowell, that may be the greatest gift age has offered. Not perfection. Not certainty. Simply enough grace to recognize the younger man who created these songs and enough wisdom to appreciate what he had accomplished before he knew it himself.

Some records capture a particular moment. Then Again captures two. In an industry that often celebrates novelty over endurance, Crowell has offered something rarer: proof that good songs, like honest friendships and enduring love, are not diminished by time.

If anything, they become more fully themselves. And perhaps so do we.

Photo Credit: Claudia Church

Andrew Sa Knows His Debut Album Is Yours, Too

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Andrew Sa’s musical career can be traced by a series of loops. The California-born, Chicago-based singer-songwriter first fell in love with music as a small child, listening to classic rock and country stations with his father, a retired touring musician. A few years later, he’d transition from listener to performer at his mother’s karaoke bar, where he’d charm crowds with Patsy Cline covers.

His broadening musical interests would lead him away from country in his teenage years, something he also attributes to feeling out of place as a queer person in an outwardly conservative, queer-unfriendly genre. The musical community he encountered in Chicago, where he landed after a stint studying theater in college, challenged the notion that there was no place for Sa in country. Immersing himself in that community led Sa to meet another musician who would be pivotal in his life: singer-songwriter Patrick Haggerty, who performed as Lavender Country until his death in 2022.

Sa tells Good Country that it was Haggerty, in particular, who offered him a sense of permission to make country that encompassed both his queerness and his love of the genre. And that permission emboldened and inspired Sa, who released his debut full-length album, American Rough, via Bloodshot Records on June 26.

American Rough takes the hallmarks of great country – intimate storytelling, colorful characters, a reverence for the emotive possibilities of the voice – and makes it Sa’s own, thanks, in part, to producer H.C. McEntire, who imbued Sa’s songs with a timeless quality utilizing unfussy arrangements with subtly countrypolitan flourishes.

Below, Good Country catches up with Sa to chat about signing to Bloodshot, losing Patrick Haggerty, and finally releasing a long-awaited debut album.

You made a big announcement in March, sharing that you’d signed a record deal with Bloodshot Records. How did that come about, and what does it mean to you to be on the roster of such a storied label?

Andrew Sa: I had heard records from Bloodshot Records, like the Justin Townes Earle records and Neko Case records and the Sarah Shook & the Disarmers records, but I didn’t know about Bloodshot as a label until I met a good friend named Kelly Hogan. Kelly has been on Bloodshot and she’s a part of a couple of other Chicago bands, but she’s a dear friend. She’s currently backup singing for Mavis Staples on tour, but she’s like a Chicago/Atlanta legend locally. She sang backup for Neko for many years and sang on a bunch of her records.

When I met Kelly – gosh, maybe 2018, 2019 – she was the one who had started talking up Bloodshot Records to me. But it wasn’t until we began shopping the record for a little while that Bloodshot approached us. Bloodshot, over the last decade, they have been going through it, and so they have what we would call the “new” Bloodshot. They’re owned by an umbrella company called Exceleration that also owns Kill Rock Stars, Yep Roc, and a bunch of other independent labels.

We were chatting with the folks at New West, and that didn’t go where we wanted it to go, but one of the guys from New West – he was very supportive of the record – he said, “I’m going to send this over to my buddy Howard at Bloodshot.” So, it’s funny how it went around to come back to Bloodshot, because Bloodshot is in Chicago. And then it was just kismet, honestly. Once we started talking with Howard, it just seemed right on the money. Alt-country – let’s do it, you know?

It sounds like American Rough was many years in the making, and that some of these songs are older than others. Was there a moment when you realized you might have a record on your hands, or when everything clicked into place?

Other than two songs – one of the singles, “Under You,” which was written for me by my friend Liam Cazar and then the song “Gorgeous Things” – other than those two songs, all of the other songs were written for the record. I’ve been dreaming of having a debut record for a decade now, and maybe more, but when I was a beginning songwriter back in 2011/2012 I would write song after song and, between the two of us, none of them were very good. But I would compile the list and I would say, “This is going to be the record, and I’m going to title it this.”

So, to answer your question, I probably got all of that out of my system before this actual record happened. Most of the songs, as I said, were written during the window of time that we were working on the record, ever since I started chatting with our lead producer and one of my co-writers, H.C. McEntire of Durham, North Carolina. That would have been about 2020 and the record was finished in 2024. Then, we finally hooked up with Bloodshot in 2025. The characters across this album are within the last five, six years of my life, so yes, it is something that spanned quite a long period of time, but the record itself took a long time to make. We really took our time making it, so the songs themselves, while they are new to everyone else, they aren’t necessarily for me.

Yeah, I’m not sure the average music fan realizes how much time artists often spend sitting on their music and waiting on a release date. Given what you just described, what are you feeling in advance of finally getting to drop a proper debut project?

I feel like this is very surreal. For lack of a better expression, at the risk of sounding cliché, it’s certainly my dreams coming true. I’ve been so excited to get these songs in the ears of people, and especially these recordings. I had such a deep, fulfilling experience making all of this with my co-producers and all of the players on the record, and I’m just so excited to share it.

My excitement grows with every single that I’m releasing, because people – at least the people that are in my sphere – are really enjoying it. It’s also unnerving. I do find myself anxious at times, just because you do all of the work and then you put it out there, and then it’s not necessarily mine anymore. It’s everyone else’s, and it’s up to them to love on it or not. I didn’t think that it would take me so long to have a debut record, but I really think that I did it the right way, for me. I’m kind of a late bloomer of sorts and taking my time has always really served me. I hope that that is reflected in the work for other people when they hear it.

To me, there is definitely a positive side to being a late bloomer. You’ve accumulated life experience and wisdom, and I would assume you would also have a stronger, fuller sense of who you are and what you want to make. Does that resonate with you?

Yeah, I grew up as a music lover, and in high school I started doing theater as a way to express myself. I went to college for theater and, while I still was interested in music, all of the skills that I developed as an actor didn’t set me up as the person who writes the story; it set me up as someone who could interpret a story. The reason I bring this up is because it took a lot of time and a lot of work – and, I would say, even failed attempts – to develop my voice as a songwriter and to really figure out what it is that I want to say and how I want to say it.

Then, along with that, I was developing my vocal instrument and understanding what is the true voice that I want to share, as opposed to all the voices that I’ve played throughout my past. A lot of the education that I got in acting and the experience of acting really helps me as a performer. I know that to be true. It’s just taken a long time to develop my voice – both singing and as a songwriter – and my unique voice that wasn’t me playing a character.

A moment ago you mentioned the singles you released ahead of the record, and one of those is “Lavender Cowboy,” a tribute to the late, great Patrick Haggerty. Talk about someone who knew their own voice! I know that Patrick was a mentor to you and it sounds like he was an important figure in your life. I would love to hear about the writing of that song and also what comes to mind when you consider his legacy, both as an artist but also as someone who was important to you personally.

Are you familiar with his music? Did you ever get a chance to see him perform?

I did, and I actually got to interview him once, years ago. It’s one of the true highlights of the work I’ve been able to do over the years. It really meant a lot to me.

Then you know just how kind and present he was. Patrick has a vast, loud legacy of his activism, which was always so inspiring to me. However, Patrick and I seemed to connect over tenderness, for lack of a better word. Humbly, I’ll say one of the things I consider to be one of my superpowers is my ability to be tender, to convey tenderness, to encourage tenderness, especially at a time like now in the world. That was something that we certainly aligned on.

I didn’t have many supportive male figures in my life growing up, especially when it comes to my queerness and uniqueness in that way – and thus my voice, my perspective. Patrick would often say, “I am your stepping stone to lift you up.” He was always affirming me. I didn’t realize just how much I craved that and needed that from, especially, someone like him, of his age and his experience in life. We don’t have a lot of our gay elders because of a lot of things, but specifically the AIDS epidemic. I often felt very lucky that we still had Patrick for as long as we did, considering he was such a slut back in the day. [Laughs] Country music was hugely important to me until I was a teenager and then it was no longer necessarily cool to me, and I went in search of other things and found a lot of inspiration in many other genres and artists. But when I met Patrick – I was asked to open for him – witnessing him and his stage show gave me permission to return to country music.

“Lavender Cowboy” was the last song written for the record. I knew I wanted to write a song to remember Patrick. I imagine that the reason that I like writing elegies is because of my affinity in my teen years for Rufus Wainwright, because he does that so well. I’ve written a few now. I wrote a song called “Dark Phoenix” about my first boyfriend, my high school sweetheart, who’s no longer with us. I wrote a song, even, about the fictional character Jack Twist from Brokeback Mountain.

In any case, the idea is to keep these characters, these people, alive after they’re dead or gone. Every time I sing “Lavender Cowboy,” I’m able to talk about Patrick. He is alive and with us in the room, if only for that three-and-a-half minutes. I knew I wanted to write a song to keep his memory alive. I also knew that I wanted to write something that wasn’t just sad. I wanted to write something that people could hear and feel pride. I wanted them to feel lifted, and I think that H.C. and I accomplished that.

Just to be nerdy, I write a lot in 3/4 or 6/8, so I really wanted to write an up-tempo song in 4/4. I went to his celebration of life, which was out in Bremerton, Washington, and I brought my tenor guitar out there, because I was gonna have some downtime in my hotel. I wrote the first verse out there and then I wrote the pre-choruses back in Chicago at the Old Town School of Folk Music, then [H.C.] and I wrote the chorus together, right before the day before we were going to record it.

You shared how Patrick was able to show you that there is a place for you in country music, and I know you’ve had a lot of involvement with the Cosmic Country Showcase and the country scene in Chicago. How does that community factor into where you are now, on the cusp of releasing your record?

I am forever grateful to the Chicago music community, both the fans of Chicago local music but also very much so the players in the community. I don’t know what the cultures are like in other cities, but Chicago is such a supportive place. Even though we are always going to be competing for certain opportunities, we’re not competitive with each other.

I do need to mention that I got my start in Chicago by making my start, and it’s something that I would encourage more people to do if they can find the opportunities to do so. My friend Dylan Matracia – he lives in New York now and goes by Matracia – we met working in a restaurant in Boystown, Chicago, and we both wanted to break into the music community. We were both young songwriters, baby songwriters, so we decided to start our own queer music acoustic night in Boystown at a bar where we knew the owner. That ran for two-and-a-half-years, and it was called Second Date with Dylan and Andrew. The reason I bring that up is because it really gave me the confidence to go out and try to get other opportunities, and it also gave me a platform that people could come and witness me at my earliest stages. It’s really hard to imagine how you get your first step into anything … especially as a queer folk artist.

When I started doing the Cosmic Country Showcase, that was the same year that I first opened for Patrick, and my return to country music was the year that Cosmic Country started. I remember asking Sully Davis – who’s one of the organizers of that event and currently my manager – he was the one who was booking the Hideout at the time, who booked me to open for Patrick Haggerty. I’m actually forever grateful to Sully for so many things. I said, “Hey, I know you’re doing the Cosmic Country Showcase. I’d love to sing like a Reba song or a Wynonna song or something.” Within a couple of years, now I’m the host, or one of the hosts. I was really searching for a queer audience for so long, and it wasn’t until the Cosmic Country Showcase that I realized that my audience was broader than that. I’m so grateful to that community who comes out to Cosmic Country for giving me that, showing me that.

Speaking of engaging the live music community, you have a string of shows planned for this summer, like the release day show at Union Pool in Brooklyn and then a late June show at the Hideout in Chicago, which you just mentioned. What do you most look forward to as you anticipate these performances?

It’s likely obvious that, since I’m sharing these songs, I’m very proud of them, so that’s one of the reasons I’m really excited to play them. I think that they concisely capture who I am, and hopefully they are open enough for folks to see themselves in them and make them their own as well. That’s what I love to do with music. I’m very excited to play places that I’ve never played before, because the few short tours that I’ve been on, just the sheer experience of meeting new people in new places – and seeing that what I do works there, too – is one of the most fulfilling, life-affirming feelings.

I’m very excited to play New York, specifically, because I’ve always had a love for New York, but also a fear of New York. And I dreamed of having a physical record to sell for so long. I’m very excited about having it in my hands, to give to someone else, of course.

Photo Credit: Alexa Viscius

BGS 5+5: Sweet Undertow

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Artist: Sweet Undertow
Hometown: Alphabet City, New York, New York
Latest Album: Days Without Names (releasing July 17, 2026)
Personal Nicknames (or rejected band names): Fast Eddy; Slow and Steady Eddy

What other art forms – literature, film, dance, painting, etc. – inform your music?

I read a lot – like a lot a lot. Language is such a strange thing: these agreed-upon movements of our mouths and these little scribbled symbols allow us to build civilizations. New York and Paris are built out of words way more than they are brick and steel.

And make no mistake, speech and the written word are the same thing as singing. When you order coffee or curse the guy who cut you off – you are singing. There’s melody and rhythm and all that in speech. So listening to some author build castles inside your head. It’s the same thing as song. Listen to Marx here: “You have nothing to lose but your chains.” Put it on a loop in your head, you’ll start to groove to the rhythm. The 4-on-the-floor beat marches like a dialectic. Or take Christ, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” That’s music – you can imagine Kurt or Aretha or anyone else singing that line.

In fiction especially, narrative and voice and imagery and sound – it’s all there. You get to dig around inside of these lunatic genius minds all from the comfort of your own home for like 10 bucks a throw. And they don’t even really charge more for longer books – you can’t say no to that kind of bargain these days.

Read these and tell me I’m wrong:

One Hundred Years of Solitude
The Wind Up Bird Chronicle
2666
Infinite Jest
Blood Meridien
Never Let Me Go

What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?

It;s tricky. The word “artist” suffers a great deal of abuse from global culture writ large and the music industry in particular – from Subway’s sandwich artists to most of the “artists” you hear on the radio. But for artists, you’re born an artist and it’s a matter of how quickly you can find your medium. It’s long been said that the most dangerous thing in the world is an artist without a medium, and for me it’s hard to say when I found mine. I sang in a punk band in high school, then stole a guitar at 19 and taught myself to play from Muddy Waters records. And I’d play gigs from time to time, but it just never occurred to me to be a musician.

This is the important thing – it never occurred to me to want to be anything. I didn’t think about things in those terms. The best way I can describe my thinking at the time is this: Every year was so totally different than the year before that even the thought of making a long-term plan sounded laughable. Hubris in the face of the capricious gods of time. But I never even really had the thought. Being anything just didn’t occur to me.

So I didn’t have money or stuff or a home, but I traveled the world. Lived in half a dozen countries. There was love, adventure, terror, sickness, laughter, lonesomeness. Damn near got eaten by alligators and, later, a leopard. I worked as a firefighter, a garbageman, a teacher, a student, an organizer, a newspaper reporter, a salesman, and a security guard. Mainly a rambler, Odysseus-ing around, but not trying to get anywhere exactly.

But I guess if there was a moment when I realized I was a musician it was in Singapore. I was playing tunes at this bar in Geylang and this pilot named Spinks came up to me after, grabbed my shoulders, and said, “Brother, you’re a musician.” And like a punch to the chest I realized he was right.

Genre is dead (long live genre!), but how would you describe the genres and styles your music inhabits?

Genre is 99% marketing speak – so it isn’t dead in as much as it has essentially nothing to do with music at all.

That said, Sweet Undertow makes country disco, outerspace Americana, hardcore folk, and babymakin’ rock ‘n’ roll.

What is a genre, album, artist, musician, or song that you adore that would surprise people?

People’s sense of surprise is their own business, so far be it from me to try and influence that, but here’s some fun facts:

When I get the blues (surprise surprise, I get the blues!) I put on the Rebirth Brass Band, Dr. John, the Meters, Curtis Mayfield, and Parliament. And while it doesn’t cure the blues, per se, it is definitely harder to be sad when you’re dancing.

And for the lightning round:

1) Marvin Gaye is maybe the greatest musical genius of the 20th century.
2) Django Reinhardt is the greatest guitarist player who ever lived.
3) Ella Fitzgerald is some kind of goddess who briefly took mortal form.
4) Standards by Tortoise – chef’s kiss.
5) My favorite band for a goodly while was Los Crudos.

If you didn’t work in music, what would you do instead?

If I couldn’t play music I’d jump off a goddamn bridge – it’s the only thing I like.

Photo Credit: Jessica Lee

LISTEN: Charlie Worsham, “Wrap My Porch Around”

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Artist: Charlie Worsham
Hometown: Grenada, Mississippi
Song: “Wrap My Porch Around” featuring the Travelin’ McCourys
Album: Once Upon A Second Time Around
Release Date: July 3, 2026 (single); August 7, 2026 (album)

In Their Words: “I take any chance I can to emulate my heroes. With ‘Wrap My Porch Around,’ I wanted to honor both Vince Gill, in the way he cut two versions of ‘High Lonesome Sound’ and Dierks Bentley, who I would argue has done more to keep bluegrass relevant in modern country music than any other artist in the last 20 years. Not surprisingly, those two guys have been responsible for giving me a home stage from which to make music on the road these past five years. Also not surprisingly, besides my own shows, those are the two guys I last shared the stage with at the Station Inn.

“Working with the Travelin’ McCourys – recording at Vince’s house, no less – made the bluegrass version of ‘Porch’ extra sweet. Unless I’m mistaken, I think ‘Porch’ was the last thing Jason Carter played on with them before striking out on his own. For a liner-note, hillbilly history buff like me, it’s as cool to be associated with that milestone as it is to be in possession of Roy Acuff’s last tube of Poli-Grip (this is a fact… it was collected from his dressing room at the Opry after he passed, and gifted to me by a close friend).” – Charlie Worsham

Track Credits:
Alan Bartram – Bass, background vocals
Cody Kilby – Acoustic guitar
Jason Carter – Fiddle, background vocals
Ronnie McCoury – Mandolin
Rob McCoury – Banjo
Charlie Worsham – Vocals, acoustic guitar

Photo Credit: PJ Brown

The Gentle Genius of Don Williams Sees Daylight Again

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

It’s the age-old dream of the music fan: To unearth old recordings from a favorite artist, laid down in their prime and never heard. And with Epilogue: The Cellar Tapes from the late Don Williams, the dream is 100 percent real.

Capturing the famed Gentle Giant of country music at his creative zenith, 12 new tracks revive one of the format’s most soothing voices, nearly a decade after his passing. Inducted into both the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Grand Ole Opry, Williams’ soft-spoken manner underpinned 17 Number Ones between 1972 and 1992, with enduring hits like “Tulsa Time,” “I Believe in You,” and “Lord, I Hope This Day Is Good” showcasing his simple style. It’s been said that country music is three chords and the truth – but Don Williams could do it with two.

After his 2017 passing, Williams’ son Tim went down to the family’s cellar and came back with a treasure trove of tapes, recorded during his dad’s creative peak. Languishing in the dark for 40+ years, they were surprisingly complete. The younger Williams was stunned.

“I was like 12 or so when these things were cut,” he says.

He then turned to the work’s original producer, Garth Fundis, and together they’ve added a remarkable new chapter to a legendary story, which fully lives up to the Williams legacy. Like a window back to a different era, the icon’s tender vocal is in fine form, while a long-gone, patient production style recalls a time in country music when quiet wisdom was a selling point, and men could share feelings directly – no clever turn of phrase necessary.

Williams and Fundis spoke with Good Country about taking the project on, the memories it brought back, and how the Don Williams legacy stacks up in 2026.

I think this story is amazing. This is some really great music that I’m glad people will get to hear. But tell me off the top, why were these songs never released?

Garth Fundis: No particular reason other than when you’re making a record, sometimes you cut more songs than you need. … You might have a song or two songs that sound kind of similar and it might get pushed aside for something else. I think that was the case in most of these. They weren’t things we didn’t like, because there’s strings on some of the [original] stuff and percussion, and those were usually the last things we put on a record.

The intention was there to probably use them, but for one reason or another, something outshined a song we were considering. I remembered all these once I heard them again and remembered working on them, and it’s not like they were bad songs. They just got set aside and then we went on to the next project.

Tim, could you tell us how you became aware of the recordings? Were they stashed somewhere hard to find?

Tim Williams: No, not at all. We have a root cellar at our house that I live in now – the same house that I grew up in – and I knew [Don] had put some stuff down there. They were the big two-inch tapes, like 16-track tapes down there, and I just basically hadn’t thought anything else about them. And I didn’t think anything about them, until recently when my dad’s manager, Robert Pratt, wanted to see what was there. He wondered what was left – what we could transfer digitally, and just see if there was anything usable and viable to release.

Your dad passed away in 2017. What did it feel like to play the tapes that first time? Songs are an intimate thing and an artist has to be vulnerable to capture them.

TW: Well, when Robert was talking to me about doing this, I was pretty lukewarm about it, to be honest. Then we got the actual multi-track rendering and opened them up in Pro Tools, when I heard the vocal tracks, I just thought “That’s just so good.” It’s just right during his primo sweet spot of where his voice was during his career [high]. At that point I was pretty determined that we should carry it to fruition.

So you were a little bit skeptical. Is that because you didn’t want to put anything out that wasn’t up to your dad’s standards?

TW: Yeah, for sure.

GF: That’s where I came from, too. I was hesitant. But Tim said, “Come on out here and hear this stuff.” I remember the songs, I remember recording them with Don. But hearing that voice again, crystal clear and in his prime, it got me hooked. I said, “Yeah, I’m in.”

That’s what’s interesting here. I think when most people hear about a project like this, they might assume these were songs that didn’t quite make the grade. But that’s not the case at all.

GF: I hope you feel that way. That’s the way we feel about it. We think other people will think that, too.

Tim, you were so young when your dad was in his prime. Did this make you see him in a different light?

TW: Well, really it just reinforced what I thought. When you’re listening to the absolute raw audio and there’s nothing between the voice and the microphone and the board, and it’s just as raw as you can get, it proves how technically good a singer he was. It might’ve bolstered that thought.

Garth, you’ve mentioned a couple times now that you remembered cutting these original tracks back in the day. What was it like to start working on them again? Do you remember that first day?

GF: It was just like hearing an old friend again. And like Tim said, just to be able to pull that vocal up and listen to it all by itself without the band and the track and everything around it. … It was really fun to hear that familiar voice and hear just how good it was. To have worked with him and to hear the quality of his voice, the simplicity of how he sang – he didn’t shout, he just kind of framed the song. He always wanted the song to be the focus and not to get above it.

How much did you actually have to change from the original recordings?

TW: The stuff that survived, we used as they were. Garth doesn’t know this. I don’t guess I might’ve shared this with you, Garth. The only thing I had to move at all to get it to lock in, was “Leaving Louisiana [in the Broad Daylight].”

Really?

TW: Yeah, we had to replace so much on that track that I did wind up quantizing that one. The only thing that survived the transfer was Daddy’s vocal and Danny Flowers’ harmonica.

GF: When I first heard what Timmy had done to the track and how the guys had worked to replace a lot of those instruments, I wasn’t involved with that part yet. But I remember thinking, “Well, this isn’t anything like the original track we got. This is so much better.”

TW: But everything else, if the bass part, piano, or whatever survived the transfer and hadn’t deteriorated from sitting in a root cellar for 40 years, we used it.

Garth, you mentioned the simplicity of the way Don sang. It’s so nice to hear that today. Plus, heartfelt country songwriting that’s not trying to be too clever or edgy. Do you think it’s good for the genre to remember that?

GF: I think so. I applaud anyone’s success and good for them. But Don was not a person who needed to shout or sing so hard that he was trying to convince you of a performance, or convince you in any way that would help the song. He came from a folk music background. So he was accustomed to just being easy. Let the song shine through. And, that you cut good enough songs you don’t have to shout. Not only did he have a gentle manner, he had a gentle manner with the microphone and I was able to put the microphone right up next to his mouth. That’s why you get this intimate feeling when you’re hearing him sing – because he’s not shouting, he’s singing.

Which one of these is the most impactful song in your point of view?

TW: Well, there are two or three. I remembered when Daddy originally cut “I’m the One.” I loved it then and I was hoping that was going to be one of the songs that was on these tapes we found. I was thrilled about that. As far as what I like, just consistently enjoy going back and listening to? Because of Daddy’s vocal, it’s “How Can I Miss What I Never Had?” I just think of everything, if you wanted to play for an alien what Don Williams sounded like, I would play that one.

GF: I’d go along with Tim on “I’m the One.” Don’s feel, what he thinks about, how he feels about music, everything about it, is in that song. And fortunately, somehow Tim didn’t really hear the original version of “I’m the One” until I showed up one day with a tape copy of how it was originally recorded. I said, “Hey, have a listen to this.” And we liked both versions so much we just had to keep both of them on the album.

How did he feel about music? What do you mean by that?

GF: I would say he always felt so strongly about trusting the song. If you’ve got to go to the trouble finding something that you can sing, and feels like it belongs in your repertoire, that was the first thing he looked for when he was searching for songs that would feel like him. It had to feel like it’s something he could say and it had to have a good melody to it, and just don’t get above your raisin’. So just take it easy and frame the song.

I did want to ask you about “Leaving Louisiana in the Broad Daylight.” That song became a Number One for The Oak Ridge Boys just after Don recorded it. It was in that same era. So Garth, do you remember why he cut that?

GF: Well, we listened to that song a bunch before we cut it and when we finally started in on it. … We had redone the vocal, I know, because there’s rapid-fire lyrics. It took him a little while to get comfortable with it. It wasn’t necessarily his style, but we put a lot into that, working on that song and then not knowing that The Oak Ridge Boys were coming out with it as a single.

Is that right?

GF: We were working on it about the same time they were finishing it. Don was on the same record company and the same booking agent that worked with The Oak Ridge Boys, and somehow we missed knowing about that. So we kind of stepped aside and just put that one away for safekeeping. Now 30, 40 years later, I’m not thinking about The Oak Ridge Boys record. Congrats to them for the Number One record, but it kind of foiled our plans at one point. Tim and the musicians built a great new track for that song. [Co-writer] Rodney [Crowell] was really tickled when I played it for him. He said, “It was even better than my version.”

Do you think there are any more songs to unearth down in that cellar?

TW: Nope, that’s it.

When this project was announced you said Don would’ve been proud of it. What would he want listeners to take away?

GF: Don always was asked that question, “What do you want people to think about your music?” I often heard him say, “I want people to feel something.” So in the way he communicated a song to the listener’s ear, I think that was first priority for him.

Tim, how about you?

TW: Well, along those same lines, everything started and was sustained throughout the whole process by the song. If it was a good song, regardless of genre, the way it was approached or whatever, a good song delivered authentically was going to be appealing to people. These are just more examples of that, and I think he would expect people to be moved by a song delivered authentically.

Photo Credit: Jim McGuire

Midland Continue to Lead Country’s Vintage Revival

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Ever since they injected vintage swagger and rhinestoned style back into the country mainstream with 2017’s “Drinkin’ Problem,” Midland’s Mark Wystrach (lead vocals), Cameron Duddy (bass/vocals), and Jess Carson (guitar/vocals) have been on a journey.

The GRAMMY-nominated trio have welcomed new stages of life alongside new physical stages, rising from roadside honky-tonks into the legendary clubs they still consider home, and on to the biggest venues in the world. Their climb mirrored their evolving country influences, which began with a love for the treble-and-twang sound of the 1960s and progressed on through the ’70s, ’80s, and beyond, helping lay a revivalist foundation for this current new generation of neo-traditionalist artists. Despite all these changes, they never lost sight of their own brotherhood – or their bar-band roots. Their new album Stages is the proof.

Working primarily with producer Trent Willmon for the first time (Jamie Moore also contributed), Stages finds Midland looking back to their road-dogging Texas beginnings, while bringing their throwback renaissance toward the rich tones of the ’90s era. As a former artist with a late-’90s/early-2000s Texas pedigree, Willmon knows that form well, and it fits Midland like a tailored Manuel suit. Over 10 new tracks, timeless barstool themes unfold under gentle, genuine twang and three-part harmony, taking the masters of modern retro to a new peak.

Good Country spoke with Jess Carson about the current stage of Midland’s story and where the classic-country resurgence may go next. We also touched on the band’s ideal venue, covering bluegrass tunes, and the best course of action when encountering a song written by Dean Dillon.

Midland has always struck me as being about more than just throwback nostalgia. There’s a theme and message behind your work, so what’s the title Stages mean to you?

Jess Carson: I think there’s definitely a part of it that is self-referential for us. I think it’s there in the title, it kind of references our own journey all the way back to The Sonic Ranch, which we ended up releasing later, but was the first time we got together– shoot, 12 years ago. It’s been a long road and journey and we’ve been through a lot of stages. And we’re also very much a road band, so there’s that play on words that’s so popular in country music.

Different physical stages too, right?

Yeah. Which is really where we’ve grown up. From playing in dive bars around the Austin, Hill Country area to … I mean, our last show was at [Arlington, Texas, stadium] Globe Life Field.

That’s amazing. There’s a lot of growth there. You guys have gone through a lot together.

We have, yeah. We’ve done a lot of growing up – but are still pretty immature, probably.

“Young at heart” is a better way to put it, maybe.

Well, part of being a musician is that Peter Pan thing. It’s hard to imagine Keith Richards on the phone trying to figure out some bank charge or something.

I’m interested in the physical stages idea, because your band has stayed really committed to and supportive of smaller stages [like the Palomino Club in LA, which Midland reopened for one night in 2019 to record a 2020 live album], even as you’ve leveled up to the biggest venues in the world. I just wonder why you love the small stages so much?

I think as a musician, you’re always going to love that. It’s the most intimate. It’s where you start out – for us and country music. The kind of dive bar honky-tonk thing is always going to be the most intimate and at least for us, it’s where things feel the most at home. These places around here [in Austin], The Broken Spoke and Gruene Hall, Luckenbach, and places like that. That’s where it feels like the music is at home and it’s the easiest place to catch a vibe. If you play at Global Life Field, for example, you can see the people right in front of you. But you can’t see the people way up in the upper deck.

Where did you want to take the sound this time? Over your career you’ve always blended Texas, Nashville, and California country influences very freely.

I don’t know. All of our albums are really a mix of what we’re listening to at the time, what we’re inspired by. For some reason I was reading this Tom Waits interview recently and he said that he’s in the salvage business. More than being a musician, he’s salvaging all these different bits of inspiration. I can identify with that. Going through the stages of our history and our catalog, I think in the beginning we were maybe inspired by stuff that was even older than where we are now. Maybe our stuff sounds more ’90s now than when we started, when there was a lot more, like, ’60s influence.

It’s just whatever place we’re in. I don’t know how thought out it is. I don’t know how thought out anything we have ever done is. [Laughs]

Maybe that’s the secret. How do you feel about where the country mainstream is right now? I would imagine you’re really enjoying this, because you have a lot of like-minded artists out there with you.

Yeah, I think we played a big part in opening the door for what’s going on right now.

Absolutely.

There was a handful of people. Cody Johnson is one that was really doing that sound in 2014 and is massive now, and Jon Pardi. And then I think we inspired a lot of acts. That’s a big part of our legacy. We were in that class of people who kicked the door down and got steel guitar on the radio again, or at least back on the radio during a time when the mainstream was really thriving. So yeah, I’d say more than ever since we’ve been doing it, it’s like classic country is having this moment. Like, that’s being valued now. You know what I mean?

Totally. I wonder though, do you feel like maybe it’s time for a second wave of this renaissance that you guys helped kick off? Now you can have steel guitar on the radio. Songs with a honky-tonk edge are taken seriously commercially. But could we go further? I mean, do we need some Eddy Arnold-style crooning?

Ooh, that’s a good question. I mean, I don’t know. The older stuff feels more difficult.

You’re saying it could go too far.

It’s like, the stuff that’s ’90s influenced right now, it feels very effortless. Who’s going to say they don’t love Alan Jackson or George Strait, Keith Whitley, Clint Black, Shania Twain?

The ’50s stuff, I love all of that. “Make the World Go Away” and all that kind of stuff, I love it. For whatever reason, it’s harder to make that not feel like cosplay. But, that would be super cool if there was somebody who felt like they came out of this time warp and it felt authentic, because that’s some of my favorite songwriting. Willie Nelson’s songwriting from back then. Tin-Pan-Alley-meets-Nashville/American-songbook type songwriting. It’s the coolest in my opinion. But I think maybe it is harder to do that and have it not feel like a shtick in 2026.

Tell me a little bit more about the album here. Was there a moment when Stages started coming into focus for you creatively, and when was that?

Well, we work on albums through the tour cycle. We don’t really take time off to work on the album, so they definitely have their own way that they take form over time. … This one was the way we’ve done the other albums, where we’ll go to Nashville and spend two days here or four days there. I think the first song we did was “Drunk Enough” and that was like – I don’t even know, over a year ago?

“Drunk Enough” almost felt like a follow-up to “Drinkin’ Problem.” Like, it’s a little farther on in the story. You’re still having fun in the “Drinkin’ Problem” time period, but then things progress and it gets a little sadder.

Well, actually I think “Drunk Enough” is, to me, as close as we probably can get to doing that old American-songbook type sound. With the chord changes and the melody, I think there’s a lot of that old inspiration. If there’s something that could be tied to Eddy Arnold, it would probably be that one from the album.

Can you tell me a little about where “Marlboro Man” is coming from? It seems like there’s a cost that comes to living the way you guys do. Have you felt that?

Definitely. We didn’t write that one, but when we heard it, it was like, “Yeah, we can identify with the aging cowboy.” Or just the guy that’s acknowledging the sacrifices and what it takes to get to this place. All three of us can certainly identify with that character.

It was really fun to go down to Southern Arizona and shoot that music video and also tap into the visuals, the images in that song and the cinematic quality of it, too. But yeah, that’s an old Dean Dillon song that he wrote a while ago. I don’t even know, maybe 10 years ago.

Well, his are all timeless immediately.

Yeah. If you can get an old Dean Dillon song, take it.

Another I want to ask you about is “Drinkin’ Dark Whiskey.” BGS [the parent outlet of Good Country] is a bluegrass outlet at its core, and I remember that song from the SteelDrivers back when [Chris] Stapleton and Mike Henderson were there. What made you want to record that and turn it into something new?

That was one the label sent over and they just felt like it would be great to get an uptempo [track] on [the album]. I think our albums, you want to hit these different cornerstones and especially to be able to integrate into the live set. We’re always going to want to have a “Mr. Lonely,” or we’ve been playing “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” in the set since we re-did that with Brooks & Dunn [for Reboot].

Certainly from the SteelDrivers and Gary Allan, the song had a life before us getting to it. But I think we’re able to put our own spin on it and we’re already playing that one live. It’s just a fun one in the set.

What about “Up In Texas.” You co-wrote this, and it features Clint Black. You mentioned some of the famous Texas dancehalls earlier in the chat here, and this song is kind of a tribute to all the cool things that make Texas what it is, right? Do you still have a lot of love for Texas?

Oh yeah. I’ve been here for, gosh, close to 20 years, and it’s where I’m going to stay. It’s where the band was formed. Mark’s in Colorado now. Cameron and I are still here in Texas. We’ve always been a Texas band. We never did move to Nashville. We probably would’ve gotten a lot farther if we had. But I very much see ourselves as a Texas honky-tonk band still. And there’s been so many songs written about Texas.

Totally.

It’s like that old saying, “How do you tell if somebody’s from Texas? Just wait 10 seconds and they’ll tell you.” People here are so proud of Texas. But you got to do it. The thing is, you can tell if it’s forced. You can tell if you’re pandering.

When we did “Up In Texas,” Josh Osborne came in with that line, “Out of 10, it’s 11/ I bet even in heaven/ They say ‘Up In Texas.’” That was one of those ones that when he said that, it gave me goosebumps. Lines like that don’t come along that often. I love that payoff so much.

Let me get your take on what you think is next. Not just for your band, but what’s next for your kind of music? For country that still feels rooted in the past, but also has a progressive soul. Life has changed for everybody and now you’ve got AI coming online. Where’s your music headed?

We’re hoping to get some AI robots that can just take over touring for us. [Laughs] We’re trying to build something in the garage right now. No, man, who can even say they know where this is all going to land with AI stuff?

I saw an Instagram post yesterday of this guy, it was a Bronc rider and it was a video of his ride, and somebody commented, “AI ain’t taking this guy’s job.” I think in music we hope that there will always be this kind of soul that you can’t replicate. … I don’t know that I have too much wisdom. We don’t have any interest in using [AI] for songwriting or anything like that. I think that’s pretty obvious. … I think we are purists in that way and the stuff that we love was done very organically, and we’re going to just continue to do what we do.

Photo Credit: Harper Smith

Ringo Starr and T Bone Burnett in Conversation

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

On a sunny day in late April, I stood outside an ad hoc interview room at the Sunset Marquis in West Hollywood waiting for my turn to speak to Ringo Starr.

Sporadic laughter boomed through the door as the hazy afternoon light danced on the doorknob hanger. Instead of the usual “Do Not Disturb,” this one simply said, “Peace.” The verbiage, apropos for Ringo, served as one part levity and one part beta-blocker as I prepared to speak to a Beatle.

When the door opened, I was surprised and delighted to come face to face with Phil Rosenthal (of Somebody Feed Phil). The unabashed smile on his face foreshadowed the similar joy I would feel taking the same steps through that door just 25 short minutes later.

And yet another revelation unfolded as I walked in the room to find both Mr. Starr and T Bone Burnett, producer of Ringo’s newest album, Long Long Road. The ensuing discussion covered their relationships with genre, synesthesia, and inevitably bobbed and weaved across the rich musical history of these two icons.

Do I get both of you today?

Ringo Starr: Yes!

Excellent!

T Bone Burnett: Only if you want.

RS: Hi. I’m Ringo.

Ha! Yes. The man of the hour. How are you?

RS: Good. Excellent.

Thank you so much for having me.

RS: Oh, it’s our pleasure.

TB: Her dad is a great songwriter, a great guitar player from Muscle Shoals.

RS: We were just talking to someone else about that today.

Really? You were talking about Muscle Shoals today?

RS: Well, we didn’t actually mention it, but we were talking about the music that, for me, started with Johnny Ray and people like that. I was a teenager, and then it went up to country music, and then I got into blues music, and then I got into pop of the day music.

I love country music. And he’s the country boy [as he points to T Bone Burnett].

That’s a fantastic segue to my first question. So as we mentioned, I grew up in Muscle Shoals, and I had this record player that was a little battery-operated blue Volkswagen bus. Do you remember these?

TB: Yeah, I do!

It would ride around the record, and it had a little speaker in it, and I would lay on the ground, and I’d listen to Abbey Road. But it was also around the same time that the video for “Act Naturally,” the duet with Buck Owens, came out. So, for me, you were very genre-fluid from a very early age. I’m curious about a couple of things genre-wise, and T Bone, please jump in on this too.

TB: Okay, I’ll jump in, and I’ll say that the Beatles probably invented what became known as “country rock.” You know, with “I Don’t Want to Spoil the Party.”

RS: And what were the two that were Carl Perkins?

TB: “Honey Don’t” and “Matchbox.”

RS: “Honey Don’t” was the best line I ever heard.

TB: Yeah, it is a killer title.

RS: “Matchbox” was a blues song, really.

TB: Well, “Matchbox” was an old Blind Lemon Jefferson song.

RS: Yes. The interesting thing is I did those in the ’60s, and we just found a Carl Perkins tune that we’d never heard, and we’ve done it on this record. “I Don’t See Me in Your Eyes Anymore.”

I love it.

RS: It is so beautiful and he was just a cool guy. You know, I was a teenager when I first heard him, and it was like, “Oh yeah!”

T Bone: Yeah, he was cool. He, [Carl], had heard “Matchbox” or his dad had heard it by Blind Lemon Jefferson, but they could only remember a few words of it, so he rewrote it as a rockabilly song.

So you knew of country music when you were growing up, you were aware of it.

RS: I did. I was aware of country music. I loved it because it was emotional, and I was a teenager. That’s what we are at that age.

[Ringo singing:] “ Well the wife is dead and I’m leaving home. I got no money for the jukebox.”

Perfect for teenagers.

When I say the words “country music” to you now, what do you think of? Who or what or how do you think of it?

RS: I still think a lot about the people from yesterday, who I came in with. You’ve got to say Willie. I mean, he’s magical and still out there. Thank you, Willie. And who used to open for Willie?

TB: Waylon?

RS: Waylon! He was great. I have to think back.

TB: Well Hank Williams…

RS: Well, no, Hank was where we came in. And Hank Snow. No one mentions him. He was Canadian. Patsy Cline. There’s too many really.

I was talking to someone the other week and they asked, “What is your all-time favorite record?” I couldn’t answer. There is too much that I love. “Who’s your favorite artist?” I start with Ray Charles. And Stevie, and down that line. But I can’t answer it. We were on TV, and I stopped it. I said, “I just can’t answer.” There are too many in my life to say, “That’s the one.”

Plead the 5th.

Do you ever feel constrained by genre? Or inspired by it? What is your relationship with the idea of it?

RS: I’m a pop-rock music drummer. I’ll play whatever you’re gonna give me. If you want it heavy, I’ll hit the cymbals. Heavy metal has some great acts going down. We would jam sometimes and be that.

TB: Oh, well, I mean, the Beatles invented heavy metal, really.

RS: Yeah. It’s just playing the same shit, but heavier.

TB: “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey” or “Helter Skelter.”

RS: “Helter Skelter” was a jam. We had no song, nothing, we were just jamming, and then Paul came in with, “Hey! Helter Skelter.” Like “Say It’s Your Birthday,” there was someone in the newspaper who we knew, and it was their birthday, and we were jamming. Paul stepped up again, and we got another song. We were like that. You could jump in, any one of us could jump in. I’ve got odd lines we aren’t gonna talk about on certain tracks.

[A publicist chimes in to say:] “T Bone you have five more minutes before you have to leave and then you’ll go and he’ll stay in.”

RS: And then I’ll go and then you’ll stay in. [Laughter]

Well, let’s go back to the Volkswagen.

RS: Let’s get back to it.

Because I have a little bit of synesthesia, I think.

TB: I have that, too.

RS: What have you got?

TB: I see colors when I hear music.

RS: Oh, great!

So, “Octopus’s Garden” was very purple for me. “Act Naturally” is very orangey gold. I’m curious if you’ve ever experienced anything like that. And if it’s not colors, if there are certain textures that you’re looking for in a song, when you’re casting songs for an album? And T Bone, this question’s for you too, since you have it.

RS: T Bone will give me a lot of songs, and I listen to them and I picked my six at the beginning. There were only three I didn’t use. That’s how we started this. In the end, we were talking in my little studio and I said to him, “How many songs have you got?” And he had nine. It gave me the courage to ask him if he would produce the record. All the songs were not on my mind; we were just hanging out like two guys. But it turned into a fellowship.

TB: Well, I can tell you that the Beatles stuff that first came out was very dark blue, all of it. “Don’t Bother Me” especially was the most dark blue of them. It was interesting that the album cover that first came out over here [in the U.S.] was dark blue. So it all sort of coalesced, I think.

That was one of those blessed moments that happen occasionally on earth, you know? Where everybody heard the same thing at the same time.

Absolutely.

RS: I never saw colors. I mean, I did see colors some days… You know what I mean?

[All laugh]

RS: When I listened, it’s how I felt. A sad song, a happy song, a rock song– some of it will move you, and some of it moved me.

TB: Well, I’d better go. But thank you, great to see you again.

Yeah, you too. Nice to see you again.

[As T Bone got up to leave, his wife entered the room and chatter ensued, but he added before walking out the door:]

TB: By the way, “I Want to Hold Your Hand” was very dark blue.

Well, you know, what’s funny is, I had a synesthesia question for Ringo about you, because I didn’t know you were going to be here. But I was going to say that your musical color and texture is exactly like what you are wearing, to me.

TB: Oh, is that right? That’s wild. Thank you! Nice to see you all.

RS: God Bless, peace and love!

Tell me about what it is like for you working in Nashville? Tell me what it feels like working with those players.

RS: I did have experience in the early ’70s when Pete Drake invited me to come, because we were working on a George Harrison record. You know, we keep talking about the steps we take, the moves we make. And I was there with George, and I’m playing for him and he’d called Pete – I didn’t know Pete. Pete had landed at Heathrow, and the car George was sending broke down, so we sent my car. And then he arrived. “Hey, hoss, I see you like country music.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do. How do you know?”

He said, “All those cassettes in your car.”

And then a few days later, he’s saying, “You should come to Nashville.” And I thought, “I’m not going to Nashville. I’m doing stuff here. I don’t have a month or six weeks to go to Nashville.” He said, “A month? Six weeks? Nashville Skyline took two days.” And I said, “I’m coming.” And I went, and we did the same thing.

On the first day, five songs were picked in the morning. Between us, we listened to them all. Five songs were recorded, and five songs were finished. And the next day, we picked five songs. Anyway, it went on the same way, and it was finished. And it took two days, so that was great.

Well, Ringo, you have one of the finest reputations in the music business.

RS: As a drummer or else?

EM: As a drummer, as a human.

RS: Or as a tall person?

The tallest around.

Just for being so kind to people and emanating peace and love, obviously. And you’ve been such a beacon of that for so many decades. Especially in the last couple of weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about that, after finding out that I was going to talk to you. I was curious, I’m sure it’s mostly innate, but do you ever feel like it’s a responsibility – in terms of how you are in the public, in terms of what songs you’re picking? I’m particularly thinking of “Choose Love.”

RS: I just do my best, you know, to pick the songs that give you some movement, and you say, “Oh, I’d like to sing that.” That’s what I’m with these two country songs with T Bone. I mean, I don’t really do it in a political way, that it says this or that. It’s usually peace and love. If I write it, it’s always peace and love – I don’t know what the question was.

Just wondering if it ever feels like a responsibility to you.

RS: You know, I’ve had many a good year, but some years I’ve made really bummer mistakes. It’s like that’s when your brain wins. I mean, even on this record, I’ve got the lines about “let the stuff come in, but let it go.” And I’ve been pretty good at that for a long time. Not that it’s every second of my life. Sometimes it gets in. And it stays in your thoughts. Then you’re in hell. I’m blessed that that doesn’t happen half as much anymore. I can just dump the thought that comes in and deal with whatever it is.

I was going to ask you about that line in particular, because I think it does this beautiful job of talking about a meditative quality of finding peace without being preachy or telling people “how to” and I really love that.

RS: I meditated this morning. I meditate every morning, this time since ‘92. You know, we went to the Maharishi in India with the boys. And I was worried, you know, “Am I doing it properly?” I was talking to him [Maharishi] and he says, “Ringo, even if you fall asleep, you must have been tired.”

And it taught me a great lesson. I was into like, madness and stuff, you know, “It must be this. It must be me. What’s the problem?” And now I get quite calm.

That’s wonderful. Yeah. It comes across on this album. You’re talking about your own experience and that’s–

RS: What else can I talk about? I can’t talk about yours, you know? But thank you.

Tell me about the band that played on this record.

RS: T Bone’s whole band is great. The rest of Nashville is so great. They all came out to help me. To be there. It is in my heart.

Last January, when I was there and back three times. And every time when I’ve played at the Ryman… I’ve been playing there for the last 15 years with the All Stars, but when I go on that stage, I feel all the guys and all the gals who stood on that stage.

And then what happens? The Grand Ole Opry invited me to do three songs. And I go on that stage that has the Ryman circle that the singers stand on. It is magical. For me, coming from England, it was really magical to get on that stage. And the people are great. It is built for music coming out and hitting everybody, because it was a gospel church. I’m still moved. I get on the stage, and I have to go through a minute of, “Wow, wow!”

Photo Credit: Dan Winters

10 of the Best Jo Dee Messina Songs

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

It’s been a minute since Jo Dee Messina graced us all with an album of new material.

The flame-haired singer from Framingham, Massachusetts, made an immediate splash on the country music scene with her self-titled 1996 debut. Her 1998 sophomore set, I’m Alright, was even more successful. Messina became the first female country artist to have three multiple-week, chart-topping singles from the same album. Burn, which arrived in 2000, was also a smash, delivering the popular title track and the Tim McGraw collaboration, “Bring on the Rain.”

Admittedly, Messina has been less prolific over the past 25 years or so. Her fourth studio outing, Delicious Surprise, came out in 2005. Record company challenges preceded the release of Unmistakable, which was supposed to be her next album; instead, it wound up being a series of three EPs. Her next proper studio album, which was simply called Me, did not appear until 2014.

Messina returned on June 5 with her long-awaited sixth album, Bridges, released through her own label. She has weathered a number of personal and professional ups and downs in the dozen years between the new album and Me – and some of that is reflected in the lyrics of her new songs. Bridges is Messina’s most personal disc to date, and she wrote (or cowrote) all but one of its 11 songs herself.

To coincide with the release of Bridges, and to celebrate her being our Artist of the Month, we’ve gathered 10 of Jo Dee Messina’s best songs – from her debut to the present.

“Some Bridges” (2026)

The track that inspired the title of her new album, “Some Bridges” is a slow-building statement of purpose and offers hard-won perspective. “Some bridges are meant to build,” sings Messina. “But some bridges are meant to burn.”

“Message In A Bottle” (2026)

Also from Bridges, “Message In A Bottle” is pretty catchy for a song about alcoholism. “Feeling 10 feet tall on 80 proof/ But the midnight lies, ain’t it the truth?” she sings. And you know she’s singing from experience.

“Don’t Let Them Hide Your Beautiful” (2026)

The centerpiece of her new album, “Don’t Let Them Hide Your Beautiful” is a moving, midtempo ode to being yourself. It’s a common theme across Messina’s entire career and discography.

“A Woman’s Rant” (2014)

The underrated “A Woman’s Rant” appeared on Me, Messina’s first studio album after a lengthy break. It pairs an old-time, bluegrass sound with a more modern, feminist lyric. To wit: “Husband, kids, work all day, I got PMS and PTA/ Find the thing my kid can’t find, I need a drink but there’s no time.”

“Bring On the Rain” (2000)

“Bring On the Rain,” a contemplative duet with Tim McGraw, is from Messina’s third album, Burn. It’s a true modern classic, having peaked at No. 1 on the Billboard Hot Country Songs chart, been certified Gold, and garnering tens of millions of streams. McGraw also co-produced the GRAMMY-nominated vocal event with Byron Gallimore.

“Downtime” (2000)

Another one from Burn – and a good song to listen to in the aftermath of a breakup. “I’ve been down this road a time or two/ I’ll get on my feet and over you,” Messina sings over electric guitars. “I’m just goin’ through a little downtime.”

“Because You Love Me” (1998)

From Messina’s sophomore set I’m Alright, “Because You Love Me” is a song about a love that stood the test of time. It proved that Messina could also pull off ballads. The double-platinum success of I’m Alright also helped Messina collect the 1999 CMA Horizon Award.

“Bye Bye” (1998)

The ridiculously catchy “Bye Bye,” also from I’m Alright and written by Phil Vassar and Rory Michael Bourke, scored Messina another big hit. A rollicking kiss-off to a former guy who is noncommittal, it finds her singing “Bye-bye, love, I’ll catch you later/ Got a lead foot down on my accelerator…” And suddenly we’re all singing along!

“You’re Not in Kansas Anymore” (1996)

The opening song from her debut LP, “You’re Not in Kansas Anymore” is another upbeat tune about a guy who left the Midwest for the Hollywood lights. It contains the great opening line, “He said, ‘I grew up in Wichita, in a Mayberry kind of town.’”

“Heads Carolina, Tails California” (1996)

Messina’s first single, from her self-titled debut. This upbeat jam about hitting the road reached the Top 10 on both the U.S. and Canada country charts. A definite fan favorite, it’s also the title of a 2023 greatest hits collection. Certified platinum, it’s easily landed in the 200 million-plus streams category – it’s such an iconic song, it’s birthed other country songs that reference it. Namely Cole Swindell’s 2022 track, “She Had Me at Heads Carolina.”

Explore more of our Artist of the Month content on Jo Dee Messina here.

Photo Credit: Madison Sharp