Jo Dee Messina wants to know where the real cowboys are.
“Well, are they in some greener pastures?” she asks on “Where the Cowboys Ride,” a spicy sendup of Tecovas-rocking poseurs and a standout on Bridges, Messina’s first album in over a decade, out June 5.
Sometimes cheeky, often affecting, Bridges condenses a lifetime of lessons into 12 tight tracks. Whether she’s taking a narcissistic partner to task (“It’s All About You”), warning about the dangers of self-medication (“Message in a Bottle”) or setting the record straight on scripture (“The Jesus I Know”), Messina explores life’s complexities with her signature mix of grit and hard-fought joy.
Lead single “Some Bridges” is a power-pop-country belter that recalls the triumphant highs of 1998’s I’m Alright, which spawned three consecutive No. 1s and cemented Messina as one of the leading voices of country pop’s golden age. Like “Bye Bye,” Messina’s indelible ode to putting “a lead foot down on my accelerator” and leaving a bad relationship in the rearview, “Some Bridges” reminds listeners that self-preservation sometimes means burning things down.
“You have to learn to forgive, but do you go back to that abusive situation?” she says. “Do you go back to that addiction? You don’t have to subject yourself to these things.”
Jo Dee Messina is our Artist of the Month for June 2026. She sat down with Good Country to talk burning bridges, her “sweet” relationship with Ella Langley, and what she hopes fans will take away from this new era. Check out our interview and don’t miss our Essential Jo Dee Messina playlist below, too.
Why was now the right time to put out new music?
Jo Dee Messina: Because it was done. [Laughs] I’ve been writing a lot with people, and [my co-writers] are just so encouraging. We’d write a song and they’d be like, “Man, you should record this.” It happened so many times, and I was like, “Well, I think I’m at a stage right now where I have time I can dedicate to a project,” releasing the songs and a tour schedule to support it. It just seemed like the right time.
Do you feel like you’ve gained confidence as a writer as your career has gone on?
I’ve always been a songwriter. I do believe that in the last few years, my songwriting has had time to develop and I’ve written a lot more. I’ve had more time to write, so I’ve had a lot more content.
To hear songs like “Some Bridges” on the radio kind of brings tears to my eyes, because it’s like, I actually wrote this. I actually wrote the songs on this record.
“Some bridges are meant to burn” is a great lyric. Do you feel like you’ve had to burn bridges in your career?
I wouldn’t say career. But with life, sometimes there are situations that aren’t beneficial, or jobs or that really take the life out of you. I think everybody has experienced that. And it doesn’t have to be heavy. It could just be like, “I feel like my talents aren’t being used, and so I’m going to move elsewhere.”
With that song, we were in the writers’ room, and somebody brought up the idea that you can’t be burning bridges. But what if they’re meant to burn? What if that bridge leads you to pain and abuse, or to a job that sucked the life out of you? Forgiveness is for us, we’re not built to carry the weight of unforgiveness, but you can forgive from the other side of the bridge.
“Where the Cowboys Ride” is such a fun song. Did that song come out of any experience in particular?
It’s funny, because it’s not portrayed in the song, but the truth of that song is that a friend of mine went down to Lower Broadway [in Nashville] one weekend and came back and had his foot in a sling. I’m like, “What is the deal? What happened?” And he’s like, “I wore my cowboy boots down to Broadway this weekend.” I was like, “I’ve never seen you in cowboy boots. You wear sneakers every day.” But he dressed the part.
There’s a line in the song about how you don’t see them around here on a Friday night. I want to see the guys that are slinging dirt for a living. I want to meet the guys that will lay their life down for their family. All the things that a true cowboy does.
Everyone’s certainly throwing on the cowboy boots right now. Any theories as to why country music is having such a moment?
Country music tells the story of life. The messages don’t change as far as the relatability to different generations. Dolly Parton wrote “I Will Always Love You” in the ’60s, and then it came back in the ’90s, and people are still cutting it. You ask seven-year-olds and they know that song because their parents are singing it. With some songs, the emotion and the life story behind them doesn’t go out of style.
Of course, some of your older songs have been getting renewed attention as well. You recently performed “Lesson in Leavin’” with Ella Langley at the Ryman Auditorium, and then the two of you interviewed each other at Country Radio Seminar (CRS). Can you tell me about your friendship with her?
That started off with us messaging each other online. She sang “Lesson in Leavin’” on TikTok, and I reached out to her. We talked about writing together, but then life got crazy. Then when she played the Ryman she reached out to me and was like, “Hey, do you want to do this deal with me?” And then she did CRS and asked if I wanted to do that.
I think it’s just a mutual admiration. I’m really proud of what she’s doing and how she’s handling it. We both know Jesus, and we both love Jesus, and so I’m able to have that connection with her, and just say, “Hey, if you need prayer, I’m here. If you need a safe space, I’m here.” It’s a sweet friendship.
“If He Knew Jesus” is one of a couple songs on that album that takes up the topic of faith. What’s the backstory behind that song?
I’ve been a single mom for a while, and it’s difficult because you can’t split yourself up. Especially if you have more than one child, you can’t go to one’s recital at school and one’s hockey game, so one of them is always missing something. Someone had asked me if I would ever consider dating somebody, and my first response was that he would have to love Jesus. And so in these conversations with other moms is where we came up with the line, “If you knew Jesus, there’d be no raising these babies alone.”
I started to cry in the writing room when we wrote that. I was like, “That’s the saddest thing,” and then I went on to other examples: “He wouldn’t crush you beneath all that he did,” all of the hurt and pain and abuse and whatever, where Jesus raises us up. He protects us, and He cares for us, and He puts us first, and He dies for us.
What’s the best thing someone can tell you about what your music means to them?
I think, “It gave me hope. It made me not feel alone.” That would be the greatest thing. “It made me not feel alone in my situation,” whether it’s a happy situation, a lonely situation, a feisty situation, because the songs cover everything. Keep in mind the enemy tries to separate us so we feel alone, and when we’re alone, all sorts of crazy things go through our brains.
Who’s the enemy?
Satan. It’s like, if you get alone, your mind starts going, “Why am I alone? Oh, because nobody likes me, or I’m not good enough.” All these crazy thoughts go through your head, and so you don’t start to think, “Wow, I’m beautiful, and I’m worth it, and I’m treasured.” That’s why it’s called the enemy of who you really are and who God created you to be. He’s working against it.
Are there experiences you’ve had in life where you felt like you were alone?
I think we all have. So I just want to be sure that people know you’re never alone. Even if you don’t see another person in the room, you’re still not alone. Period. God’s word tells us you can never go too high, too low. He’s there. We just have to open our hearts and see it.
I work with teenagers and I remember a teenager saying, “I don’t even think my parents hear what I say.” It was such a sad statement, and it inspired the song “Can Anybody.” In my inner circles, I’ll call that song “The Teenager’s Lament,” because they all feel invisible. It’s why they’re doing things on social media and hanging out with certain people. It’s why they sometimes don’t talk to their parents.
That’s where the first verse came from, and then the second verse came from myself: “I’ve got a history of trying to save myself/ But God, if you’re listening/ I’m screaming out for help.” That’s me. I’m a doer, and I have a history of thinking, “I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it.” But there are some things I can’t fix. You can’t fix someone else’s health or their mental state. After my mother had anesthesia, she was confused, and I couldn’t fix that. I tried and drove myself crazy. I’d made her photo albums, and I made her song playlists, and, and I couldn’t do it. She was still confused. It made me realize the humanity of myself and the limits of a human.
There’s an effortless charm to singer-songwriter Abbie Callahan’s persona when you first encounter her via vertical video. Beautiful and whimsical makeup, adorable wardrobe, hyper-femininity, and a Gen Z polish to her social media presence are all complicated in the most fascinating ways by her music itself. Landing somewhere in between witty and incisive pop country like Kacey Musgraves and gritty, train-hopping Americana such as Sierra Ferrell, you’d be well served not to make assumptions – or to sell Callahan’s songs short based on appearances.
This is not a book you can accurately judge by its cover. Callahan’s songs will reel you in with her sharp, impactful vocals, her deft wordplay and solid hooks, and a wink and sly smile around every lyrical corner. Tracks like “Simon Says” will have your head bobbing before you even realize the devastation and trauma woven through the lyrics. A new, as-yet-unreleased number, “OptiMystic” – debuted, as Callahan tracks often are, on TikTok – lays out her worldview pretty tidily:
I’ve been known to be a little easy on a Saturday Known to smoke a cigarette and throw up in the alleyway Checked off greed and lust in a church pew Had confession in the Red Door bathroom
Who can really say where you can talk to Jesus anyway? Anyway…
If you were to engage with and enjoy Callahan’s music without any deeper inspection, you’d still come away with plenty. But the real appeal here is that the sweet, sugary veneer on these songs is only to bring you in. It’s the tinges of bitterness, the tannins, the “something much deeper going on below the surface” that will bring you back again and again. However you zoom out or zoom in on Callahan, her lyrics, her process, and the way she brings her songs directly to her listeners there’s subversion, a deliberate and inspired flouting of expectations.
Callahan is intentionally leveraging the way she’s perceived outwardly and visually to “Trojan horse” her way of making music into a country industry that’s often loath to platform artists like her, who build fandoms and idiosyncratic styles on hyper-femininity without apology. Like Dolly, Loretta, Kacey, and so many others who’ve come before her in that age-old country tradition, Abbie Callahan is onto something.
We caught up after a gentle spring rain in Napa Valley, as Good Country attended Live in the Vineyard Goes Country and caught Callahan performing as part of the event. Finding ourselves in such a stunning location, we began our interview chatting about country’s relationship to place and how well-suited this music is to the many settings it finds itself in.
I wanted to start by asking you about country’s relationship with place. Country music is always about place – rural places, urban places; farms and ranches; California, Tennessee, Iowa. We’re at Live in the Vineyard Goes Country here in Napa, so I’m thinking about country and place, and I wonder if you think about country’s relationship to place – and about how this music is so appropriate for so many different contexts, whether you’re in Napa or playing a honky-tonk or a festival. How do you think about country’s relationship to place and to land? It’s interesting to be here in a place like this with everybody sharing a few days in such a beautiful setting.
Abbie Callahan: That’s a great question. Usually I think about it in context of place in genre. It kind of is the same thing to me. My music with a band or just with guitar, I can make it fit into whatever genre I want – I feel like that in place, too.
But here [in Napa] it’s spring and the flowers are everywhere, it feels like they are one and the same. Especially my last project, Grossly Aware, with all the flowers – and we have the garden [right beside us] and all that. It feels like this is the perfect spot for me to be.
Two weeks ago we were back where I’m from in Iowa. It was gloomy and rainy and we were playing a bunch of the new stuff. It was, I don’t know, probably a little bit out of place, ’cause it was all fun disco [music]. But maybe it added to [the impact], because it was so gloomy and getting rained out. I don’t know how [my music] relates to place, but I feel like I can make it whatever I want, which is kind of nice. Kind of fits anywhere.
Well, being in California for this interview makes me wanna talk about “Strawberry, California.”
We went there yesterday! We drove through it. It was my first time actually there. We went over the Golden Gate Bridge and I was– I’m from Iowa, so I’m from like, not much. [Laughs] So it’s cool that music can bring you somewhere and you get to see all the things. I don’t think I would’ve been able to see the Golden Gate Bridge and come to California [without music]. Or be in Napa for country music. Napa’s outside of my tax bracket, so it’s nice to be here. [Laughs]
One of the things I noticed when I was listening to “Strawberry, California” to get in the mood for us talking in California is the banjo playing. I love that the banjo is playing the melody along with your voice. And I love that you evoke bluegrass in your music so often. Could you talk a little bit about that song and having banjo in it, and about the bluegrass touchpoints across your catalog?
I was in a rock band that played in downtown Nashville. That’s how I paid for college. I was playing ‘90s grunge, so I’d go home and I want to listen to the opposite. That’s how I found bluegrass – just how simple and deep everything is. It’s different than how I write and talk. It’s so concise and wrapped up so well that I just envy it, in a way. I love listening to it, ’cause I feel like I can learn a lot. But then my setup, my band when I play, is a bluegrass setup. It’s upright bass, me, guitar, fiddle, another guitar. We just added drums, which is a big step.
But that’s when I started listening to bluegrass, ’cause it was like a palate cleanser. I don’t listen to a lot of modern country, because that’s the space I’m in. When I listen to it too much, I feel fatigued from it all. So bluegrass is a nice outlet. It just feels refreshing to listen to. I wasn’t raised on it or anything, so I feel a little bit like an impostor, but I love it so much.
Charlie Worsham played banjo on “Strawberry, California.” He played throughout the whole record, Grossly Aware, on guitar and banjo. “Strawberry, California,” it was tricky to get it right with a band, because of the time changes and how intricate the guitar is. But I pulled it up for him in the studio, he listened to it once, and he was like, “Wow, this is tough.” Listened to it twice, and then had it perfectly. I was like, “What in the world?!” He’s a freak. So good.
I really enjoyed listening to it. And then I also have been listening to your new single, “Drag, Queen.” I love it in so many ways.
It’s a little controversial.
Of course, it’s a little controversial, but also it’s 2026. They can catch up or we don’t need them. [Laughs] I love that, again, you’re subverting expectations. And again, it’s traditional modern country with that big hook, the wordplay is great. The sort of wink and a smile about it. But also I love that it sounds so bluegrassy.
Yeah, it’s the grassiest song I’ll be putting out this year. It’s super grassy. It’s so fun to play live. I played it on tour with Carter Faith this spring. Her audience was so perfect for it, ’cause they love weed and they are awesome. [Laughs] I played it on tour with her and it was probably my favorite song in my set.
I wrote that song last year – last June – and I posted it right away and it’s just been my favorite. I think it’s silly, but it has a lot of layers to it. I had a song, “Marry Jane,” blow up on TikTok. It was my first thing that ever did anything on TikTok, so I got hate for the first time. Which is always an interesting experience. It was all like balding, middle-aged old men being like, “Is this a song about a lesbian or a song about weed??” And I was like, “It’s about both, duh.” [Laughs]
Have you ever heard of an entendre? Yeah, no, you haven’t.
Double it. [Laughs]
[Laughs]
Anyway, it was so funny. But that’s why I wrote it. I was like, “They’ll hate this.”
I also wanted to ask you – femininity and hyper-femininity in country are also traditions. The performance of femininity by folks like Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn all the way to k.d. lang. I love the way that you inhabit femininity and it’s so clear that you do not feel like it’s a burden, or that it weighs you down, or that it’s something that you could be penalized for. But I wonder how you feel like it’s received – especially on social media, like you mention, TikTok. Do you ever feel like you’re penalized for your femininity?
You know, I think as we’re starting to talk to labels and all that, yeah. I think if I was a man with this amount of monthly listeners and success so far, I would have a deal already. In that way, it’s definitely hindering, but it’s not gonna stop me from anything. I will have more leverage in two years, and that’s fine. [Laughs] But whatever. But because it’s so raw and real and feminine, I feel like my audience is all girls. It’s been really nice. I feel like I can be myself, say whatever I want, and I don’t have to worry about it. [I can] dress however I want – and dress strange – and be something to look at and not just, like, pretty, you know?
And the girls get it. I love it. I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. It’s what I prefer. …
Another song that really jumped out at me is “Simon Says.”
The production of it started with just me in my room on guitar on TikTok, and then people were like, “I need a full strings version of this. I need a banjo version of this. I need a pop version,” all these different things. When we recorded it for the first time the demo had a synth on it, which is the banjo part. That’s how it started. I knew that wasn’t how it was gonna end, but it was like in demo jail for a year and a half. And I was like, “It has to have that element,” and then it just worked out for the banjo.
I did have a question about TikTok, so it’s interesting to hear you talk about how you’re in the comment section, you’re seeing what people say. It’s interesting to me that you’re responding in your creative process as well. Like what you just said about “Simon Says.” You’re listening to the fans being like, “I need this, I need that.”
If they want an acoustic version I’m like, “If you’ll stream it, I’ll do it.” Without a label right now, that’s been amazing. Something will blow up and in a month and a half or two months later we can have it out. You can’t replace that. It’s been really nice.
How do you feel when you’ve done a bunch of reps of a song, or when you’ve taken it from TikTok, to demo, to recording, to bringing it to an audience – do you feel like the song changes meaning? Do you feel like “Simon Says,” for instance, will always have that tinge of sadness and trauma to you? Or do you feel like the audience takes it, it changes, and then you get up on stage and you don’t feel that anymore? Or does that feeling always stay with you? ‘Cause as a songwriter myself, I feel like I re-traumatize myself every single time I play one of my songs. Is that how it feels to you with a song like that?
I have to write about what I live. I can’t just write to write. I have to put myself through stuff. It’s whatever – “tortured artist,” you know. Every line in there is real, so it’s definitely re-traumatizing.
But I guess it was my first tour, my first time singing it on stage, I was thinking about the writing of it a lot. ‘Cause it’s something so magical, that three people are in a room – or two people or just me – and then now I’m in front of 1,000 people and some of them know the songs. I don’t know, something about that is so special. I wish my co-writers were there to see it. It’s such an intimate thing.
There’s a little bit of a healing moment there.
Totally. It kinda changed what I was thinking about, especially with “Simon” and a lot of the next project. All of it’s co-written, which is different for me. I was just thinking about the people that made it all come to life. When we were in the studio, little ideas that people had. It’s so cool.
So it’s like, less sad now. I guess it depends on the situation. If it’s me on TikTok, I’m getting into the sad headspace. But in person I’m like, “Oh my gosh, this is so fun. My favorite people helped get me here.” I’m like singing “Simon Says” with a pep in my step. Like, what is going on?! [Laughs]
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Our guest on the Working Songwriter this week hails from Augusta, Georgia, but has made his professional bones in Music City USA. Charles Kelley was one of the founding members of Lady Antebellum – now known as Lady A – and is one of the group’s principal songwriters. Their crossover hit, “Need You Now,” became one of the defining songs of the 2010s.
Lady A have sold over 18 million albums, won 7 GRAMMY awards, and their songs have been streamed over 5 billion times. Along the way Charles has also released a pair of solo albums, including last year’s Songs for a New Moon. He’s recorded for Capitol Records Nashville and Big Machine and he’s toured with Luke Bryan, Tim McGraw, Keith Urban and many others. He’s also appeared on The Tonight Show and The Late Show with David Letterman.
Rolling Stone has said that Lady A’s “vocal harmonies helped redefine country radio in the 2010s” and Billboard calls them “one of Nashville’s most successful songwriting teams.” I got a chance to catch up with Charles a few months ago to hear about his musical journey so far.
(Editor’s Note: This article originally published on Good Country in December 2024. At that time, Good Country content was available exclusively on Substack.
Townes was included as part of our end-of-year coverage in 2024, examining how many country artists across the continent have blurred genre lines to connect with new audiences and plumb greater depths of self-expression. Jewly Hight spoke to Townes about her recently becoming an independent artist at that time and together they examined where she stood and where she was headed.
Now, on April 10, 2026, Townes will release the first full-length album of her independent era, The Acrobat. To celebrate, we’re naming her our Good Country and BGS Artist of the Month. And we’re re-sharing this piece from the archives to kick off the month. Below, enjoy an excellent interview on our website for the first time and check out our Essential Tenille Townes playlist. Dive into our brand new feature interview with Townes on The Acrobat and a special bonus article of Townes in her own words.)
“Genres are a funny little concept, aren’t they?” Linda Martell poses rhetorically during the spoken intro to “Spaghettii,” roughly halfway through Beyoncé’s western epic Cowboy Carter.
“In theory,” Martell goes on with sly poise, “they have a simple definition that’s easy to understand. But in practice, well, some may feel confined.” Martell knows what she’s talked about. She endured all manner of efforts to hem in her musical sensibilities and diminish her agency back when she was country music’s most visible Black, female talent.
And now, because she lent her voice to a track where Bey and Shaboozey go hard with down-home boasts over a lurching beat, she’s up for a GRAMMY for Best Melodic Rap Performance. Other tracks from Cowboy Carter are in pop, country and even Americana contention, a staggering range of styles for one project to cover.
That’s the kind of boundary-blurring year it’s been, with Shaboozey translating country gestures and imagery to broody, contemporary hip-hop cadences with tremendous savvy and both Jelly Roll and Post Malone furthering their paths from rap origins to ever more fully embracing – and being embraced by – the country music industry.
Things haven’t been any tidier on the rootsy side of the spectrum. After being treated like a pop prodigal during her Star-Crossed era, Kacey Musgraves’ shimmering, urban folk revival-echoing ruminations on Deeper Well have been received as a country homecoming of sorts. Noah Kahan has helped bring on a resurgence of cozily folk-forward, singer-songwriter sensibilities in pop music.
A major country record label snatched up the Red Clay Strays, the type of crowd-pleasing, Southern blues-rockers that have long been celebrated in the Americana scene, where many other pivotal voices – first Allison Russell last year, then Sarah Jarosz, Amythyst Kiah, Adeem the Artist, Kaia Kater and others – experimented with lusher or more polished arrangements and production aesthetics in their latest work.
Tenille Townes offers us a particularly compelling example of an artist charting her course against the background of that extreme slippage between genre lineage, stylistic markers, and industry affiliation. She tried the major label country route in 2018, greeted as a promising new voice at a moment when the broad appeal of Kacey Musgraves’ Golden Hour ruminations made the industry a little more receptive to artists with a personalized, writerly bent, and she’s emerged independent on the other side. In her mind, being unfettered in a time of great genre fluidity is cause for optimism.
Townes began her tenure on Columbia Nashville with spare acoustic recordings, and concluded it this year in similar fashion. She was, and remains, an ardently openhearted singer-songwriter, bent on tapping deep veins of empathy whether she’s in observational or confessional mode. When I first interviewed her, it made all the sense in the world to hear her say she felt a kinship to singer-songwriters like Patty Griffin and Lori McKenna. It also struck me that Townes’ singing – curling syllables and stretching out lines with feeling, a style sometimes called “cursive” singing – was far from the hearty enunciation for which country music has been known.
In between then and now, Townes dropped an album that bore a super-producer’s digitally sharpened touch, won a pair of ACM awards to go with the pile of honors she’s received from the Canadian Country Music Association – which began to recognize her promise when she was a teen with dreams of pursuing music beyond Grande Prairie, Alberta – and she toured with big country names like Miranda Lambert and Dierks Bentley. Townes also faced enough professional hurdles, and observed enough changes in the landscape around her, to reconsider where her songs might belong. And I very much wanted to hear about that.
You’re presently on tour in Canada, aren’t you?
Tenille Townes: I’m having the best time on this run. It feels like a community at these shows. We’ve done a few tours through Canada at this point, but this was our first time going as far east as we did. I feel like live music in general is a little bit more scarce over there. They don’t get as many people making the trek. And so [I could feel] the appreciation.
They sold out the shows so fast and they’re singing all the words. And very quietly listening intently and leaning in a really vulnerable way. And then also having a blast and being loud, which is so cool to me, for it to feel like a living room and a rock club at the same time. That’s been such a big part of my vision.
I don’t know how far out you planned this tour, but I wonder if it’s become an important chance for you to return to your home turf, regroup and get reinvigorated.
Yeah, it honestly feels really essential in my creative journey. I could not be more grateful for the way the timing has aligned this year for this moment on the road. It feels like the ingredient that I’ve been craving. In January, I’m going to be so ready to dive in with my whole heart and make [the music] I’m going to share next. I don’t think that the recipe could have ever been complete without this tour in this moment. It feels so timely, because so much of this past year has felt terrifying.
And just standing on my own two feet as an artist again, pretty much entirely, I feel so excited and grateful to be making this leap into the arms of these people showing up at the shows who are so excited about this new chapter. And it’s such a wave of encouragement to go, “Oh yeah, I think I’m on the right path, doing the right thing.”
How is it different from when you’ve toured the U.S., in terms of headlining versus being an opener, the size of venues and how you’re engaging with the audience?
There’s been a lot of theaters for us on this run, which have a bigger capacity than some of the clubs that we’ve played in these towns before. It’s our first time playing a handful of these [places], but this is our third headlining tour in Canada.
What I noticed that’s different is when it’s our shows and our community, it just feels like people show up with open arms and they’re requesting songs that I haven’t played in so long. They know the deep cuts. They’re showing up excited for a night of feeling whatever they need to feel. And I think that emotional permission feels different at our shows than it does at a show where we’re a guest [in the opening slot] going to make some new friends. And it’s been really cool hearing from people that were like, “I saw you on the Dierks [Bentley] tour and this is our third Tenille show.”
One thing I always say at the top of the shows is I want our time together around my songs to be a place where everyone who walks in the door feels safe to show up and be whoever they are and to feel embraced and welcomed for that. And I thank everyone for buying a ticket and for showing up as that community. And I really feel like they’re embodying what that means.
Years back, I took note of the fact that Corb Lund had what was considered fairly mainstream country success in Canada, but he played Americana events when he came to Nashville. I’m curious whether you’ve seen folk, Americana and country are treated as separate genre categories in the Canadian market, like they are in the U.S. How do you tend to get categorized in Canada?
At least from my experience, it feels different to me. Because in Canada, I have been really grateful to have felt super embraced by the country community, by the CCMAs, by country radio, by the community of people listening to country music. And we have fit in that bubble there. And I don’t know that we fit the same way in the States.
I relate to what you’re saying about Corb Lund. I think maybe the lane is just not as narrow in Canada. And I think that they’re just more in it for live music of any capacity. I think most fans [who come see me] would be like, “Oh, I’m at a country show.” Which is funny because when we play shows here, that doesn’t necessarily feel the same. I do feel like the Canadian country music community definitely jumped on board with what I’m creating. And the music [I release in both markets] is very much the same, so it’s so strange.
I will say that the people coming to our shows, our headline club shows that we’ve done in the U.S., they feel very similar, like-minded people to me.
You’re a little more than a decade into your Nashville tenure at this point. Why is it important to you to stay?
Even though this town has a lot of jagged edges or hard things about it, I really do still feel inspired here. I feel like there’s a tapestry of artists who have come to this town with their dream and worked at sharing their art and building a group of friends and people around them who support that. I have a front row seat, you know, going to an Emmylou Harris fundraiser at City Winery and watching all of these people that she’s embraced in her life that she’s written with or jammed with that’s really a legacy.
I love this community, and I do feel inspired musically, having access to so many songwriters and musicians and producers. There is a heartbeat to this town that I want to continue to be present in and be a part of for sure.
I can picture the show that you were just describing. The atmosphere was very similar at the tribute to Mary Gauthier during Americanafest, a multi-generational gathering of Nashville’s singer-songwriter community.
When we first talked all those years ago, you described being an astute student in Nashville, paying particular attention to singer-songwriters like Lori McKenna and Patty Griffin. At the time, you considered them touchstones because of how they used the language of the heart in their storytelling.
In terms of their career arcs, their material’s been recorded by big names in country, but as respected as they are among songwriting connoisseurs in that world, they’ve had contemporary folk careers as performers. They’ve often released their music on independent labels. Were you also taking note of what their professional paths have looked like? Or are you now?
I honestly don’t know that I was conscious of it back then. It was just the music that I loved. I don’t think I even had an understanding of the choices made on an artist’s path to stay true to that route.
I’ve learned a lot in the last handful of years: “Oh, that makes sense why a certain path, like Patty Griffin’s, unfolds in a certain way.” I never thought of it as a ceiling or an alternate route. It just was where the music had taken her. That’s been inspiring to me.
I never want to look at any options of teams to work with or whatever with any closed-doors feelings. I would love to play the music that I make in stadiums. That’d be great if that still unfolds that way. But I also just really want to tell my stories and my truth, and whoever is going to come as the audience, that’s amazing to me. The idea of seeing it as a wider horizon than maybe a stereotypical path, that doesn’t seem scary to me. I think that’s because I’ve looked up to people like Patty or Lori, people who have always stayed true to what they’re doing and figured out the path there regardless. But I don’t know if I’ve ever actually intentionally thought about it that way.
Your intention has been clearer than ever this year. It wasn’t lost on me that the final two songs you released earlier this year, before you parted ways with your label – “As You Are” and “The Thing That Brought Me Here” – each were expressions of commitment to staying the course. What did you want to communicate?
I love that you noticed these themes. At the end of that journey, “As You Are” felt like such a great theme to end that season on. There was lots of resistance [from the label] in several years of working on music and getting to a point of actually getting to put it out. But that song always had a green light from them, which I really appreciated.
I wrote that song thinking it was about showing up and being a support system for someone. I had friends in mind that I was thinking of. It was just like, “I will be that safe place.” And then listening back to the demo after the [session] on the drive home, I was like, “No, I wrote this ‘cause this is what I want to hear when I’m struggling to let somebody in.” That’s been something that I’ve felt even in my professional journey for sure, just wanting to feel seen.
It really seems like you’re the one communicating on your own TikTok. In recent months, a lot of your posts have been about celebrating your professionally “single” era. When you shared the news that you were no longer in your major label deal, you framed it as a breakup that you were happy about. What felt right about striking that tone?
It felt honest. It was a lot building up to that decision, and it was not easy, and it was terrifying. All of those emotions were a part of it. I just felt like, “I can’t continue to share the music I want to make if I’m not letting people in on my process of that vulnerability, even when it’s hard.” Making those videos felt scary, for sure. But that just feels like the kind of artist that I want to be, to walk the walk.
Also part of my intention was, “This is something that creatively feels really empowering to me, to take back the ownership of my music.” And for any young girls out there, I want them to know, “That’s a possible feeling for you, to stand up for yourself at any moment in any kind of career, or on any path of your life.” It’s brave to take that step. And I guess I just want that invitation to be there for anyone following along.
And I want to bring together the community of people. Like, it is an “independent artist,” but I think it should be called a “community village artist,” because you can’t get your stuff out there without people believing in what you’re doing and coming with you. I wanted it to be very clear that we’re in this together. We’ve always been in it together, but it feels very defined to me now. And I wanted to make sure everyone knew that.
And now we have the benefit of accumulated perspective, so I want to reflect back. At the beginning of your label journey, what was in the atmosphere at the time in Nashville or the country music scene in the U.S. that contributed to a sense of possibility for you?
At the beginning, it was excitement. And [I] look back and think, “How crazy cool that I got to be a part of a major label deal that let me put out a debut single about homelessness, and then follow it up with a song called ‘Jersey on a Wall’ about losing someone in a car accident?” I’m so glad they gave me a chance to put out songs that were different and that sonically didn’t sound like a sure bet. I will always appreciate that. And it set me up with so many people who heard this record and the songs because of the way that they helped lift it up.
So I have nothing but love for that season. It might not have hit the thing over all of the world’s fences by any measure of what you measure as success. But to me, it’s a win to think that I got to share that art and that people found it and that they get to keep finding it because of that.
Years back, you told me that in one of your initial meetings, when you played some songs in a boardroom, the head of the label compared you with Jeff Buckley, which was a funny thing. In hindsight, I think that kind of speaks to the fact that you were bringing a sensibility as a singer-songwriter that might’ve been a little bit outside of their frame of reference.
And maybe the Jeff Buckley comparison – as much of a stretch as it was – was a gesture of someone who lacked the frame of reference or language for what they were hearing. Because the way you elongate your vocal phrases and hold onto lines is more akin to the “cursive” singing style that’s been a thing in indie music, folk, pop and R&B than in country, with its crisp enunciation. What kinds of conversations did you have about what you were doing, how they heard it and how they thought it fit into that world?
It is really fun to reflect on that. I definitely think from that initial meeting, they were going, “This is something that doesn’t necessarily fit in what that normal trajectory would be.”
I think that has been the compass that’s directed it a little bit left of where things would traditionally fit coming out of the system that they’re used to. I think they knew that all along. And at moments, that definitely made things a little bit bumpier or harder, because it wasn’t something that naturally made all the sense in the world, I don’t think. And I’m totally great with that.
I revisited the body of work that you released on the label, and I didn’t hear you bending your songwriting approach, singing style or artistic identity to any kind of mold that was really popular in country music at the time. What did it take to maintain that?
There was never an intention of, “Okay, that’s mainstream, so I’m closing the door to that.” I’ve always felt very openhearted in the writing room. It’s just what was coming out of what I was making that I loved the most. The Lemonade Stand came out in 2020. Then I wrote the songs for Masquerades all on Zoom in my house by myself. It was a time when I didn’t feel as much outside influence of commerciality. I was just honestly writing to express something and feel better.
We certainly, production-wise, had moments of trying to be strategic about what kind of things might — I don’t know — reach more people or something, or sonically be something that could be more mainstream. So there wasn’t a lack of strategy in that. I just had to follow the songs, I think.
On TikTok, you’ve shared clips of songs that you’ve had in the can for years that you said the label didn’t want to release. How did the disagreements over your artistic direction begin to emerge? And what was at stake for you when they did?
I think the biggest rub maybe was being able to plan far enough down an artistic vision, because it was just like, “We’ll see how this one does.” And the targets just kept moving. Mentioning putting out an EP or a record was scary. They were like, “No, we can’t. We gotta just take it one step at a time.” So I think that became the hardest thing, and where a lot of songs fell through the cracks, because we didn’t hit certain measures to be able to go to the next. We still found ways to push through and get music out. It just didn’t happen in a guaranteed, planned-out manner, necessarily.
What brought you to the place where you were ready to part ways?
I could feel it building for a while, for sure. And when it came to the point of putting out “As You Are,” there was a group of songs that were ready, and we were just getting resistance on putting out more than one or two out again. And honestly, they came to us and [said], “I don’t think we can put out the rest of these.” And it was like, “Okay, I think it’s time to go.” It wasn’t like I’d arrived at this place of courage. Circumstances were like, “Okay, I think the arrows are really pointing that this is the moment to take the leap, and I’m just going to do it.”
What did you see yourself as leaving behind and moving towards instead?
The idea of taking back ownership of what I create and jumping into this place of freedom in the sense of less hoops to get through to actually get songs to people. I think creatively, I needed change as well.
I’m so proud of that whole journey. I have no regrets, but in a lot of ways, it’s like the metaphor of having a [limited] number of crayons in your hand and trying to make a picture out of that. I felt I wanted the whole box back. I never felt like I was trying to create something to fit within [the industry], but I do feel like that kind of a system can’t not have an effect on what you’re doing creatively. I feel this freedom in my hands. What do you do? That’s a whole other process that I’m in the middle of right now, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say and how I want to sound next. It’s so liberating, and it’s also just, “Oh, this is up to me now.”
When you look back on it, do you think that label partnership was no longer the right fit for you, or that the mainstream country marketplace that it exists in was not the right fit for you?
I don’t know. I think maybe a little bit of both. But mostly, I think the major label system just ran its course for me. And I feel open to whatever team there may or may not be in the future. I wouldn’t write that experience off ever again. I think it just depends on the season I’m in creatively and what people are behind it.
What’s funny to me is looking back on the history of country music, the things that have [at certain moments] laid on the outside have actually [become] pillars of what’s created the format that we love and know. So it doesn’t scare me to [say], “I don’t actually feel like I belong in what we call right now the mainstream of country music.” I’m just going to do my thing and whatever we want to call it later, looking back, it’s fine with me.
Earlier we were talking about the singer-songwriter ecosystem that’s long existed in Nashville and has amorphous boundaries – those songwriters play their own intimate shows and write for bigger names in other lanes.
But there’s been far more visible crossing of boundaries than that this year. We’ve had pop superstars going country, and Kacey Musgraves – who never fully left her country label, but was viewed as drifting towards pop – made a folk-pop album that’s gotten her country awards nominations again. And then there are artists like Noah Kahan. I know you’ve expressed admiration for what he does. He’s been having great success with songs that are grounded in folk, but he exists in the pop world – and yet he’s also gotten Americana and country nominations. Have you been looking around you and taking note of how other artists are transcending genre boundaries?
Yes, and it feels so encouraging to be like, “How about you just make what’s you?” And then, what if there are different categories of music lovers who want to listen to stories and songs and voices and actually don’t care what sticker you put on it?
[As for] Noah, that’s just songs that are speaking to people at such a loud volume. I don’t know what you call it, and it doesn’t matter. Longterm-wise, I think Brandi Carlile’s path is a flashlight, to have something that’s just evolved with her as an artist and fit in so many different places. And I think about Patty Griffin. Even somebody like Billy Strings, Marcus King, I think is incredibly inspiring looking at all of these people who are not sticking to one lane.
You are actively narrating the decision-making process for your audience and frequently discussing what it looks like to be an independent artist, what that means, what your aims are, what challenges you face. From what I’ve read, you’ve kept some important parts of your team, management and publishing, but other aspects of the model have changed. What do you feel are the most significant differences in how you’re operating at the moment? What do you most want people to know about your present reality?
I think the biggest shift is how much making videos is a part of actually getting a song to be heard at all. And the creative output of just trying to make noise in a place that’s got way too much noise going on, the internet. That’s the most overwhelming thing that’s very different than what I thought it meant to be a singer-songwriter and write songs and tour.
I’m trying to balance the creative output of constantly being like, “Hey, I’m over here. This is what I’m working on.” And also making sure that my soul is in a good place, not just spinning on a hamster wheel, so that I can make something that I’m really proud to stand on in my life.
I’ve heard that you are working on new music. Are you broadening your circle of collaborators?
Yeah, definitely. I’ve been reaching out to people I’ve not written with before, people I’m just fans of their music and [asking], “Hey, let’s write or let’s get together and just jam.” And then I’m in the stage [where] I’m always writing. I’m at a point where I have a lot of songs and I’m trying to just zoom out and go, “Which ones are speaking the loudest to me?” The theme for me right now is very much about betting on yourself and getting to the heart of the matter without everything feeling too heavy and serious.
I’m at the spot of taking song inventory and trying to make some new friends and keep writing, and working on what might be next.
Won’t it be wild if you have an album that is on a Canadian country chart and then in the U.S., is on Americana and folk charts, the same collection of songs?
I think it’s possible. I believe it is. I love you putting that out there. I’m declaring it right now.
The expression of music is going to fit differently in different places. And I think that’s more possible in the landscape we’re in now than it ever has been.
Read our 2026 interview with Tenille Townes on her brand new album, The Acrobat, here.
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Photo Credit: Lead image by Madison Rensing; inset image by Robert Chavers.
If you’ve read about Tucker Wetmore or listened to one of his many interviews, chances are the following subjects were lobbed his way: women, whiskey, blondes versus brunettes.
When the “star-maker machinery” that is the business of music collides with media outlets in search of headlines and algorithm rankings, it can make or break a promising new artist by reducing them to a pretty face with a clickbait story angle, the whole time steamrolling over the singer-songwriter at the core.
Tucker Wetmore is keenly aware of this and proceeds with caution. He’s affable enough to play along and astute enough to know the game. Peel back the layers and you’ll find a thoughtful, hard-working artist rooted deeply in faith and family and with a sense of public image versus personal values, carefully monitoring how and what he presents.
With multiple hit singles, award nominations, over a billion streams, product endorsements and campaigns, television appearances, endless interviews, the 2024 breakout Waves on a Sunset EP, and 2025’s unstoppable nineteen-track What Not To, Wetmore is taking it all in with cautious abandon, savoring the wins as they come.
It’s been a long, hard-fought road in a story now told countless times: he grew up in a small town, was raised in the church, brought up by his mother when his father walked out on the family. Music became vital at a young age, athletic prowess and four state titles led him to college, a severe football injury sidelined his career goals. Back home, he again threw himself into music, moved to Nashville in 2020, and pursued his dream.
On January 25, 2026, Wetmore added another victory to his timeline – this one particularly special, as it brought with it a lifetime of memories. He performed the National Anthem at Lumen Field during the halftime show at a Seattle Seahawks game, in front of a stadium filled with cheering fans.
He was still on that high when he spoke with Good Country only days after – and days before the launch of his Brunette World Tour. “It felt like a full circle moment,” he says of the halftime show. “I’ve been to Seahawks games growing up. I’ve been in that stadium, screaming my face off, cheering for the ‘Hawks. But to be on the field and playing my songs in front of thousands and thousands of people was absolutely surreal, especially for something as big as the NFC Championship. I’ve pretty much seen every NFC Championship since I was born. I was super nervous, but we got through it and we didn’t mess up too bad, so it was a good time.”
You have the biggest country debut album from a new artist in 2025. When did you realize that things were really taking off and it was time to “buckle your seatbelt, because this is happening”?
Tucker Wetmore: I’d say even before the album. The first time I felt like that was when Kameron Marlowe was nice enough to bring me on tour. I had one song out and I hadn’t even dropped “Wind Up Missin’ You” yet. I remember getting onstage at that first show and people screaming my songs back to me, singing every word to the songs I had teased [online]. It was absolutely insane. I was like, “I should probably buckle up. This is getting pretty real.” That’s when I knew I might have a chance to do this.
Can you ever be truly prepared for this level of success?
There’s definitely ways to prepare for certain situations, but there’s curveballs thrown at you every single day, so there’s no way to prepare for that. To put it in sports terms, learning how to sit back on the curve, wait for it to cross the plate, swing, and hopefully hit it.
We know about fan reactions to “What Not To,” and people relating to it from the perspective in which you wrote it. Have you also heard from fathers whom that song is hitting as hard because of what they didn’t do?
I’ve heard stories at meet-and-greets, people spending a little extra time telling me about how much that song has helped them cope. But I don’t think I’ve heard anything from fathers having that realization. That’s a touchy subject, and I hope it moves some fathers to want to be better.
All I can do with my music is write what I’m feeling, produce it the way I think it should sound, and put it out to the world for people to do what they will with it. One of my goals with that song was hopefully this changes some viewpoints on some fathers, and hopefully it helps people learn. It’s a “glass half full” kind of song. It’s saying, “Even though these things happened to me in my life, I can learn from this and use everything as a lesson,” instead of, “Oh, poor me.”
Have you ever fallen into that mindset?
I think we’re all human and we all do it. Not in a really long time, though.
I look at life as an opportunity. Whether it’s good or bad, it’s always an opportunity to learn and grow. I don’t [fall into it] so much anymore, but I remember being young and being pretty upset about some of the cards I was dealt. Luckily, my mom’s great and my family’s super supportive, I’ve got the best friends in the world that think the world of me, and I do the same for them. So I’ve got good people around me to keep my head on straight.
You had to grow up early when your dad left. What are some life lessons you took from those years that apply to your life and career now?
Growing up, I had four sisters and a beautiful mother, so it was a lot of women in the house, but it taught me a lot of things and I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
There’s definitely times where I thought, “It’d be really nice to go out with another male and throw the ball out in the yard.” But looking back at it now, I learned so much about how to care for women, and how to be a provider, at a really young age, even though there wasn’t much I could do back then. Now I’m taking all those lessons and putting them into real life, like providing for my family, taking care of them, making sure they’re good mentally and financially.
A lot of things I learned at a young age are translating into my life now. Down the road, when I do find that special someone, I want kids someday. I want to build a family and do it right. And so I’d say I’m prepared for when that day comes because I know what to do and what not to do.
In an interview with Billboard, you said about music, “It saved me. It helped me. It was my therapy.” Let’s talk about how music helped you and how it continues to do so.
Music is, in my opinion, the best form of therapy. I think it’s God’s gift to us to be able to create and sing along, or dance, or whatever it is, to a tune. Music has shaped my mindset so much. I started playing when I was 10 or 11 years old and it shaped the way I cope with things. Instead of getting angry or upset or sad or frustrated, whatever the emotion is, I sit down at my piano and I just play for 30 minutes to an hour.
Being creative and having that creative mind, it runs fast and it runs 24/7. It’s … not a double-edged sword, but there’s a yin-yang to it. Music is the thing that drives me crazy because my mind can’t shut up and stop. But at the same time, I was in a write yesterday and the energy in the room was so great for four or five hours straight. We were smiling and laughing and creating the song. So music is my escape from what music does to my brain, if that makes any sense. It helps me ease the craziness of my mind.
During those earlier periods, when music, as you said, saved you, how dark was the darkness?
I lean very strongly on my faith, even during the dark times, and we all get them. I’m the happiest man in the world most days, but I still have days where the weight of the world feels like it’s compressing my spine, in a sense. It’s definitely been dark at times, but I lean on faith and I lean on God, and I lean on my music and other people’s music. It’s easy to snap out of when you have those avenues that are so moving to the soul or the mind.
Has there ever been a time when your faith wavered, or when you questioned it?
Yes. In college … it sounds wrong, and I don’t mean it in this way, but I kind of put my faith on the back burner. I was focusing on other things instead of the most important thing. I was playing football, I was partying a lot with my buddies, I was drinking every weekend to escape whatever it is. I still drink, but I do it with a solid conscience and it’s more celebratory now. There’s a fine line of focusing on worldly things and keeping your eye on the bigger picture of faith and the blessings that God has for us, because there’s so many.
You are giving a portion of ticket sales from this tour to Face The Fight, supporting suicide prevention and mental health treatment for veterans. Why is this the organization you selected to promote and help?
The first time meeting them, I turned to my manager and I was like, “I want a part of this. Let’s find a way to do something.” We put our minds together and it was, “What if we do ticket sales?” I was like, “Yes, a hundred percent.” It’s a huge thing for me because I’ve got a lot of veterans in my family, a lot of men that served and that have given their life on the battlefield.
My grandpa was like my father figure a lot growing up. He ended up taking his life five years ago. He was a very decorated veteran and one of the best people I’ve ever met, but even though it was so many years later, he couldn’t win that battle in his mind.
I think it’s super important to not just shine a light on it, these people that have given so much for our country and the people in it. It is such a selfless act, especially in the heat of war, when you’re fighting for people that you don’t even know, and doing things that no human should do, in my opinion. And then to come home, and 20 or 30 years down the road you’re still thinking about it, and still in that mental space of, “I can’t escape my mind.”
What [Face The Fight] is doing is amazing. It’s a blessing to be a part of. I think if my grandpa had an avenue like that, or knew of an avenue like that, maybe he’d still be here.
In an interview or podcast, you mentioned that you read the comments–
Sometimes.
You must have a really thick skin, because that can wear a person down.
There’s a lot of keyboard warriors out there. I can read the worst comment in the world and it doesn’t get under my skin at all. At the end of the day, I know who I am. The irony behind it is most of the people saying heinous and nasty things online have never created a song. They’ve never sung a tune. They’ve never sat in a room at 3 a.m. because they can’t sleep and put all their feelings on a piece of paper and tried to put a melody behind it. They don’t get it. They see things at surface level. I’m not going to bash on them or say it’s their fault for that. There’s irony behind it and that’s all I take it as. It’s funny to me. It’s almost comical at times.
I heard you use the words “build your brand” during a podcast. There’s a lot of image in this industry: wear the tight jeans, pose with your shirt up – you know what I’m talking about. How do you make sure this doesn’t overshadow the craft? As a new artist, do you have the autonomy to say no, to not answer a question, to stop an interview, to not want to take this picture?
While building a brand, and while creating something that is larger than yourself, it is more important to say no than it is to say yes. I definitely have the autonomy of saying no, and I do say no to a lot of things that come across the table. It’s saying yes to the correct things that align with not just the goal of what we’re trying to build, or the pillars that we are building it on, but morally. I account for my faith in pretty much all the decisions I make.
If I could give advice to any artist coming up – and I’m still making my way there – my biggest piece of advice is, “Say no to things that don’t feel right or don’t make you look like you.” I think I’ve done that pretty decently. At the beginning it’s really hard to say no to things, because you want every opportunity there is. But now I’m saying no to a lot more, saying yes to the correct things, and trusting my people. They know who I am and what we all want to build together, and it makes it a little easier.
Earlier you mentioned people reacting to song teasers. Before this career explosion, was there pressure to keep up when “everyone” is teasing songs on social media and the algorithm is bombarding people? It can turn into artists chasing numbers, which can also affect your mental health. How did you ride that storm without falling victim to it?
The grace of God, honestly. That’s a tough thing. It’s easy to compare yourself to others, based on a numerical scale of, “This got a million views, and I just posted one that’s got 150,000, it’s not being shared.” It’s very easy to get into that comparison mindset, but I do think it’s important to keep posting your stuff. Luckily, I’m getting to the point where I don’t have to post all the time. Posting is one of the most taxing things to my brain. I can’t stand just sitting there and making TikToks or taking photos or whatnot.
I realize the weight that a viral video can hold to your career and to a certain song or a project. It’s an easy way for millions of people to engage with what you’re trying to create. It’s a great tool. That’s the word I’ll use for it: social media is a tool. Some people idolize it and can’t go through their day without it. I look at it as a tool for people to share my music and hear my music and get excited about the things I’m trying to do.
We can’t do this without talking about your mother. She is such an integral part of your life and your career. Without her support, how different would your trajectory have been?
I don’t think there would be any trajectory at all, honestly. After I got injured playing football and dropped out of college, I was living back home. I remember having that conversation with her. I was like, “Mom, I really want to chase this music thing.” It was like a sigh of relief from her, in a sense. Her shoulders went down, she took a deep breath, she goes, “Finally. Finally. I’ve been telling you this for years now.”
She helped me pack up all my stuff and move, and she supported me financially the first couple years of me moving to Nashville. I would be living on the street if it weren’t for her – metaphorically living on the street, because she would never let me do that. She believed in me before I even had good songs. She believed in my work ethic and my mind and my creativity. One of the biggest blessings God has given me is a mother who cares and wants to see her kids succeed in whatever dream they have.
And now she’s doing podcasts and talking about your childhood.
Yeah. Somebody needs to rein her back a little bit!
You love being on the lake. Is water also a form of therapy for you?
Oh, a hundred percent. I grew up in a super small town, Kalama, Washington. Because it’s built up on a hill, pretty much wherever you are, you can see the Columbia River. I spent so much time on that river, or on the Kalama River, or at the lakes surrounding. I feel happiest when I’m at the ocean or at the islands.
I’ve got a lake house in Nashville and it’s a great escape for me to go back home and be able to sit there and look at the water. It helps not just my creative mind, but [also] my mental health. Another thing God has given us as natural therapy is the beauty of a body of water. It’s the most simple thing in the world, but I do not take it for granted.
Is it a spiritual place for you as well, a natural church?
Yeah. Anything can be a church, as long as you’ve got the spirit in it!
What’s on your heart as you’re getting ready for this tour?
Excitement. It’s been a couple months since I’ve toured and I’m itching and eager to get back to it. I’ve had a great break. I’ve had a very creative break. I finished writing my second album yesterday. Obviously, things change and I get new thoughts or whatever, but right now I feel pretty confident in the songs we got, and I’m excited to get back on the road and maybe tease or play some of these new ones and see how people like them.
And I’m excited to just be on the road. I feel most alive when I’m in the craziness of it all. It does get taxing at times, but it’s truly a drug to not just me, but pretty much all my artist buddies. It’s a feeling you can’t really explain, getting up on a stage in front of thousands and having people scream your creations back to you. It’s the coolest thing in the world. I’m excited to see the fans and be with my band, my crew, and my team. It’s a family that we’ve built, and it’s going to be cool. I’m excited.
Since you brought it up, before we close, what can you tell us about the next album?
It is sonically one of the coolest things I’ve heard in a long time. I don’t want to give too much away. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what I want this next record to be for the last year already. I think about what I get in my truck and listen to, and I’m kind of an older soul. So it’s very ‘70s-influenced and early ‘80s, with the guitar tones and drums and weird, synth-y sounding steel guitar licks. It’s really cool and it’s fresh, and I don’t think anybody’s really doing it right now, which I’m excited about but which is also scary, because I don’t know how people are going to feel about it because it is different.
I was thinking about this yesterday, actually: “Proving Me Right” is the perfect bridge into this next chapter, sonically. It’s not too far leaning over there, but it’s still got the old tendencies in it. If you were to listen to anything that gets you excited about this next record, I’d say “Proving Me Right” is a great start.
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Artist:Jenna Torres Hometown: New York, New York Latest Album:Firebird (released December 5, 2025) Personal Nicknames (or rejected band names): I have been known to answer to JT, Jen, JenJen, Sugar, Honey, and Baby, but my favorite by far is Mom.
If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?
Living a song-driven life has filled me with a sense of purpose over and over again. It has always been more than a career to me. There is something about being a singer-songwriter that has always felt like a mission. If I have to break it down to a single statement, I would say my mission is to “touch as many hearts as I can.”
What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?
There are a few, but these are my top two. Be you! Be true to your own voice. The world is filled with great artists, but there is only one you. So follow your heartbeat, dance to your own drum, and try not to give too much of a shit about what other people think, because it can get in the way of finding you.
The second piece of advice I got from my A&R person when I signed a fancy deal some time ago. She said, “Celebrate when things are good, because the world of music is full of ups and downs and if you don’t celebrate when things are going well, you will wake up and whatever was worth celebrating will be gone.” Being somewhat superstitious, I missed out on quite a few moments when I could have been having fun. She was right – when things are going well, raise a glass of gratitude and be sure to enjoy the moment!
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do they impact your work?
I am into human nature. I like to say people are my trees. Growing up in NYC, people have always been my inspiration. My songs are born out of the endless fascination with how we handle what life gives us. I probably get more from riding the subway than a walk in the woods, although there is magic in the woods and the waves. I love to walk down a city street – it inspires me to tell stories.
What’s one question you wish interviewers would stop asking you?
“What or who is your favorite ‘fill in the blank’?” I am kind of an equal opportunity appreciator, if that is a phrase. I do have old favorites, but I seem to have new favorites every day. I am always open to loving something I have never seen, heard, or done before. So yeah – I can’t pick a favorite!
If you didn’t work in music, what would you do instead?
I would be a fortune teller. I love the unseen world. I tend to dig the deep end of the pool, so some helping profession that involves exploring healing from within – which is not that much of a departure from songwriting when you think about it.
Depending on who you ask, Jake Owen might be responsible for the very first bro country song. His 2011 hit “Barefoot Blue Jean Night” wasn’t the first party-ready ode to Southern summers and ice-cold beer, but its slick mix of country signifiers and stadium-rock production – courtesy of Joey Moi, best known for producing Nickelback and later Morgan Wallen – proved highly influential, arguably paving the way for crossover smashes like Florida Georgia Line’s “Cruise” and Blake Shelton’s “Boys ‘Round Here.”
“Never gonna grow up, never gonna slow down,” Owen sang on his signature hit, neatly summing up the youth-obsessed ethos of the bro country era. Now 44 and newly independent after 20 years on RCA Nashville and later Big Loud, he’s singing a different tune.
“I’ve made a lot of records that had a fantasy, ‘Remember when we were young?’ kind of feel to them,” Owen told Good Country. “What feels good about this new record is that I can listen to it and feel like I’m listening to my life right now. It’s very real.”
Dreams to Dream, Owen’s eighth studio album and his first with Shooter Jennings producing, is a sharp left turn for an artist known for hits like “Beachin,’” “I Was Jack (You Were Diane),” and “American Country Love Song.” Earlier this year, Owen decamped to LA amid the wildfires, leaving the comfort of Nashville behind in search of creative truth and a more organic sound. The result is one of the year’s best and most surprising country albums, which trades bro-ish bravado for world-weary introspection and a classic-country sensibility.
The title track is a rollicking, country-rock statement of purpose that name-checks Hank Williams, Jr. and establishes the stakes: “I’ve been down, but I ain’t no quitter/ ‘Bout to get up on my feet/ ‘Cause I still got dreams to dream,” Owen sings in the rousing chorus. On the Troy Jones-penned “Wouldn’t Be Gone,” he muses about leaving stardom behind to work in a hardware store. (“I already know a thing or two about hardwood floors,” goes the song’s best line.) Other standouts include “Chill of December,” a Haggardian expression of winter loneliness, and “The One I Did It To,” a doleful admission of romantic wrongdoing.
In a Q&A, Owen spoke to Good Country about teaming up with Jennings, defining authenticity on his own terms, and why he doesn’t shy away from his bro country past.
This album is a departure from the sound that you’re best known for. What made now the right time to do an album like this?
Jake Owen: My life has always been about timing and believing that I’m supposed to be where I am. The album’s called Dreams to Dream and it came about because I was in this interesting place in my life where I’ve had a record deal for 20 years and, all of a sudden, I’m doing something on my own. Which felt kind of like freedom, but also felt very scary.
For a long time I was focused on the more commercialized songs that would work on radio, since I was on a major label, and I felt like this is the time to make the kind of record that I’ve always really loved. I’ve always tried to follow my heart and what my intuitions have told me. They haven’t always been right, but I definitely follow them.
What was it like working with Shooter Jennings?
He really exceeded my expectations. I expected to go out there and make a record, but I didn’t know I would leave there with an awesome new friend and somebody that really believed in me as a person with dreams and a purpose and things they wanted to say. He was so encouraging to me. I felt safe with him, which is a weird way to put it, I guess. But you need people to pat you on the back and tell you that you’re doing the right thing.
It also was at a time when – I’m not ashamed to say it – there were not a lot of people ringing my phone in Nashville to tell me they were proud of 20 years of what I’d done in my career and 11 number one songs. Kind of weird, right? But the one guy that was calling me and applauding me and telling me that I could do way better, bigger things in my life than what I’d already done was Shooter Jennings. Out of all people, right? That says so much about how much he loves music and believes in people. I think you’d probably hear that same answer from anybody else that he’s worked with.
The second song on the album, “Them Old Love Songs,” is a Waylon Jennings cover. Why did covering Waylon make sense for this record?
Well, there was no part of me going out there that thought I would do any covers. But Shooter and I just talked about life and music out there, and he was saying that his dad always would cut cover songs for fun when he came off the road. Shooter would encourage me, each night or whenever we were done with the session, to do some covers and just have some fun. With that one in particular, I was nervous to ask Shooter, because it felt a little cliché. I wondered how many people work with him and have wanted to do that or if he’s offended by that.
But I always loved that song and the album that it’s on, Are You Ready for the Country. It’s pretty wild, because that album starts off really rocking, and then it goes into that. To me, if you listen to that song, the lyrics say, “I wish I had a true fine woman/ Let her rock me all night long/ And maybe we could get it together/ Like people do in them old love songs.” I’ve been singing that my whole life and it’s still the way I dream of love. And then, going back to the first verse, it says, “Nobody cares where I’m going, all they know is I’m coming back.” I don’t think anybody cared that I was going to make a record with Shooter. Nobody really even knew.
Also, one of the reasons Shooter and I decided to make this album was our love for the Hank Williams Jr. record, The New South, that his dad actually produced. Hank moved to Alabama to make that album, I think it was in 1977, and said he needed to get out of Music City because he wanted to go make his kind of music with his friends. And I felt the same way. Like, here I am going to LA to make a record with Shooter, and he’s encouraging me like Waylon encouraged Hank. So recording that Waylon song, with Shooter producing it, it just felt right.
You recently celebrated the 20-year anniversary of moving to Nashville and signing your first record deal with RCA. You made a post referring to “the highest of highs and lowest of lows” in your career. Could you tell me about some of those highs and lows?
Yeah, well, first off, thanks for even acknowledging that, which I think is important to the reasoning behind this whole record in general. I would start off by telling you that the highest high for me was just moving to Nashville and knowing that something was ahead of me. When I left college, I left my twin brother and a lot of my friends and my entire family at home in Florida. I still look back on that guy, and I’m like, “What the fuck was I thinking?” But I guess I just had to chase it. And then getting to Nashville and immersing yourself with people that are so much better than you are, I just didn’t have that where I was in college in Tallahassee. I kind of felt alone. Getting a record deal was also a big part of that, feeling like I had accomplished part of what I came here to do. And then I spent the next seven years having to figure out how to keep the guys in the band paid and the buses rolling on the road and how to get my first number one song. Everybody thinks that’s the easy part once you sign the record deal, but it really wasn’t. It was a rude awakening.
And I went through a divorce. I got married, I had a kid. It’s like the classic country song shit, man. I think that was a big low for me, having to leave my family to go on the road. I had been very successful from my dreams that I chased, but the one thing that I probably desired the most, outside of music, was a family life. The one thing that I’ve never been good at and I haven’t figured out is that real solid relationship in life, building love and trust, and that bothers me a lot. It bothers me that I can be good at a lot of other things, and that is the most important thing to me, and I haven’t been so great at it.
You were a major player in the bro country era, which is now having this sort of nostalgic reappraisal. I’m thinking of the HARDY and Ernest song “Bro Country,” which is an ode to that time in country music. When you think about that era, what goes through your mind?
It’s funny, because I don’t know that anybody has said this before, but I’ll tell you right now: I started that shit. Everybody wants to shy away from bro country or whatever, but I invented that shit. And yeah, I am proud, in a way. I remember being at a time in my career where I had a record deal for seven or eight years and I had a couple songs that had done all right, but I was feeling like I was gonna lose my record deal if I didn’t try to do some different shit. And I didn’t have a producer at the time. I’d left Tony Brown, who was great. And he’s like, “Hey, man, you should meet this guy, Joey Moi. I think he’d be great for you.”
Joey obviously came from Nickelback and all that. At the time, no different than when I left Tallahassee for Nashville, everybody was like, “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” So here’s a guy now from Nickelback who’s gonna try out making country music on me, which was probably a crazy thing, too. It wasn’t that I was trying to sell out. If anything, I look back and I’m like, “Dude, I had the balls to just do something different at the time.”
“Barefoot Blue Jean Night” was our first release and it had all of these claps and stomps and loop shit. It ended up being the most-played song of the decade [according to Country Aircheck]. I have the plaque on my wall. It was a major, major changing point in my life and career, because it worked. Not only did I keep making those songs for the next few years, but it influenced a shit-ton of people.
I think a lot of people might want to avoid that association. It’s kind of like the way that ‘80s rock and roll gets shit on sometimes, but there are still people in their cars cranking it to 11, right? If you look back at my early career, the songs I was writing were very country, because that’s what I always loved. I went on tour with Brooks & Dunn and Alan Jackson. So when all of a sudden, years later, all of the people that were my heroes were like, “I hate this kid,” it kind of hurt my feelings. But I always knew in my heart that I would get back to what brought me to the table.
Among the detractors you alluded to, people who are into more traditional-sounding country music, there’s this idea that pop-country or bro country is inauthentic. What do you think is “authentic” country music?
Authenticity is the ability for artists to take any type of music and just make it their own. Johnny Cash never shot a man in Reno. But it was a huge song for him. George Jones didn’t write “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” but he owns that song. Stardust is the biggest album Willie Nelson ever released and he didn’t write a single song on it. And he’s one of the greatest songwriters of all time. Authenticity isn’t about where somebody’s from or how they grew up. If you own what you’re doing, and you deliver it in a way that’s believable, I think that’s authentic.
I’m thinking now of this back-and-forth you had with Jason Isbell a couple years ago about artists writing their own songs.
Yeah, dude. That guy. I love Jason Isbell, that’s what’s crazy. Some of the artists that I love the most just spout off at the mouth. The other day I said something about Zach Bryan. I love that guy’s music too, right? He’s amazing, and he’s also uber successful – selling 120,000 tickets or whatever, which I could never even fathom. And Jason is out winning GRAMMYs on top of being an incredible guitar player, so much more talented than I could ever dream of being. But I don’t understand why guys like that will take the time on shit on someone else’s music.
That’s never made sense to me and it’s always made me want to just ask that question directly to them. Which is what I did to Jason. I was just like, “Dude, I’m not going to get into an argument with you over Twitter, so give me your number. I’m going to just call you and have a conversation about why you feel this way.” He and I had a great conversation. And he was very cool to acknowledge and entertain my questioning behind why he would just spout at the mouth about stuff like that. We both ended it at the time – and this was years ago, when I was drinking, or maybe he was – he’s like, “Dude, we should catch a beer sometime.”
So, to go back to the authenticity thing, there’s so many people that are so great at a lot of things. One of my absolute favorite artists right now is Charley Crockett and he does that, too. I wonder, sometimes, I’m like, “Why are you guys all trying to prove to one another that you’re more authentic than the next guy?” Sorry, you can tell I’m getting tense talking about it. But I’m confused by it, because those guys make some of my favorite music and it bothers me that they feel the need to try to blow somebody else’s candle out in order to make their already blazing one shining brighter.
I wonder if part of you wanted to prove to that type of person that you could make one of these really rooted, quote-unquote “authentic,” hardcore country records.
I think it was about proving to myself what my intuitions are and what my beliefs have always been about what’s right for me. I also really needed somebody to tell me that what I was doing was the right decision, and Shooter never wavered. He was constantly telling me, “Dude, this is it. You’re going to open up a Pandora’s box for your career in ways that I don’t think you’ve seen before.” I will say that it’s definitely opened my eyes to a lot of things and a lot of people reached out to me that have never reached out to me before.
One of my favorite songwriters, artists, people I’m a huge fan of is Brandy Clark. I think she’s incredible and just a brilliant songwriter. And she happened to be in LA when I was there and stopped by to see Shooter. She called me after and I just started crying. Because she was like, “Jake, I’m so happy for you. Like, I hear you in this.” It was just so fulfilling to hear that from her. She didn’t have to do that, but I was so moved by it.
I’m grateful for people that don’t think about music from a standpoint of judgment, but look at it as a possibility of something greater.
Editor’s note: Each issue, our co-founder Ed Helms will share a handful of good country artists, albums, and songs direct from his own earphones in Ed’s Picks.
Photos: Kane Brown by Diwang Valdez; Hannah Dasher, courtesy of the artist; Mickey Guyton by Bonnie Nichols; Emily Nenni by Alysse Gafkjen; Reyna Roberts, courtesy of the artist.
Being part of the queer community, a small community at that, means that I meet many folks, especially queer artists, at Nashville’s lesbian bar, The Lipstick Lounge. This is true not only for Laura Valk of Skout, who was featured on the column in July, but also for Chris Housman. Chris’s friend, Nell Maynard (who co-wrote their song “Blueneck”), was playing at Lipstick Lounge in 2021. This was my first view into Chris’ music. “Blueneck” was blowing up, gaining nearly three million views on TikTok and charting #1 on the iTunes Country chart. Chris has since collaborated with other LGBTQ+ artists in Nashville, including Mercy Bell, and Cali Willson, who was featured in Out Now last month.
We are excited to share this conversation about Chris’ writing process, insights into his life, and his experiences as a queer musician. AND we can’t wait for Chris Housman’s live performance at our Queerfest/BGS special event at AmericanaFest at SoHo House this Saturday, September 23, from 3-6 p.m. The event is RSVP only. You can do so here.
What’s your ideal vision for your future?
Chris Housman: My ideal vision for my future is to not have a vision for my future. I promise I don’t mean this to be a copout answer, but I’ve been thinking a whole lot about how much “the future” and planning for it is instilled in us from a young age and how much anxiety and disappointment that’s probably caused us. I wrote a very country song about this recently with the hook, “We’re so busy dreaming ’bout tomorrow that we’re sleeping on today.” Of course, we all have to think about the future to some extent and plan things – it would be irresponsible not to. But if I can get to a point where I’m just in a whole bunch of constant “now’s” – how liberating. That’s the ideal vision for my future.
What is your greatest fear?
The strongest fear I’ve encountered so far in life is the fear of not being liked/accepted. I think the best way to get over fears and monsters is to sit with them, not run away from them. I’ve been sitting with that fear a lot in the last few years and I truly believe that my writing and music has also helped me work toward overcoming that.
Why do you create music? What’s more satisfying to you, the process or the outcome?
I create music because I truly can’t imagine doing anything else. Even in the brief time I wasn’t focusing on music, I was still creating it in some way or another.
Maybe a hot take here, but I think the outcome of creating music is more satisfying than the process. If I’m being honest, the process is often messy, muddy, rough, stressful, beautiful and sometimes… incomplete. I love the process more. But the outcome of having finished creating something that started with a thought in your head and resulted in some sounds that you’re extremely proud of? That’s probably about as satisfying as it gets.
Do you create music primarily for yourself or for others?
The way I see it, if you create music for yourself, it can be for others. If you create music for others, it can’t be for yourself.
Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?
Gah, there are so many I couldn’t possibly get them all in – but right now I’m absolutely obsessed, on a fan and friend level, with new releases from Brooke Eden, Adam Mac, Kentucky Gentlemen, and Adeem the Artist. Brandy Clark and Shane McAnally are some of my biggest songwriting influences. Cali Wilson, Jett Holden and Mercy Bell are some of my favorite voices and humans. And I’ve probably listened to Amythyst Kiah’s album Wary + Strange more than anything in the last two years.
What does it mean to you to be an LGBTQ+ musician? What are your release and touring plans for the next year?
Being an LGBTQ+ musician automatically means resilience, to me. It means someone that’s willing to vulnerably and artistically share all of the beautiful parts of themselves despite being told in some capacity they shouldn’t.
As of now, I’m planning on releasing my next single this fall, followed by my debut full-length album toward the top of 2024! That record really represents my life’s work up to this point and I am so ridiculously excited to finish and share it. I have a few random shows and Pride events lined up for next year, but am also just putting it out there that I think it would be so lovely to land a cheeky tour opening slot or something. 😉
What was the process of writing, recording and promoting “Blueneck?” What was it like for you to see it take off like it did?
Wow, it was WILD! To be completely honest, the idea to write a song about being a liberal redneck called “Blueneck” came to me while on a mushroom trip toward the end of 2020. I then moved it to my ongoing note of ideas where it sat for a few months, until I was in a Zoom co-writing session with (fellow queer songwriter) Nell Maynard and Tommy Kratzert. Tommy played a track idea he had that sounded SO commercial country, like something Florida Georgia Line would do. Hearing that track and knowing I was writing with like-minded friends I trusted and felt comfortable with, I said something along the lines of, “Hey guys, I have this crazy idea – hear me out.”
We wrote just the chorus that day and I posted it to all of my 72 followers on TikTok at the time. It started blowing up, we finished writing it a couple days later, recorded it a few days after that, somehow managed to release it less than a month after starting to write the song, and with the help of over 4 million collective views of the song on TikTok, it debuted as the #1 song on the iTunes Country chart, #4 iTunes all-genre, and the #16 on the Billboard Digital Country Sales chart. This still doesn’t even seem real as I say this, haha!
To have ANY song take off like “Blueneck” did is obviously incredible, validating of all the work I’ve put in thus far, exciting, mind-blowing, inspiring. But for it to be not just any song, but “Blueneck” that is essentially just a telling of my life and my values as a queer person that grew up on a farm and wants everybody to feel seen and worthy of a seat at the table – that’s like life mission accomplished stuff right there. It’s like oh yeah this is so much bigger than just chasing a dream because I love music. And as awesome as it is that so many folks felt seen by the song, I also felt tremendously seen by the audience; I found my people!
You’ve done a lot of collaborating with other LGBTQ+ artists – including Cali Wilson, Mercy Bell and Nell Maynard. Could you tell us about your experiences working with other queer artists and growing your careers together?
I absolutely looooove working with other queer artists/songwriters/creatives! Even just entering the writing room (or other creative space) with fellow queers, there is a secret understood alliance of sorts. You’ve gone through similar struggles just to get into that space together, so there’s no need to be unauthentic and put more obstacles in your own way – which leads to REAL songs. Another one of my favorite parts about creating with other LGBTQ+ and other marginalized artists is that the feeling of competition completely goes out the window. We’re on the same team, so why would I view someone on my team succeeding as a bad thing? It brings us all up. And then we win!
Photo Credit: Ford Fairchild
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