singer songwriter Archives - Page 4 of 138

Waylon Wyatt Leads a New Generation of Country Stars

Posted on July 21, 2026September 4, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

With a raw, gut-wrenching approach to songcraft, Waylon Wyatt is quickly becoming an essential voice in the new generation of Americana artists. Emphasis on “new generation.”

A 19-year-old from the tiny West Arkansas town of Hackett, Wyatt has parlayed a razor-wire vocal and songs written to honor the memory of a lost brother into rising acclaim, first via social media and then on country’s biggest stages. Already a fan of Zach Bryan, Wyatt opened two shows for the superstar at London’s massive BTS festival in Hyde Park in 2025, and since then he’s continued growing.

Gritty anthems to love like “Arkansas Diamond” have been met with massive streaming number and a pair of duets with fellow red-dirt riser Bayker Blankenship set the pace for more singles to come. In June, the young talent was performing as part of CMA Fest when his friend and hero Wyatt Flores invited him to make his Grand Ole Opry debut. And the instinctive songwriter has made huge creative leaps as well.

On his debut album Dustpiles that released on July 17, Wyatt seems to unburden his soul a little more on each craggy, sun-baked, acoustic anthem. But with a long list of big-name collaborators like Ian Fitchuk, Carter Faith, Joe Becker (Sam Barber), Tofer Brown (Tim McGraw, Old Dominion), Anderson East, and Brett Truitt, his signature style is more honed than ever.

Waylon Wyatt spoke with Good Country about where his tunes come from, and where rising fame has him headed.

Tell me a little about home in Arkansas. What’s life like in Hackett?

Waylon Wyatt: Hackett, it’s a map dot for sure. It’s pretty easy to overlook. There’s nothing too crazy. We don’t have any stoplights in my town so I guess you could say it’s pretty go, go, go. But it’s a small town and it’s very homey and I love how peaceful Hackett is. My first time going to Nashville, I was not ready for how just lit up everything would be.

I’m very glad to be where I’m from. Growing up in Arkansas is just a blessing and a half because you have so many people that are so encouraging. I mean, I didn’t grow up with any bullies in my life or anything like that. I had more supporters than I did haters. So I would say that I was pretty well backed up during my whole development of trying to find a career path, especially by my parents. I say they are my biggest fans, but they also are my biggest humblers. My family in general is very good at keeping me grounded and making sure that I don’t get no big head.

You said family’s a big part of your life and I know that’s true, because when I saw you at Basement East [in Nashville], you talked about how you got started after losing your brother. Can you talk a little bit about why that inspired you to start in music?

Yeah, of course. So when I was about eight or nine years old, my brother ended up taking his own life and that just kind of threw me off for the longest time, because I just questioned why. I didn’t really have the knowledge or idea of why that come to be, what was the reason behind it, that kind of stuff. I mean, I was young, so it just didn’t make sense. I’m still kind of figuring those things out. Even now, I’m still questioning as to what directed that to happen. But growing up with it there was kind of a hole in my life, a hole in the family amongst us all, because he was the oldest brother of my family.

Later on, I got into music through learning guitar, because my older brother was a guitarist. He was a musician. He was a good one at that. Wasn’t as much a singer. I don’t think he could carry a lick of a tune whatsoever, but he was a guitarist. When I was younger, I had this fake little electric guitar that if you plucked it, it would make guitar sounds and we would call it our little jam sesh. I would be with him while he was playing and I’d act like I was playing and just riffing off each other. But I like to think that we’re still having our jam sessions now. When I get up on stage and I sing the one song that I wrote directly for him [“Phoning Heaven”], it feels like he’s in that room with me. I think it’s such a beautiful thing that even though it was such a misfortunate and depressing thing that happened … it led me to this music career and to shed light on that for other people that need to hear such things.

I’m sure he’d be very proud of you and how far you’ve come. Is your style kind of close to what he was doing? What kind of music was he into?

Oh man, he was a rocker. I wish I could rock like he did. He was just amazing at riffing.

So were your parents super into outlaw country? Is that why they named you Waylon?

Yeah, my dad was super big into outlaw country. My mom, she’s big into bluegrass and, weirdly enough, heavy metal. That’s her two things. But he was the giver of names. Also, my little brother, his name is Jesse – as in Jessi Colter – and Cole, like Cole Younger [of the James-Younger Gang]. Jesse Cole. My name’s Waylon Wyatt, like Waylon Jennings and Wyatt Earp. It’s just all kinds of things.

That’s cool. Also though, your style is very raw in that acoustic folk-country vein that definitely reminds me of artists like Zach Bryan. Did he make an impact on you?

Oh yeah. I mean the reason I wrote my song called “Arkansas Diamond” was due to a song by Zach Bryan called “Oklahoma Smoke Show.” Oklahoma and Arkansas being so close together, I was like, “Arkansas needs a song about a girl.” And that’s why I started writing that song. It was definitely [the] fuel behind my lyricism, the way he writes his music and the way he depicts a picture through his lyricism as well. His song, “Something in the Orange,” I’m sure that it kind of sparked up my idea of writing “Everything Under the Sun.”

Then I guess it came full circle last summer. You ended up opening for him in London, right? Two nights in Hyde Park and like 70,000 fans each time. What’s going on in your mind in that moment?

I was just kind of bewildered by the fact that I’m all the way in Europe. I mean, I loved that I was playing this thing, but I didn’t know what it was. All I knew was that I was in Europe and I was like, “This is so crazy.”

Yeah. If you thought Nashville was overwhelming, then I’d say London was probably that times a hundred, right?

Definitely. Yeah, it was absolutely insane. The people there were so incredible just to hear talk. I get told I have an accent and I don’t think I do, but those people definitely have an accent. … It was a fun time and I can’t wait to be back. We’re going to be hitting that market later this year too. Not Hyde Park, though.

Tell me a little bit about Dustpiles. This is the album debut. What do you love the most about this thing?

So the reason behind this is just the nostalgic feeling of finding love and losing said love and then rediscovering love. … The reason I love it so much though is just because it’s my biggest work to date and I’m so proud of it because it was putting myself out there, working with other songwriters and other producers that I hadn’t yet gotten to know. There was some that were just not the best hang sessions, and there was some that I’d be like, “All right, I’ll be with you till the day I die,” kind of thing.

It was just the idea of getting out of my comfort zone. But the main theme behind Dustpiles specifically is I was writing this song for my girlfriend saying whatever we go through in life, I want to make sure we become so secure with each other that in the end, we can just be two piles of dust. It’s kind of an eerie sound to it, but it’s basically meaning just finding that one that you love so much you see growing old with each other.

That’s an interesting way of looking at something beautiful, and then it’s also got a bit of a darker side.

Definitely. I don’t know why. I could be the happiest man on earth and I’ll still find a way to write a gut-wrenching lyric.

You’re wrapping up a headline tour pretty soon. That’s a big step to come early in your career. So how’s it going?

So we’re wrapping up the Everywhere Under the Sun Tour pretty soon, but we’ll be starting the debut album tour – my first world tour, Dustpiles World Tour – and I’m super stoked about that. We’re going to be hitting Europe and Australia on this leg. Touring’s been insane. It’s just been crazy. Before even doing all of this, the furthest I’ve been out of home-state was just to the state over, Oklahoma. That’s the furthest I had been. And now I can say I’ve been to Australia, I’ve been to Europe, I’ve been to Scandinavia. That’s probably in Europe, too. I don’t know. But it’s just insane the places I get to go now doing these shows and the people that come to my show and for some reason know the lyrics. I still can’t believe it. I have to preach myself every day I wake up just to see if it’s the reality I’m living right now.

Especially headline shows. I get to act myself and show my true self to the people. I love that so much. And doing these festivals too, one of my favorite things is doing festivals just because I have such an early slot in the day that I get my show over and then I’m just seeing a bunch of other concerts. I’m like, this is awesome. Not only am I seeing a bunch of concerts, but I’m seeing them backstage. So I’m closer to the artist than anybody else.

Speaking of festivals, CMA Fest was a big moment, right? You ended up getting invited to make your Grand Ole Opry debut from your buddy, Wyatt Flores. The look on your face was just utter shock, kind of bewilderment. So what was going on in your head, and how’s it feel to make this Opry debut?

I’ll tell you right now, it was such a big deal. Had it been anybody else, it would’ve been a big deal, too. But being Wyatt, it was the biggest deal it could have been just because Wyatt Flores happens to be the very first live show I ever got to witness. It was at Cain’s Ballroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was such a big deal because I had never been able to go to a live show before. We didn’t have a lot of money. We didn’t have a lot of time on our hands to be able. My dad does his own construction company. My mom, she’s a mail carrier, so they’re always gone and out doing their own thing. And we kids were just kind of stuck at the house.

His agents had reached out when I had slowly started making waves on the TikTok and that’s how we got the ability to go to a show. And sometime down the line, I met him in a VIP lounge and the first thing after talking to him he gave me his phone number and told me, “If you ever have trouble on the road, just call me and text me.” And later that year, too, I had opened for him for a few shows and then later down the line also we put a song out. So it was just kind of like a gradual circling of each other.

It was also connecting the dots just from him. I think Turnpike [Troubadours] told him [about his Opry debut], so it was one of his idols telling him, and it was my idol, too. Just kind of passing on the torch. I’ll tell you right now, I was doing my best to not tear up. I’m not a very emotional man – except in my lyricism – but there that day I was gutted and I was trying my best not to cry. I took my glasses off because the sun started going down and I told him right in the mic, I was like, “Yep,” then “Thanks for coming!”

Photo Credit: Cole Silberman

Jobi Riccio Believes Sensitivity is a Superpower

Posted on July 20, 2026July 20, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

When it’s time to recharge her creativity or reconnect with herself, Jobi Riccio goes back to nature. The mountains and hiking trails of her native Colorado were integral to her childhood and adolescence. Today, the trees, plant life, and paths of Nashville help bring her back to center.

Perhaps it’s no surprise, then, that all things natural life and climate factor into her songwriting. Personally and professionally, Riccio has become a spokesperson for our global environment and its future. “Wildfire Season,” from her latest release, Face The Feeling, addresses these issues. Written in the aftermath of the 2020 Colorado wildfires, the song stands out in its unfiltered message, while at the same time slotting in as a perfect fit within the album’s context.

Face The Feeling was produced and engineered by Riccio’s longtime friends and colleagues Jesse Timm and Isaiah Beard. The album leans on her folk and bluegrass roots while injecting them with her passion for indie and punk rock. Riccio takes on mental health, grief, self-doubt, past and present hurt, and the long road to recovery and autonomy. It’s a lot of what is now commonly known as “big feelings,” and entirely the only walk that she knows and wants to take. All of this is served up with a healthy dose of fierce guitars.

Riccio last spoke with BGS in 2023, following the release of Whiplash. Phoning in this time to talk about Face The Feeling, she was days away from a June 9 performance at Wolf Trap as part of Songwriters Celebrate John Prine joining Emmylou Harris, Margo Price, Patty Griffin, I’m With Her, Lucius, Allison Russell, Hayes Carll, Fancy Hagood, and Tommy Prine.

Riccio’s connection to Prine dates back to her early musical influences, reaching a high point in 2023 when she was awarded the Newport Festivals Foundation’s John Prine Fellowship. The Wolf Trap concert was in some ways bringing her full circle, sharing a stage with colleagues, each playing one original and one song of Prine’s.

“I’ve done some stuff in the past with the Prine family,” she remarks. “They have welcomed me into their circle and they’ve been really sweet. It’s been a real blessing of life in Nashville, that whole experience. I’m honored and excited to get to do that show.”

Let’s start a little differently. Tell us about your day so far.

Jobi Riccio: Okay. I woke up and had breakfast on my front porch. I just moved neighborhoods in Nashville – I moved to Madison, Tennessee, and I have a nice front porch now, so I’ve been enjoying coming out and having coffee in the morning. And then I went to therapy, I came back and had a meeting with my manager, we did some co-working stuff together over Zoom, I had lunch, and now I’m doing this.

This album was written between Colorado and Nashville. How did both environments and both communities help shape the new music?

In terms of the lyrics, I feel like I have a lot of references to nature in Colorado and western nature, mostly because I’ve been speaking that language and speaking those names longer. I’m just learning the names of the trees, bushes, daylilies, and all the stuff out here now. I’ve lived in Tennessee… it’ll be five years in September, so I’m just learning everything that’s here.

Any time I’m feeling reflective, I call upon my past, thinking about my family or where I’m from. It’s a big part of my identity. But I definitely identify as an artist both from Nashville and Colorado. Nashville played a really big role in the writing of this record. I started playing a lot more electric guitar when I moved here. I started spending more and more time in my room playing. I was listening to a lot of country electric guitar, but for some reason it became this more indie-rock singer-songwriter kind of thing.

I think I wrote about Nashville and the community more. You hear that on “Love of the Song,” just kind of struggling to find my footing here, because it does take a while to figure that out. I was really lucky to know a lot of people before I moved here. I say this in the song – I was set up in all the right places, with all the right people, and I still felt a sense of “Damn, do I belong here?” The impostor syndrome of doing music for a job is really hard and I think women and femme people in general really struggle with impostor syndrome and living in our heads and second-guessing ourselves a lot more than men do. I address that in the song “Doesn’t Matter,” which closes the album.

So I think it’s a record where I come into living in Nashville and am also like, “I am worthy of doing this job and this job is such a big part of what makes this town this town.” Despite all the new development and changes that everyone’s always talking about, Nashville is and will always be Music City, and the community is what makes it great.

Where were you, mentally and emotionally, when this creative process began, and where are you now?

I was in a hard place when I started – and in the middle of it. I think it’s a brave thing that you really have to do in life, whether or not you want to, which is to own up to your shit. It’s a very crass way of saying it, but basically I was trying to outrun some shadows, trying to outrun some trauma, trying to outrun things that needed to be dealt with that were coming out in my life.

I was still pretty young when I started writing this record and [when I moved] to Nashville. I moved here almost five years ago and I started writing this record about three years ago. It’s been such an up-and-down experience. I feel like it’s mirrored the experience I’ve had with getting my sea legs as a touring musician, too. They’ve been very much in tandem.

Despite what you see online, it’s not this constant upward, “Everything’s great and it’s always getting better all the time, the gigs are always getting better.” Some nights you’re playing for 3,000 people, opening for Lucinda Williams – which I got to do – and the next night you’re in Utah playing for 50 people headlining. It’s a total rollercoaster. It’s about learning how to find the tools to ground yourself. I really needed to learn how to do that intrapersonally first, for myself, and I’m glad that I did at the beginning of writing this record. But it definitely chronicles a long journey of growth. I feel like it’s a weird time to do this job. And also growth is… you’re never done. It’s not linear. So I’m always doing my best every day, and that’s all I can ever expect of myself. And every day is different.

Were the songs finished when you began recording?

Most of them were, but not all of them, which is a new experience for me. I’m used to having all of them done and buttoned up and being like, “Okay, here we are. Let’s go record them.” But when we first started talking about what this album could be, I had the song “Doesn’t Matter,” just the idea of it, the guitar part, and the beginning of it, and I was like, “I don’t really know if this is any good.”

I played it for my co-producers, Jesse [Timm] and Isaiah [Beard], and they were like, “This is really cool. You should finish the song.” They basically watched as I finished it. I was writing stuff down actively in the studio, which I’ve never had that experience. I wrote more songs, too, that didn’t make the record. Whether or not those will go on another project or ever see the light of day, I don’t know. But I was open to seeing what would come.

Tell us about your working relationship with Jesse and Isaiah. How did it begin and how has it grown over the course of your albums?

I met Jesse at Berklee. We met on the first day of college. We were in the same dorm. They’re from Northern California, I’m from Colorado, they’re from a weird hippie town, I’m from a weird hippie town – we immediately understood each other. I feel so incredibly lucky to have met them, because not many people get to have someone who is so encouraging of their music alongside them at any stage.

Not everything I wrote in college was very good, but they were always very invested in it and also [in] finding their voice as an arranger and composer and writing string parts. I would come up with a song and they’d be like, “Oh, I came up with a string part for it. Do you like it?” That’s such a spoiled experience to have, because it would be a gorgeous thing. We’ve played together and been collaborators and friends for ten years now.

I met Isaiah through Jesse. Isaiah also went to school with us, but I didn’t know him. He was a few years older and worked the same student job with Isaiah in project bands. It’s where kids have their stuff recorded for different school projects. They both did admin work for these project band things, so they became friends. I had a friend from the songwriting program at school who had a record produced by Isaiah in Nashville. He moved here a couple of years before me, and he said it was an amazing experience. I listened to it and I thought it was just the coolest thing ever. I heard so much creativity in the production and the mix. Also, Isaiah has his own solo project and he’s one of the most creative people I’ve ever met. I reached out to him and that’s how we ended up working on Whiplash. It felt like a very organic trio and through that we became really good friends.

I moved to Nashville, he lives close by, and I feel like I’m very spoiled for having people who love and understand both me and my music. I feel truly blessed. I don’t know how else to say it. I hear how all three of us have grown as musicians on this project versus the last project. I’ve grown a lot as a writer, the mixing and production work Isaiah did is outstanding, and Jesse wrote all the string parts. I can hear all of our growth and development as individual creative people. My name is on the record, but it does really feel like a collaboration.

You play acoustic, electric, and baritone electric on this album. Tell us about your guitars – which ones you play on the album, which ones are going on the road, any backstories you’d like to share.

I only have three guitars in my personal possession, but Isaiah had a lot of guitars lent to him by our friend Jake Byrne, who works at Carter Vintage Guitars. So nice of Jake! We had a vintage Mustang that Isaiah played on “Buzzkill.” He played some very Green Day-esque type things on that song. It was just the most fun little guitar.

Isaiah owns the baritone guitar that I played. He won it in a guitar raffle at a benefit concert that I played when the Asheville, [NC] flood happened. We had a big fundraiser here in Nashville. We collaborated with some folks in Asheville to raise money and a guy out of Asheville who ran a guitar store put together this raffle. I was one of the artists on the bill, Isaiah and his partner came and entered the raffle, and he won this baritone electric with a metal neck. It’s the craziest guitar ever.

I have a Martin D-35 from 1993 that’s my baby acoustic guitar that you’ll see me playing all the time. I bought it at the Pickin’ Parlor, an acoustic guitar store in Arvada, Colorado. I was with my friend Al out around Denver looking for a guitar. I wanted a dreadnought because I was really interested in playing bluegrass. I was in college, 21 at the time, and interested in digging into flatpicking. I was like, “I need a dreadnought. There’s no other way.”

I played a lot of different guitars, and other Martins, and I fell in love with this one. It reminded me a lot of a friend’s guitar that I had played throughout the years at this bluegrass festival, RockyGrass, I grew up going to. I was like, “Oh, this feels like the twin guitar to my friend’s guitar.” That’s why I ended up buying that guitar. I’ve written so many songs on it, and it’s interesting, now that I don’t play bluegrass consistently, it’s got this whole other life and character to it as a guitar for songs. Sometimes I start writing on electric, but oftentimes I still write on that guitar, too, and transition over to electric.

I have a Fender Telecaster that Jake at Carter Vintage helped me [rig] so that it takes the flatwound strings that I like. It’s a certain sound I really enjoy that I heard Margaret Glaspy champion back in the day, and I wanted to figure out how to do that. We’ve done a lot of little mods to it over the years. I love that guitar, too. I bought it in 2021 off of a guy on Facebook in Denver. It’s not worth a ton of money, but it has a lot of sentimental value to me.

I have a Gibson Songwriter that I got through winning the John Prine Fellowship. Gibson Guitars gave me a 2024 Songwriter. It’s a beautiful guitar that lives at home on my couch. My amp that I have at home is a Fender Blues Junior. I bought it from another Berklee student for $400 on Facebook Marketplace during my senior year of college because I needed an amp.

You’ve talked, in this interview and others, about how being outdoors is important to you. Do you write when you’re out in nature? Do ideas come to you then?

Absolutely. A lot of times, if I’m stuck on something, getting out is good. I think there’s some science behind this, too – the dual motion of walking is really helpful to our brains. So I definitely find myself coming up with ideas while hiking or walking. I’ve always been that way. I’m always writing things down on my phone. Or while I’m in transit on airplanes, trains, in an Uber, or someone else is taking me somewhere, some other vehicle, in the back of a van on tour. Looking out the window, watching scenery go by, can be a regenerative, reflective place for me as well.

I probably write the most when I have a guitar in my hands, but I edit a lot and I have a lot of lyrical ideas while I’m out in nature, walking.

Phone, voice memos, pen and paper?

All three. If I’m out and about, I use my phone. I grew up writing in my journals and then I went to my phone. Everything was in my Notes app for a few years and then I was like, “I want to go back to having a journal and having handwritten lyrics. I miss going back into my journals and looking at my embarrassing little couplets of lyrics from eighth grade.” I want to be able to do that when I’m older, and look back and have more tangible objects in my life. I don’t want everything to be owned by my phone and put into my phone.

So I got several different notebooks of different sizes. I have a little notebook for journaling and writing more personal things, I have a big notebook, I have a legal pad for writing lyrics, and I have a little gratitude journal that I keep on my bedside. I have journals of all sizes now.

Are you particular about your pens?

Yes. I really like this one pen, the brand is Lamy. It’s the best pen I’ve ever owned. You can easily and accessibly buy them online, but I found it at a pen shop in Stockholm, Sweden. I think the romance of that experience also made me fall in love with this pen. They sell a lot of fancy ones that you use for calligraphy, but the one I am obsessed with is their ballpoint model. Occasionally I meet other people who love this pen. I see them with the pen and we’re like, “Oh, you like this pen too?” There’s a little cult following.

I’ve been getting into pencil recently, too. I got these free pencils at an Americanafest event, I think, and I have to figure out what brand they are, because I really like them. I’ve been enjoying having the ability to erase versus just crossing things out. It feels good. Tactile.

You write and speak openly about climate, ICE, politics, the state of the world, and of course about being an openly queer artist. You have received media attention for “Wildfire Season,” which has been called a protest song. Some people think musicians should make their music, share their art, and keep their opinions out of the spotlight. Other people, including quite recently Joan Baez, believe in using that platform to take a stand on issues. Discuss.

In the hardest times in my life, and I think this is true for most people, I’ve turned to music to process things. That was always the hope for this new record – that it could be a processing tool for anyone who needs it.

There’s so much hurt being done to people systematically right now, and I don’t think I could not talk about it. I think it feels very cathartic to attend shows where it is addressed within the lyrics, or in the banter when the artist is talking between sets. My friend Nathan Evans Fox has a great new record and he had a release show here in Nashville. He has a lot of great political country music and I felt such a sense of exhale being in that room. There was so much energy. To be in a room where it felt like church, the catharsis of release, there was such healing. It gave me a feeling of strength.

It’s a really hard time. Harm is being done to so many of us. I know that no matter what side of the political spectrum people are on, I’ve heard it said around here that everything is too expensive for most people and it’s too hot every year for most people. People are feeling the change in the air. There’s a lot of climate denial that still goes on, and yet people know that something isn’t right. Even extremely wealthy people who think they’ll be able to escape the effects of climate change, trying to shield themselves away from it, are being touched by it.

Tennessee is such a gerrymandered state. If you’re familiar at all with the political climate here, it’s really bleak, with the redistricting of Memphis and the current events that have gone down here recently. But going to protests in Nashville, showing up, is empowering. Why shouldn’t music be a space for people to feel through what’s going on, or to at least feel a little bit less alone, to feel stronger, to feel braver, to feel angry, to let that shit out? Because if you don’t let it out, then you continue to let it happen.

I feel that music is one of the most powerful tools of healing and understanding ourselves. People deserve to not feel alone, and they deserve to feel connected. If it’s upsetting to some people that I speak out about politics, I would rather call in people who are really hurting during this time and give them comfort and strength. That matters more to me than alienating people who think I should just sing songs about whatever. I really believe in the power of political songwriting, songs that do work.

When we started this interview with “Tell us about your day so far,” your list included breakfast, went to therapy, came home, met with your manager on Zoom, had lunch. You said, “I went to therapy” as casually as someone might say, “I went to the gym.” Was it a process for you to be able to say it so openly? There’s still so much stigma around mental health.

I think it’s two things. I have been described as sensitive for as long as I can remember by everyone in my family, and that used to be something that made me feel so shameful and embarrassed. I went to therapy for the first time when I was very young. I was in middle school and I was embarrassed about it at the time because this was the narrative I had around it when I was a little kid and things were very different. It’s crazy how much has changed. I think the pandemic changed a lot of things around mental health for the better. Back then I felt like, “I can’t get my emotions under control, so I have to go sit in this office and cry for two hours and it’s so weird, because I’m the most sensitive person in the world. I don’t know what it is.”

I came to songwriting as a teenager, and I found this channel of, “I can put everything in this place, and sometimes I create something that is so bad, and sometimes I create something that’s kind of good, and sometimes I create something that is totally neutral.” I used to go home after school every day and write. It was my confidante. It was what I turned to in hard times and in good times. It was how I processed my life. Once again, music as a way of processing life. Songwriting and creativity was that for me as a young, really sensitive person.

Once I wrote what I felt was actually a good song, I felt brave enough to show it to someone, and I played my first gigs, I was like, “Oh, people connect with this.” I got older, I went to music school, and I was like, “Man, maybe I really have something to say and people want to hear it.” And I met Jesse – going back to talking about them – and they’re a very sensitive person as well.

I’ve always had this thing about sensitivity is a superpower. You’re in tune to certain things that other people miss. I think most people who write songs are keen observers of the world. Sometimes you’re observing more negative things and that’s really hard, it’s painful, it requires tending to, and that’s what therapy is. I think everybody is deserving of taking care of their mental health. Now I’m in a city of songwriters, and every single person I know is a songwriter who does therapy, so I’m very much not in a stigmatized place with it because it’s been normalized to me.

I’m so much older, but it took some time for me to get there. I remember being embarrassed as a child doing it. But it’s been so many years off and on that I have done therapy, and I have seen the gifts and the fruits of my labor. So many of my songs have come out of the work I’ve done in there and the growth I’ve had. I don’t know if my therapist listens, but there’s a lot of inspiration taken from things we’ve talked about, and realizations and connections. I’m proud of myself for being able to get to that place, and I’m proud of others in my life who have had to overcome stigma about it. I’ve seen it open them up, and that’s beautiful to see.

Photo Credit: Rett Rogers

BGS 5+5: Creekbed Carter Hogan

Posted on July 20, 2026July 20, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

Artist: Creekbed Carter Hogan
Hometown: I live in Saint Paul, Minnesota, but before that I spent most of my life living in Austin, Texas. I wasn’t born and raised in either, but they are the places that have shaped me the most and I think that counts for something.
Latest Album: PEASANTS REVOLT! (out July 24 2026)
Personal Nicknames (or rejected band names): Creekbed, Creeky, Peepaw Creekbed

Which artist has influenced you the most – and how?

Like a Catholic cliché, my life has been changed forever by two women named Mary.

The first artist is Mary Chapin Carpenter. Watching your mom sing along to “He Thinks He’ll Keep Her” with her eyes closed while she presses folded laundry to her chest, both wistful and hopeless… that does something to a person. In a family so Catholic, so conservative, so isolated – not just because of rurality, but also because of my difficult, isolationist father – Mary Chapin Carpenter was one of the few non-Christian rock-related musicians that scored my childhood, and her ferocious form of empathic songwriting has never left me.

The second Mary is Mary Gauthier. I remember the intersection I was stopped at in Austin, late at night, my now-girlfriend putting her on the aux. The first lines of “Slip of the Tongue” hit me like a gut punch: “Honey sit down, I got something to say/ Last night I drowned. I got carried away.” I remember gripping my girlfriend’s hand, crying and laughing and brimming with new, terrifying love as I listened for the first time to one of the few publicly queer Americana artists to really break through. Mary Gauthier made my life as a trans country artist possible. Nobody can see through to the soul of something like she can. It was an honor to release my cover of “Slip of the Tongue” this year, and it’ll be an honor for the rest of my life to know that my songs are in a lineage that includes her.

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

Man, I just really love art a lot. I’ll watch anything, read anything, listen to anything. I don’t think you need any special schooling or whatever to look at something bold and wrestle with how it makes you feel – you just need a lot of curiosity.

I’m putting out a new record in July called PEASANTS REVOLT! and in my liner notes I credit two books as inspirations: Fernando A. Flores’s Texan magical realist novel Brother Brontë and Julius S. Scott’s The Common Wind, a beautifully rendered examination of how word-of-mouth led to the Haitian Revolution, the most successful slave revolt in all of human history. Those two books gave as much to my new album as Hazel Dickens, Bobbie Gentry, Tracy Chapman, and ANOHNI did.

So did a whole library! The East Side Freedom Library in Saint Paul, which makes formerly private collections of union organizers, activists, thinkers, and artists available to the public. The Twin Cities United Performers, a musicians’ power org I’m a member of, helps me explore the art of organizing with fellow musicians for better conditions. Picket lines are an art form, and I remain inspired every day by the people who hold them. And my songs would probably sound completely different if I weren’t spending so much of my time watching movies like John Sayles’s Matewan and Cheryl Dunye’s Watermelon Woman and Abbas Kiarostami’s Close-Up.

Before I could leave my small rural community, art was a way of exploring the world. Now that I can live on my own terms, art is a way of understanding the world. As an artist, why wouldn’t I try as many forms of understanding as possible?

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

This is a long answer, but it’s a story worth telling:

This past winter, as ICE invaded the Twin Cities and abducted and killed our neighbors in our streets, I received a grant from the Cedar Cultural Center in Minneapolis to write new labor and union songs. It was a jarring juxtaposition: how could I justify research and writing songs in my room when I needed to be out on the streets with a whistle in my hand, standing my ground with my neighbors against the federal government? But the truth is, I’d already cashed half the money and it had been a lean winter, so I had to make something to show for it. I went to the East Side Freedom Library, did a boatload of research, and then I wrote songs about regular Minnesotans who’d fought the government for dignity for all. From the 1910s miners of the Mesabi Iron Range to the Indigenous founders of the American Indian Movement in the ’70s to the Willmar 8 who held a two-year picket line every single day in every single kind of weather to an Appalachian-styled ballad that tied in the history of labor resistance to what we were all doing now to protect one another, as our own mayor and governor left us in the ice and the snow to fend for ourselves.

On February 20, I took the stage at the Cedar Cultural Center in Minneapolis with a four-piece bluegrass band and presented my grant work to 250 Minnesotans. I was terrified that what I’d written hadn’t done enough justice to this incredible place that had taken me in, given me lifesaving healthcare, and taught me new things about what it means to show up for your community – and even more worried that my performance wouldn’t be good enough to raise rent money for my neighbors who were trapped in their apartments, hiding from ICE. But when I started playing these songs, the reception filled me with awe. All 250 of these people sang with me, clapped with me, cried with me, felt pain and joy and despair and hope together, out loud, with me. After the set, we got a standing ovation – and then at the merch table, the line went out the door as neighbor after neighbor came up to me to tell me about the picket lines they were holding or had held, the Minnesotans they’d recognized in my lyrics, the pain they felt and the hope that sat right beside that pain that they could now feel because of what we’d just sung together.

I’ve played a lot of incredible shows to incredible audiences, many of them much bigger and “much bigger deals.” But that show on February 20 this year was the single most important performance of my life. It meant everything to me. And it taught me, again, why I’m still here, writing songs, doing something every single day to take my place in a lineage of resistance and make a new, better world for all of us.

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

Way before I wanted to be a musician, I wanted to be a nun. The nuns I’ve known work really hard for the liberation of all people, even from within the confines of a restrictive, colonialist, organized religion. The Sisters of the Holy Names were the ones who first taught me about protesting at the School of the Americas, for example, and the Catholic Workers movement introduced liberation theology to me,and taught me about fighting for a dignified life for every living thing. I’m not a Catholic anymore – Catholicism remains closed to me as a trans person – but then again, secular convents existed in medieval Europe for people who didn’t want to convert to Catholicism, but still wanted to live in community. So maybe being a secular, liberationalist nun is still an option?

What would a perfect day as an artist and a creator look like to you?

I would wake up and every single person in the United States would have universal basic income, healthcare that serves all of our needs, and the knowledge that our taxes are funding public services instead of wars and genocides and detention centers. I’d get up to eat vegetables from our garden and groceries I could afford, in a house I share with my friends that isn’t owned by a landlord or a bank, in a neighborhood where everyone has the housing they need. I’d pick up my guitar and head out the door to a park or a third space where other people would be playing music, sharing skills, and enjoying rest for free without fear of the cops or some arbitrary law that regulates who gets to rest where. And we’d all get to that space on free public transportation that runs well and doesn’t contribute to climate change.

We’d sing and play in the heart of a food forest and then we’d take a break to swim in water that’s clean in a park we all care for. I’d go to the library and read a book about moss or something, just because it sounds interesting, while people around me use public resources to sew quilts or study or listen to CDs, our phones nowhere in sight. In the evening, I’d go to a show with my girlfriend at a venue that receives funding from the government so they don’t have to rely on alcohol sales to make their business work, and I’d happily pay money that I know goes entirely to the bands playing that night. I’d dance and dance and dance, surrounded by all kinds of people who all have the basic things they need to thrive in the bodies they have, whose bodies are no longer regulated or targeted for state violence or kept out because of a disregard for accessibility. The bands would be shit hot, because they’d know they were making a living wage and that no one was gonna come into the venue to gun us all down.

And when I’d leave the venue with my girlfriend to get on our bikes and go home to sleep, the night air would feel clean. There’d be no wildfire smoke in the air. The stars would be out, and I’d be able to see them all. I’d pass neighbor after neighbor, grinning, happy to go home to a safe place, knowing that Palestine was free and Cuba was free and Puerto Rico was free and that “Land Back” had supplanted capitalism as our guiding principle and that every worker was treated fairly. And while nothing would be perfect, because there’s always work to be done, things would feel possible. Hope would feel tenable. Every living creature would feel valued. That would be one hell of a day, I think.

Photo Credit: Emily April Allen

The Other 22 Hours: Amy Grant

Posted on July 15, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

What does it mean to inhabit a creative life when that container itself changes? We sit down on The Other 22 Hours with GRAMMY-nominated, multi-platinum crossover superstar Amy Grant. Having shaped the landscape of pop and contemporary Christian music for over four decades, Grant found herself navigating an unexpected wilderness following a series of medical setbacks – including a traumatic bike accident – and a rewritten relationship with her own processing speed. In this soulful, luminous conversation, she explores the deliberate art of slowing down, the creative sanctuary of “Craftopia,” and why she now views aging not as a loss of identity, but as a continual invitation to let go.

LISTEN: APPLE • SPOTIFY • AMAZON • MP3

In This Episode:

– Vince Gill
– Eagles
– Mac McAnally
– Jimmy Buffett
– Coral Reefer Band
– Barefoot Republic
– NPR’s Wildcard podcast
– Ray Charles
– Cicely Tyson
– Roots (miniseries)
– Viktor Frankl
– Man’s Search for Meaning
– Gene Miller
– Dr. Jim Netterville
– Suleika Jaouad

Go Deeper:

Watch: View this entire conversation above or on YouTube.
Explore: Find similar conversations in these themed playlists.
Connect: Join the conversation on Instagram.

The Other 22 Hours is hosted by Aaron Shafer-Haiss (producer, mixer, musician) and Michaela Anne (songwriter, artist, creative coach). More about Aaron’s work. More about Michaela Anne’s work.

Produced by Aaron Shafer-Haiss. Original music written, performed and produced by Aaron Shafer-Haiss.

Photo Credit: Ed Rode

Thomas Csorba is Bringing Tender Country Back

Posted on July 13, 2026July 16, 2026 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

The Making of Bella White’s A Sign In The Weather

Posted on July 13, 2026July 14, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

In a shotgun-house studio overlooking the Mississippi River, Bella White poured out her heart and soul in the form of 11 new songs that became her latest album, A Sign In The Weather.

The collection completes a trilogy that began with her debut, the bluegrass-entrenched Just Like Leaving. She followed with Among Other Things, on which she ventured into what she called a “a larger sound.” Between this and her latest release she recorded Five For Silver, a five-song EP covering favorite songs from favorite artists.

White grew up in Calgary, Alberta. She was introduced to bluegrass early on by her father, a multi-instrumentalist with writing and recording credits of his own. Her proficiency on banjo and guitar soon led to songwriting, gigging, relocation to Boston, signing with Rounder Records, time spent in Nashville and Los Angeles, and a return to Canada before moving once again, this time to New Orleans. Along the way, from coast to coast, White’s music gained fans, followers, and kept her on the road, performing at national festivals, supporting A-list artists, and making her Grand Ole Opry debut.

A Sign In The Weather, she says, “hearkens back to the first album in a way. It’s not a bluegrass album, but I wanted to bring it back to that more intimate feeling, and something I could present live in a way that was true to the album. After doing a bigger-production album, which was amazing, I wanted to scale it back a little bit more.”

As always in your songwriting, there’s a lot of self-discovery in the lyrics. Where were you, mentally and emotionally, when the creative process began for this album and where are you now?

Bella White: I was about to embark upon some very big transitions in my life. I was living on Vancouver Island and feeling inspired to be working, touring, and doing everything, but I was living this almost double life where I would be on the road and doing all this stuff. Then I’d come home to my apartment on this island and be relatively isolated. That was amazing and it had its challenges.

At the time when I started writing songs for this album, I was starting to feel like I needed to expand my world. I was feeling a little bit stagnant and a little bit stuck. I was in a relationship that was about to end, I knew it was ending, and this big chapter in my life was coming to a close. And so I was doing a lot of self-reflection and a lot of big feelings. I’m always having big feelings, so that’s just how it is for me. I was in this very calm and grounded yet very uncertain time in my life, where I was like, “I don’t really know what’s coming next, but I know it’s going to be very different.”

Now I live in New Orleans. I’ve been here for three years. I wrote the first half of the songs while I was in that transition on Vancouver Island and making these changes, and the second half of the album came together down here. I know now where I’m at a little bit more, even though I’m always going to wonder what’s next. I feel like I’ve answered some of those questions for myself that I’m asking on the album.

Did the environment and community in New Orleans shape this new music, or at least the songs that were written there?

I moved springtime of 2023. I was ready for some big changes and I have always loved it here, had lots of friends here, and know about this rich, vibrant music community. There’s a great Americana songwriter scene here and of course the deep well of New Orleans music that is really inspiring and interesting. Everyone that plays on the album, except Patrick M’Gonigle and Nikolai Shveitser, lives here, so it did end up shaping the sound, because I met the people I play on the album with and who are now some of my best friends and bandmates.

We recorded it in our friend Lee Walker’s house in the Holy Cross neighborhood, right on the Mississippi River, feeling very inspired by the landscape and weather – the weather is a theme on my album. New Orleans has such an energy that it’s hard not to find its way into the art that’s made here.

How did you meet Ross Farbe and how did that become a co-producing partnership?

Ross was engineering and co-producing an album with Sam Gelband, who plays drums on my album and is in my band. I met Ross through that.

I knew who he was already, because he had produced some albums that I loved. He worked with Esther Rose for a long time, he’s got a cool band called Video Age that I’ve been a fan of, and I always admired him. I watched him work with other people and saw how talented he is, how gentle a person he is, and I liked his workflow style.

We got to talking, I showed him the songs, and he had some cool ideas. I knew going into this album that whoever was producing it, I wanted to be producing alongside them, because I enjoy that part of the process and have not technically been a co-producer on any of my albums. This time around I [wanted to] claim that label.

I knew that Ross has enough confidence in himself to be down to share that role, and that he pretty much has no ego whatsoever. I knew it would be mutual, we’d be working properly together, and that felt exciting to me.

What does “producer” mean to you?

There’s a couple branches to it. On brass tacks, you’re creatively facilitating the session. You’re also setting the tone for the artists who are playing the music. The way I wanted to be involved in the production was with a lot of the creative choices, like what the guitar is doing in a moment, or what the structure of the song looks like, and having ideas to help bring it to life.

That, to me, is what production can look like. Especially if an artist is in a situation where they don’t have very much vision for what they want it to sound like, maybe they’ve written the songs and brought the songs, but they don’t know how to create a supportive band situation, a producer’s role is to make that happen.

I have the connections and friendships and the understanding of what I want my music to sound like, that I can be a part of that process. I think it’s just facilitating the whole thing.

Tell us about the recording studio. You did this in someone’s home.

It really wasn’t a studio at all. It truly was my friend Lee Walker’s house. He’s a musician and a jack of many trades.

There’s a studio in New Orleans, Deslondes Studio, where the Deslondes and lots of other bands have made albums. It’s also a house, but it has been converted into a studio space. Lee’s house is right next door and a couple albums were made in his house before this other studio was brought into the picture. Dean Johnson’s album Nothing For Me, Please was made there. I was hoping to record at Deslondes Studio, but it was unavailable at the time, so I asked Lee, when we were making some demos, if I could use his house, and he ended up going above and beyond for us. He moved his bed out of his house so we could turn his bedroom into our control room.

In New Orleans, these shotgun houses, they’re just a straight line. You can see from the front door out the back door, and so it’s great for recording because you have great sight lines. We set up a live room. We did everything live. We did some overdubs, but the bed tracks were me playing guitar, and bass and drums, all live in one room, and Ross brought his setup. We recorded to tape, he brought all of his gear, set up in Lee’s bedroom, and the house is on the river, so it was beautiful.

There was this nice, laid-back, casual feeling to that recording situation that was comforting for me. Sometimes when I’m in a more typical studio setting where I feel on the clock, I’m like, “We have to really dive in here and get it all done.” That can feel a little bit stressful to me. I love recording, and I love being in that studio environment too, but this felt like even though we were being professional and getting it all done, I felt this ease of being in a cozy home environment. It was really cool to do it there.

How challenging, or maybe even a little nerve-wracking, is it to put your lyrics in front of people that perhaps you’ve not worked with before? How does that differ from doing so in front of an audience, people who know the songs, and that different level of communication?

It depends on who I’m presenting the music to, because in some cases it’s almost easier to show to strangers. With Among Other Things, I met most everyone that was on the album in the session, as we were getting into it. I was like, “Okay, I’m baring my soul. I don’t know you at all, but here we go.”

It fast-tracks connection and friendship in some ways because you’re showing a vulnerable side of yourself. It can almost be a little bit more intimidating sometimes to show the music to people that really know you and understand you, because they’re maybe seeing a side of you that you wouldn’t necessarily show.

But I always have felt, I don’t know for better or for worse, very comfortable baring my soul to people. I’m like, “Maybe I should dial it back sometimes.” I haven’t found it to be too frightening, but I know that it is real. I think I just turn my blinders on sometimes and say, “Here we go.”

In a podcast a few years back, you described your songwriting process as “not always prolific.” You have moments of feeling you “could write a million songs,” and sometimes months of “having nothing to say.” Where did these new songs fall in? Especially being split between two locations and two entirely different phases in your life.

There was definitely a little dry spell in the middle. I wrote four or five songs within a couple months of each other, and I didn’t really have plans for this album yet, so I was just writing and feeling it out. It was a good amount of writing in a decent amount of time.

And then I started wanting to make … the clock was starting to tick. It was like, “It’s time to make another album.” I was struggling with a little bit of pressure of wanting to make sure that I wrote songs I really liked and that meant something to me. I was also moving through the actual changes that were happening in my life, like moving, ending a relationship, and all of that. I was writing, but I was mostly doing a lot of that processing internally.

Once I settled a little bit, the next wave came. That was actually a lot of songs in a short window and felt really good. I was like, “Now I’m starting to feel like this is an album coming together,” and that was exciting.

What is your writing process? You’re a lifelong journal person. Is songwriting the same way? Is it pen and paper? Voice memos? Both? Do you set aside work time? Does it happen at random moments?

It’s all of the above. It really is all of those things. I don’t have too much structured writing time at the moment, and I probably could use some. I think it is important for me to treat it as exercising that muscle sometimes.

I’m a lifelong journaler. I’m always writing something, even if it’s not a song, if it’s just my thoughts or whatever. I used to be more pen and paper all the way. Now I do a lot of writing in my notes app on my phone, which is sad in some ways, but also I’m working with what we have with the times, and I think that’s taken the pressure off a little bit, where I’ll sit down and maybe get inspired by something and start writing. Usually I open voice memos and almost stream of consciousness just sing and play, and then I’ll listen back to it, or as I’m singing, be like, “That felt like it could be something.”

And then I will either keep going on the notes app or I’ll get out a pen and paper. It depends on how much time I have, what my goal is in that writing session, whether it’s to actually finish a song or if it’s just to get inspired, get some ideas.

These days I’m not often writing a song in one sitting. I do that sometimes, but most of the time it’s maybe a week for a song. I used to think that if I didn’t write a song in one sitting I would never finish it. I would just move on to the next thing. But I’ve gotten to a place where I actually like letting it breathe in between sessions, coming back to the song, and having a little bit more perspective when I come back to it and more understanding of what it means to me.

Are you particular about your pens and notebooks?

Yeah, totally. I really like Muji pens. They have a good flow. I’m not too picky about paper. I love my little song journal. I only write songs in it and it’s this special little treasure chest. But at the end of the day I’m frantic sometimes and I’m like, “Oh, I need somewhere to write this down,” so I’ll take an envelope and start writing on that, or I’ll start writing in my feelings journal. So they’re all over the place.

Lyrics first, melodies first, both at the same time?

I would say melody and lyric are arriving at the same time these days. Actually, maybe melody is taking precedence. I write a melody as I’m saying words, and then the words often end up changing more than the melody changes. I’ll create a template and then chisel away at the words. Even if it’s simple adjustments, I’ll try and make it make the most sense to me emotionally.

It’s usually on acoustic guitar. I used to sometimes write songs on the banjo, but I don’t have a banjo at the moment. Something that I find super-inspiring is when I’m at a friend’s house and we’re sharing songs, or I’m hanging at their house and playing their guitar. I love the way different guitars sound, and a guitar that I’m not used to. Sometimes I will play what I would be playing on my guitar, it just sounds different, and it inspires me to revisit certain ideas that I’ll let go of on my own guitar because it sounds too familiar or I’m too used to it. I’ll hear it in a different context and be like, “Oh, that’s cool. I should come back to that.”

Which guitars are on the album and which ones are you taking on the road?

I have two lovely Gibsons from the 1940s. My first nice guitar that I bought is an LG-2 from 1948. I tour with it all the time. This album is the first recorded music of mine that it didn’t make an appearance on.

I love that guitar so much. It is a true beater. I bought it when I was 16, and I was so precious about it. As I started to travel with it, and it started to come to festivals with me and it started to get a little dinged up, I was like, “Okay, I have to be a little bit less precious about this. If I want to play this guitar all the time, I need to accept that it’s going to experience life too.”

I bought my Gibson archtop when I was playing the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. We went to the music store on the main drag and I was trying a couple guitars out just for fun. I found this archtop and was like, “Oh my God, I need to buy this guitar right now. I love it so much.” That’s become my recording guitar. I don’t have any kind of pickup in it, I haven’t drilled into it, and I don’t really want to. I want to leave it pure, and then it can be my studio and writing guitar. I used it on this album.

You’ve been playing guitar and banjo since childhood. When and how did you develop your technique? Watching the BGS Yamaha Sessions [above] there’s something very special in the way you connect with the instrument. You’re also a skilled banjo player – different instrument, different attack. Does banjo in any way inform your picking style on the guitar?

I started playing really young. I wouldn’t say I was very good or very bad. I was very middle of the road. I think jamming and picking bluegrass music will make you a good instrumentalist, regardless of if you’re soloing, flatpicking, or playing rhythm guitar. Playing in so many different settings with so many different types of people is going to make you better. When I started going to bluegrass camps and festivals and picking with people, I started to figure out how I play the guitar. Of course it has progressed as I’ve stepped out of just playing traditional music. I’ve tried to have fun with different rhythmic playing, different ways, different approaches. I’m still figuring out what feels good to me. But having the experience of picking from a young age was really informative.

The banjo is a totally different instrument. Something I love so much, especially with clawhammer banjo, is those open tunings that are so beautiful and whimsical and ethereal-feeling to me. My dad would sometimes tune his guitar into open banjo tunings and play banjo tunes on his guitar, and I always thought that was so cool and so pretty. Realizing that you can apply the things you like from other instruments to the guitar was exciting for me. I wanted to try and capture the feeling of those resonant tones in my guitar playing as well. I play a lot of augmented open chords that are fun.

You are thought of as a bluegrass artist. Coming from that background because of your father, returning to it as a teenager, and now through this new generation of players that you discovered, what is your definition of bluegrass?

It’s something I don’t know if I could really define. Obviously, when it comes down to it, I’m like, “It’s a five-piece string band with a banjo and a guitar.” But, to me, it’s music that you play with your community and that’s meant to be shared and taught.

I still identify as a bluegrass player, even though I’ve stepped out of the more traditional sense. One of my favorite components of that world of music is that people are eager to learn all the time and eager to share what they’ve learned. When I was living in Boston and hanging out around Berklee, living in this house with a lot of amazing musicians, twelve of us lived in this house, everyone would be in their rooms practicing all day. In the evening we’d be like, “Hey, let’s pick and let’s share. Let’s all show what we worked on.” To me, that’s the essence of what I love about bluegrass music. I don’t know if it’s necessarily a definition, but I do feel like that’s a defining part of that music.

You’ve said on several occasions that you look at songwriting as A) storytelling or B) feeling-telling. How do you separate the two? It would seem you have to feel a story in order to tell it convincingly.

They’re interconnected in so many ways. For context, the kind of song that moves me, regardless of which of the two worlds it falls into, has to be something where I am tapped into it in my feelings, like I’m understanding energetically, emotionally, what’s going on and what’s being delivered.

There are songs where it’s more literal, more direct, more “This is what happened, X,Y, Z.” That what I consider the storytelling. And then there’s this other kind of writing that’s a little bit more ambiguous. It’s harder to pin down exactly what is happening in the song, but it hits you in a certain way. I hear it and I’m like, “I don’t really know what you’re talking about, but I’m resonating with this.” That’s the feeling-telling that I think is really cool.

What I’m always trying to do in my songs is find the perfect middle ground where both of those things exist in a moment, so that you can understand the story, but then you can also have a separate relationship to how it makes you feel.

You spoke earlier about exposing all these feelings to musicians and producers, and then to your audiences. When you take the songs on the road and perform them night after night, is it difficult? Therapeutic? Does it take you back to those places?

All of the above. I don’t find it difficult very often because the thing I love about songwriting and laying it all on the table is that is a major way for me to heal something, through that process of writing a song. Getting to proclaim my feelings onstage every night and just be like “Here I am” is very cathartic.

Especially with newer songs, it helps me own my feelings in a way that I feel grateful to get to do, because I’ve been able to move through some of those feelings through performing the songs. When people start connecting with them, and maybe they’re singing along, I’m like, “Wow, this is so cool.” Something that I felt is helping someone else deal with something they’re feeling, and that’s special.

With some of my songs from my first album, I probably started writing those songs in 2019. It’s been so long since I wrote them that I don’t necessarily live in that space anymore, and so it’s fun to just, I don’t know, shout out things that I was feeling a long time ago. It’s fun to let those feelings still live and exist, but I’ve moved on from them. Now I get to give my younger self a hug when I play them. So I don’t think I have to work very hard to protect myself. And, in some ways, there’s this protection that comes from sharing and having people receive the music that feels really special.

Photo Credit: Tamara Flemming

Paul Overstreet Joins the Country Music Hall of Fame

Posted on July 10, 2026July 15, 2026 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.

You Gotta Hear This: New Music From Lindsay Lou, Rising Appalachia, and More

Posted on July 10, 2026August 25, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

Another week, another roundup of excellent new roots music for you to enjoy! You Gotta Hear This…

To get us started, JM Clifford premieres a performance video for “Hard Luck Man,” a contemplative song inspired by his experiences walking the streets of New York City, encountering veterans panhandling and down on their luck. It’s a song of compassion built around his observations and the idea that no one should be invisible or alone. Then, we go to Chicago, where singer-songwriter Elizabeth Moen reckons with another kind of man, “Renaissance Man” – or, as she puts it, the proverbial “fuckboy.” Anger, justice, and comeuppance ooze out of the acoustic-yet-rockin’ track. You can watch a new music video for the song below.

In bluegrass, Lindsay Lou has announced a brand new album, Bluegrass Women, celebrating the vibrant and supremely talented community of women that surround her in music. The first single from the album (which will release next month) is “All I Ever Loved Was You,” a beloved song in the bluegrass canon written by Ricky Skaggs’ mother. Tatiana Hargreaves, Laurie Lewis, Maddie Witler, Alison Brown, and Hasee Ciaccio join Lou on the track; the album boasts a star-studded rotating lineup of incredible women. Plus, Jaelee Roberts of Middle Tennessee has a new bluegrass single out today, “Memories On The Moon.” She first heard the track at a song swap at a bluegrass songwriting camp. Immediately impressed, she knew she had to record it. You’ll also immediately see why.

Rounding us out, Asheville-based folk and Americana group Rising Appalachia unveil a new track and video, “Chance at Wholesome.” Picking up on the thread laid down by Elizabeth Moen, Rising Appalachia also take big-talking men to task. As Leah Song puts it for BGS, “This is for the man who shows up all talk and no action.” Watch the brand new video below as you look ahead to their fall album, Trade My Troubles, out in October.

It’s all right here on BGS, and we hope you enjoy. You Gotta Hear This!

JM Clifford, “Hard Luck Man”

Artist: J.M. Clifford
Hometown: Allendale, New Jersey
Song: “Hard Luck Man”
Album: Things That We Can’t Change
Release Date: July 10, 2026 (video); October 16, 2026 (album)

In Their Words: “I’m an elementary school teacher in Brooklyn. I do a lot of my songwriting before my first class of the day. One morning I sat down to write and the lines, ‘Light a candle for the hard luck man/ Left his mind in the mountains of Afghanistan’ popped into my head. It felt like the rest of the song wrote itself. Living in New York City, I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen a person on the street holding up a sign that says, ‘Veteran. Please help.’ These days, it seems like we can’t agree on much, but taking care of our veterans should be something we can all get behind.” – JM Clifford

Lindsay Lou, “All I Ever Loved Was You”

Artist: Lindsay Lou
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “All I Ever Loved Was You”
Album: Bluegrass Women
Release Date: July 10, 2026 (single); August 14, 2026 (album)

In Their Words: “Written by Dorothy Skaggs, mother of Ricky Skaggs. I’ll never forget hearing Ricky and Keith Whitley sing this duet while playing in Ralph Stanley’s band. The harmonies and tenderness of it blew me away. Like many of these songs, I sang it for years before I knew who wrote it. I recall one time in particular singing it with Billy [Strings] in the kitchen at a party. Neither of us had an instrument in hand and there weren’t any around, so we just sang it. It’s such a strong harmony song it stands on its own powerfully.

“There’s nothing lacking in the instrumentation though on the Bluegrass Women arrangement of this track! The twin fiddles and harmonies by Tatiana Hargreaves and Laurie Lewis (cross-generational iconic players and women in bluegrass) and a strong groove held down by Hasee Ciaccio on bass and Maddie Witler on mandolin, give it a feeling like being in an old-time honky-tonk dancing with your darlin’. Add Alison Brown on banjo for a classic, rolling, poppy bluegrass sound and I’m not sure what more a song like this could want. When I reached out to Ricky to comment on his mama as a songwriter, he clarified that his parents had a very loving relationship, but she hit on a real good one anyway when she came up with the lyrics for ‘All I Ever Loved Was You.'” – Lindsay Lou

Track Credits:
Lindsay Lou – Guitar, vocal
Tatiana Hargreaves – Fiddle, harmony vocals
Laurie Lewis – Fiddle, harmony vocals
Maddie Witler – Mandolin
Alison Brown – Banjo
Hasee Ciaccio – Bass

Elizabeth Moen, “Renaissance Man”

Artist: Elizabeth Moen
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Song: “Renaissance Man”
Album: Fields on Fire
Release Date: July 10, 2026 (video)

In Their Words: “I wanted to write something that I’d hope people would want to sing along to real loud in the car. It’s fun, cheeky, and a song to heed the warning of or find solace in after a bad situationship. Good luck out there this summer! It’s the Renaissance Man’s (or woman’s or person’s) prime season I fear!

“This character song is written in the perspective of the many individuals who inspired it. Though the epidemic of f*ckboy is not constricted to the confines of Chicago’s city limits, there seemed to be, especially in my 20s, a considerable amount of them in town. The one time they admitted the truth was when they’d say, ‘I’m a bad idea for you, really.’ Lesson learned that if someone says that to you, run.” – Elizabeth Moen

Track Credits:
Elizabeth Moen – Nylon-string guitar, lead vocal
Tristan Huygen – Electric guitar
Gus Martini – Bass
Spencer Tweedy – Drums
Gus Martini – Background vocal

Video Credits:
Alexa Viscius – Photographer
Grace Coudal – Assistant photographer
Anika Ladero – Stylist
Kelsey Denvir – Assistant stylist
Grace Makuch – Graphic design

Rising Appalachia, “Chance at Wholesome”

Artist: Rising Appalachia
Hometown: Asheville, North Carolina
Song: “Chance at Wholesome”
Album: Trade My Troubles
Release Date: July 10, 2026 (single/video); October 2, 2026 (album)

In Their Words: “This is for the man who shows up all talk and no action. Says you are his queen and then buckles his knees once the chase is over. The one who speaks the game, but doesn’t have the backbone to show up and do the work. For the man that still sees a woman as a second-class citizen. For the narcissists, the broken poets, the dreary addicts who will gladly drag you down with them before they will lift you up and see you shine. Oh the wounded masculine (and thank God they aren’t all wounded). This one is for you.

“Heartbreak is timeless and we have all danced its messy dance. Shattered and stoic. Unkempt and wildly alive. The battered soul doing its best to revive after the storm comes through. I fell in love with a man who was a weathervane in a tornado – a broken man who toted his scars as trophies and would rather spin into patterns of harm than simply lean into care; a chaos worshipper at the altar; mercurial and magical in his fire and poetry. What else can we do but turn the page and sing?” – Leah Song

Video Credit: Earthbased Media

Jaelee Roberts, “Memories On The Moon”

Artist: Jaelee Roberts
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “Memories On The Moon”
Label: Mountain Home Music Company
Release Date: July 10, 2026

In Their Words: “‘Memories On The Moon’ is honestly one of my favorite songs that I’ve ever recorded. Last year, I was at Donna Ulisse and Jerry Salley’s songwriters’ workshop – all of us sitting in a circle sharing songs – when ‘Memories On The Moon’ co-writers Keith Barncastle and Rebekah Speer played a song demo (sung by third co-writer, Billy Droze) through a little speaker in the room. From the very first listen, I knew I had to record it. I didn’t know when I’d get the chance, but I remember looking at them and saying, ‘I want this song.’

“The lyrics hit me immediately. What makes this song so special to me is how deeply personal, yet universal, it feels. It was originally written from the perspective of losing a partner and learning how to live with that kind of heartbreak and absence. But I think it can also speak to anyone who’s experienced loss in any form – a breakup, distance, change, or simply missing someone you love. To me, that’s what makes a truly great song: when people can hear it and find pieces of their own story inside of it.

“When we got into the studio, it honestly felt like magic. Tony Wray on acoustic guitar, Alan Bartram on bass, Justin Moses on mandolin and Dobro, and Ron Stewart on banjo brought so much heart and depth to the track. Zack Arnold added harmony vocals that elevated everything even further – his voice and ideas were truly the finishing touch. I have fallen completely in love with this recording, and I’m beyond grateful that I got to be the one to bring this song to life and share it with all of you. I truly hope that it touches your hearts the way that is has mine.” – Jaelee Roberts

Track Credits:
Jaelee Roberts – Lead vocal
Ron Stewart – Banjo
Tony Wray – Guitar
Alan Bartram – Upright bass
Justin Moses – Resonator guitar, mandolin
Zack Arnold – Harmony vocal

Photo Credit: Lindsay Lou by Sawyer Gieseke; Rising Appalachia courtesy of the artist.

Michaela Anne Finds Tranquility and Clarity in Parenthood

Posted on July 9, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

Michaela Anne’s life underwent a cosmic shift over the last several years. She had two kids and quickly learned how “physically taxing” parenting can be, she says. That physical transformation directly feeds into her latest album, These Are The Days, a creatively bold, poetic, and profound set of songs about getting older, fading beauty, and music’s connective tissue.

While out on tour, years ago, Anne stopped by a friend’s house and witnessed several young kids playing, laughing, and making a whole lotta noise. Admittedly, she didn’t know if she’d ever have kids herself. “My friend said to me, ‘Yeah, but this is going to feel like a high for you, like falling in love with these children,’” she recalls.

“I remember the first year of being a mother, texting her, ‘Oh, I know what you’re talking about now.’ And that has really surprised me, that exhilarated feeling that I’ve gotten just from the experience of having children and getting older,” Anne reflects. “What has also surprised me is that you hear people talk about it all the time, how, especially in your 40s – I just turned 40 – you don’t give any fucks anymore. And it’s just whatever. And I’m like, ‘Does that just magically happen?’

“And I have been surprised to feel the progression of ‘it does.’ You start to care less because you just get so exhausted from the energy you’ve spent caring about the things that mattered a lot [before], like status, what people thought of you, or inclusion. That has been very delightfully surprising and freeing.”

These Are the Days swirls with a kind of knowledge you only acquire when you hit your 40s. The changes it reckons with have almost a baptismal effect. Songs like “We’ve Got Bigger Plans” and “Will You Still Love Me with a Broken Heart” reflect her ever-changing self, whereas “Two Pianos,” a song co-written by Caroline Spence, and “B-Sides” capture the magic of music in Anne’s life. “If Your Body Fails You” finds Anne bottling up both her mother’s deterioration post-stroke and our society’s obsession with youth.

The album, produced by her husband Aaron Shafer-Haiss, emerges as a timeless ode to the ephemeral nature of human existence. Letting go, relishing the mundane in busy everyday life, and embracing middle age echo throughout the nine tracks like a starling bobbing and weaving across a rosy sunset. Something is calming about it, and you trust that you’ll get to where you’re going soon enough.

What has been your journey of learning to let go?

Michaela Anne: It is continual. It’s such a common thing to hear people say – and this is kind of woo-woo new age-y saying – “just surrender.” But the actual practice of surrendering to all that is, I have found, incredibly challenging and essential to really being open to what life presents to us. I’m a millennial, and I feel like the way that we grew up is, “Dream big, you can be anything you want.” That was so ingrained in me. I have a song from a previous record called “By Our Design.” It was this whole thing about writing it down, manifesting it, and making it happen. And it didn’t take into account that nothing is actually within our control.

So things happen, like global pandemics or your mother has a stroke. [Or] friends that I witnessed in this age group who want to start a family desperately and can’t get pregnant or deal with pregnancy loss. There are so many things that we cannot control that determine a lot of factors in our lives, and a lot of things about whether or not we can have the life that we envisioned. And accepting it is a daily practice, and really keeping my eyes open to what all that is here, rather than continually looking in my mind to the places I thought it should be, is painful.

There’s also the element of not caring what other people think. I imagine that’s even more difficult as an artist.

I try to consciously reconnect to why I make music all the time. Inevitably, there is an element of wanting to be seen when you’re sharing art that you make and wanting to be loved, wanting to be received and affirmed. And that is beautiful, but it can also be really tricky and detrimental. If we’re looking at it in this transactional way, or also career success– I’m also a military kid. I grew up moving every other year. I was socially conditioned to try and make friends fast and be well-liked, and just fit in and survive the next couple of years before we moved on to the next town. I have to constantly remind myself: it is okay to not be liked by everybody. But I always go back to, “Am I doing my best to show up in kindness and in love and openness?” And you still might not be liked by everybody.

Social media certainly doesn’t help either.

No, it’s corrupting our brains. Now, we have this false sense of metrics to measure ourselves that we translate to our worth. How many likes we get, how many followers, how many streams, and it’s really unhealthy.

Have you ever found that affecting your creativity in any way? Have you ever thought, “Oh, this song has this many streams, maybe if I write something like that, it’ll take off?”

I think I would be lying if I tried to say, “Oh no, it’s separate.” I’ve found that whenever I do try to make something, I don’t actually know what people want from me. And what one person wants from me is different from what the next person wants. Collectively or culturally or music industry-wise, that’s changing so fast all the time that it’s fruitless to try to morph myself into that. I’ve definitely gone outside of the box that I think I was seeing, fitting into, and not seeing the response that I hoped for and have had to do the work of, “Well, that’s okay.”

We can confuse streaming numbers with a measurement of artistic purity. They’re very different things. I always go back to, “Did that feel true to me?” I can only write the songs that feel true that come out. Sometimes that’s well received, and sometimes it’s not. It’s always a gamble.

Another essential piece of the album is enjoying the mundane things in everyday life. What things have you come to appreciate more?

Routine. I used to think I hated routine. I loved being on tour all the time, because there was sort of chaos within a routine. You knew where you had to be every day, but then every show is different and every place was different. I’ve really come to love the routine of waking up around the same time–I have two children, depending on when they wake up. I have a morning routine, that first cup of coffee, just all of that stuff has become really enchanting to me.

When you’re addicted to something, you need more and more to feel the high. I used to need a lot to feel excitement. It’s almost like I’ve come down to stasis, where now, to be totally honest, I sometimes open my compost bin and it’s all these different colors. I think it’s so beautiful. [Laughs]

I don’t go out and get drunk and meet new people all the time. It’s a different high. It’s the calm. Now, bouts of excitement are way more exhausting to me than they used to be. Maybe that’s also just middle age. Kids being asleep, getting a couple of hours to myself or a cup of tea and maybe a bath and a book – that is so exciting.

The wonder of music also comes into play on the album, such as with songs such as “Two Pianos” and “B-Sides.” What moments in your life do you cherish most around music?

Music has always been my companion, my way to cope and understand things. The very first song I ever wrote was called “When Daddy Comes Home.” My dad was a submarine captain and he was out to sea for long months at a time. I always say music was my way of processing longing and sorrow. But it is such a companion for joy. I think about every big moment of my life, there’s a soundtrack, you know? Getting married, there are songs that were part of our wedding. Giving birth, there are specific songs that were the soundtrack that we were playing when both of my children entered this world.

Music is everywhere in our lives. Sometimes, I think when it becomes a career, it can taint it a little bit. I have had to remember this is a relationship on my own that doesn’t need to be influenced by outside forces. Some of the bigger moments are those when we put on songs and just dance in the living room with our kids.

Another thread in the album is the idea that beauty always fades. In your song “If Your Body Fails You” you ask a series of questions about why we avoid the mirror and continue to uphold youth on a pedestal. Why do we do those things?

Capitalism. That song is rooted in watching my mom lose many physical abilities from her stroke. As well as the way that her body looked changing and witnessing her experience that, grappling with my own experience and my own relationship to my mother’s body. It was not something I really thought about. While also experiencing so many changes in my own body, growing a human for the first time. And that paired with this idea that it feels like it’s getting to a fever pitch of this expectation, especially for women, to look preserved, to look frozen, to look so smooth, and not aged at all. And noticing that infiltrates my mindset.

I don’t know why we are obsessed with that, literally, other than powerful marketing campaigns have convinced us to spend a lot of our money trying to freeze our faces and our bodies. But it’s something that I really want to resist, which genuinely feels challenging sometimes, because of those messages.

Numerous celebrities, from Kate Winslet and Meryl Streep to Barbra Streisand, have opposed plastic surgery for just that reason: to resist body standards. Hopefully, that leads to a cultural change eventually.

I hope so. It’s really helpful when public people put that out there in a really positive way, so that we don’t think, “Oh, this unrealistic expectation is what we all need to do.” When I see people owning it, it inspires me and builds my courage to also own it in the same way. When I see women rocking gray hair in their 40s, I’m like, “Okay, I’m going to skip my next hair appointment.” [Laughs] I don’t want to dye my hair.

“Two Pianos” is lyrically hopeful but musically somber. That’s an interesting dichotomy.

The strings were written, arranged, and performed by Kristen Weber, who’s one of my really close friends and has done strings on almost all my records since 2019. I wrote the song with Caroline Spence, who is also a very good friend. Both of those women have been really intimately witnessing my life over the last several years – and vice versa. Some days it’s really hard to recognize all that we have. And I’m going to be honest, sometimes I compare. Sometimes I feel really sad. For what reason, I’m not sure.

But how do I sit in gratitude and keep this kind of, you know, remember to remember – how we say in the song. I actually got it from Chris Wood from the Wood Brothers. He said that in a podcast that I host with my husband. We were talking about all the things in life and how to stay healthy. He said, “Some days, we just need to remember to remember.” Musically, we wanted it to feel expansive, but also be an intimate experience of being really close at your kitchen table, but how universal that experience is for everybody.

The lyric “I never trust my own point of view” stands out. To both remember that you can be an unreliable narrator and to trust your gut.

At least in my experience, my mind can play tricks on me. It can tell me stories that maybe aren’t actually true. Sometimes, it’s good to be distrustful of my own point of view and try to get grounded in what’s reality. Other times, it’s dangerous to ignore my point of view, but that continual challenge and journey to know who I am. And it’s really hard to ground our individual selves in this world.

Other than music, how do you ground yourself?

I have to move my body. Every morning, I work out for a short amount of time, like 15 minutes. Since having a second child, it’s something my husband and I support each other [in]. Every morning, we take turns while the other person is doing breakfast and packing lunches. Fifteen minutes to do yoga, or a little dance video, or go on a run. That stuff is really essential. My ideal would be to be able to meditate and go on hikes more often. Nature really grounds me. But it’s really hard to find the time. And therapy.

“We’ve Got Bigger Plans” reminds me of the saying that “when you know better, be better.” Whether that’s with social issues or in our relationships with others, it’s about actually learning from the past.

That song is very personal, about my experience [over] the last several years of becoming a mother and having a lot of dreams. The first verse opens up with, “I used to be a dreamer who would dream things you couldn’t see.” I stopped believing, and my husband, partner, the producer of my record, Aaron Shafer-Haiss, was the one who was like, “Life is not over. What are you doing?” We can still have so much beauty and opportunity. We can always make art.

The inspiration for the second verse comes from our daughter, and how mystical and magical it was to witness this little child coming to life, and greeting the moon and stars at night. The kind of ritual of seeing the world really opened up my eyes and my heart in a new way. It’s about not getting pulled into unhelpful, unhealthy belief systems and trying to fill your cup where it doesn’t need to be filled. Looking beyond some of these little things that we can get tripped up on and knowing that we’ve got a bigger view.

What’s it been like adding a podcast to your professional life?

It has been so enriching. It is challenging, like balancing the time. But the conversations that we get to have, and the caliber of artists that we get to meet, it feels like such a gift. And I’m constantly like, “This is so cool that we get to do this and that we get to talk to people who create things that mean so much to other people and us.” Then, really get to dig in on what the human experience of it is. And it’s a great source of comfort to me to know that people I admire have a lot of the same anxieties and hopes and fears. And it just reminds us that we are just human beings.

Photo courtesy of the artist.

Basic Folk: Outlaws’ Almanac (Kimaya Diggs & Lizzie No)

Posted on July 9, 2026July 15, 2026 by Justin Hiltner

Lizzie No, Kaia Kater, Nathan Evans Fox, Olivia Ellen Lloyd, Tray Wellington, A.J. Haynes, and more are featured on the new compilation album Outlaws’ Almanac, a response to the 250th anniversary of the United States of America. Led by executive producer Lizzie No, the project features a diverse range of songwriters and storytellers working in broadly defined folk, Americana, and roots traditions. Lizzie envisioned the compilation as an opportunity to be in conversation with the American project, taking an oft-overlooked perspective. Their curation centers Black, brown, Indigenous, queer, rural, and women’s voices, with traditional and contemporary music melding in a manner that brings to mind America’s promise of being a melting pot.

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Lizzie No and Kimaya Diggs (who also appears on the album) join Basic Folk for a candid and vulnerable conversation about the project and its inspirations. We talked about how they each relate to outlaws and the difference between them and those tasked with protection within the law. We also talked about the significance of the album art by Mia Kristen, a folk art-inspired painting of a woman with a guitar riding a donkey surrounded by corn and flowers. I get into the details of some of the bungled celebrations of America’s major birthdays (namely the 100th and the 200th) and why those celebrations continually leave out marginalized and overlooked voices. We talk about how there are Black people in the future and why that is actually a radical idea in 2026. We end with a lighthearted Lightning Round called “IS THIS OUTLAW?” Thanks to Lizzie and Kimaya for being so open and honest in this intense and special conversation.

Photo Credits: Lizzie No by Mandi Fountain. Lead image of Kimaya Diggs courtesy of the artist. Alternate images of Kimaya Diggs by Jo Chattman.