Makin’ Tracks
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When people think about love, they frequently focus on expensive weddings, flowery poetry or heavy kissing sessions. But the ultimate act of love is arguably less romantic: paperwork.
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Making out a will, filling out the beneficiary lines on insurance forms or assigning someone for that “Payable on Death” section of a checking account are boring details that require uncomfortable thoughts about dying. But those actions smooth the passage of assets and can simplify life for survivors at a time when they’re torn by grief. Few things say “I love you” more than demonstrating it when the recipient can’t show appreciation.
“My wife says to me all the time, ‘If something ever happens to me, please be sure the boys know how much their mom loved them,’” Chris Lane says. “I’m like, ‘Honey, please do not ever say that to me again.’ I can’t even bear the thought of that.”
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Lane’s newest release — “If I Die Before You,” which Red Street issued to digital service providers on Oct. 11 — re-creates that kind of conversation with the singer contemplating his own passage. It’s similar to the approach in two high-impact predecessors, Garth Brooks’ “If Tomorrow Never Comes” and The Band Perry’s “If I Die Young,” but leans even closer to those awkward discussions about estates and advance directives. And it manages to transform a difficult moment into an ascendant one.
“I’ve never heard this topic talked about in a song before,” Lane says. “It felt like a really fresh and really cool idea, and they did it in a very emotional way.”
“They” are songwriters Emily Weisband (“Looking for You,” “Dance Like No One’s Watching”), James McNair (“Guy for That,” “Lovin’ On You”) and Seth Mosley (“Make You Mine,” “Build a Boat”). The three met at a second-floor office Mosley was renting at the Starstruck building on Nashville’s Music Row in 2022.
McNair brought up the title, “If I Die Before You,” which he had recently logged into his phone, most likely after hearing the phrase on a TV show. He didn’t know what kind of story it might create, but it led them to acknowledge that they’ve all had conversations with their spouses about how to handle an unexpected passing. “It’s the worst conversation in the world,” Weisband says.
But it had some powerful possibilities, too, if they could find the right balance, even with the word “die” in the hook. “You have to write it just completely bare and honest,” McNair says. “You can’t be cheesy, and it can’t be too morbid. It’s definitely delicate when you have that word in the title.”
They launched with the title in the opening line — “If I die before you/I hope you buy that Mustang” — with Weisband, who had a pop recording deal, leading the melodic charge. They toggled between the verses and chorus as they proceeded, Mosley girding the top line with more minor chords and sevenths than typically emerge in Nashville writing rooms.
“It’s not like a jazz record or anything,” Mosley says. “There are far more complicated songs and chord progressions out there, but I think as Nashville writers often forget, there are other options. And so if I can be a small part of helping just create stuff that’s slightly different, that’s something I like to do.”
The chorus lived primarily in unresolved chordal territory, creating a sweet tension as it recognized that “all our names end up on a rock.” Near the end, it almost came to a halt, imagining that God takes the singer first. “Baby, forgive Him,” the text read, “and keep living if I die before you.”
Imagining Weisband’s future family, verse two referenced “our hypothetical kids” as the weighty conversation continued. By the time they reached the bridge, the song eased into conversational syncopation, the story’s couple refocusing on the current moment. And on a bottle.
“We tried to lighten it up, in that sense of where it was kind of like a couch conversation over wine,” McNair says, “which I think helps it, you know. They weren’t in the lawyer’s office or something like that.”They wrote it in a scant two hours, prioritizing the song itself rather than how it might be received in the marketplace. Mosley produced a demo with an airy tone, Weisband singing lead.
“It was very low pressure,” she says. “It was not the typical Nashville grind it out till every word is perfect and every melody’s a smash-sounding melody. It’s just like, ‘Let’s let the song write itself, and we’re just kind of here to help birth it,’ if you will. We were the song’s midwives.”
Lane heard “If I Die Before You” when a publisher sent him a batch of songs. He was particularly curious about the title and made it one of the first he played from that group. He took the opening “mustang” reference to mean a horse, which fit his wife’s interests, and the rest of the song worked, too. He wanted it.
“I’m not a super-emotional guy at all, nor do I really love slow songs,” he says. “But when I heard this song, it struck an emotional chord in me — probably because I’m married and have kids now, so I look at life differently.”
He responded to the publisher, who apologized: Another artist — Jordan Davis, it turned out — had the song, and Lane shouldn’t have heard it. While Davis debated whether to release it, McNair played it for Luke Combs, who pressured Davis to put it out or let it go. Combs toyed with it, too, but decided it didn’t fit the project he was recording and passed. “We just kept laughing that for how pop-girl of a demo this was, all these guys were wanting to cut it,” Weisband says.
Ultimately, Lane checked in every few months about it, and his persistence won the day. He so revered it that he insisted on using two of the song’s writers — he got Mosley to produce it and asked Weisband to sing harmonies. And Lane was present for almost all the work as Mosley cut new parts — played primarily by multi-instrumentalist Jonny Fung and drummer Phil Lawson — over pieces of the original demo, shifting it to a country production.
Lane made one lyrical change: “Our hypothetical kids” became “our crazy, beautiful kids,” acknowledging his two boys. He worked tirelessly on his lead vocal, singing perhaps 20 or 30 takes to get every part right.
Mosley called on Gideon Klein and Carl Larson to overdub a string section. “I make string arrangements that are just me singing into a mic,” Mosley says, “and I’ll do 10, 15 tracks of me just humming parts, like, ‘This is a cello, part one,’ ‘Cello, part two,’ and then I’ll pass it off to Gideon. He’ll put it on sheet music so it actually makes sense. But then we go in and just stack it a bunch of times.”
Red Street continues to work Lane’s current single, “Find Another Bar,” currently at No. 28 on Country Airplay after 51 weeks. But “If I Die Before You” is the likely follow-up, assuming it generates the reaction they expect.
“Everything in my gut tells me that this is a career song,” Lane says. “I’m praying and hoping that people react to it in the same way that I did, and if they do, then it feels like the next one up.”
It’s quite the picture: Lainey Wilson performs in a club with fewer than 100 seats and sings a song that’s so new she needs one of her fellow performers — Post Malone, of all people — to hold her cellphone so she can read the lyrics off the screen.
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That was the setting when Wilson took part in a songwriters-in-the-round event on June 17 at Nashville’s vaunted Bluebird Cafe. It was, she says, the first time she had performed “4x4xU” live.
“I didn’t even know the chords,” she recalls. “I was just making them up that night.”
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The song would make its way into the public sphere when Broken Bow released the track and its accompanying video to digital service providers on July 4, ahead of the Aug. 23 street date for her album Whirlwind. On Aug. 26, “4x4xU” officially went to radio via PlayMPE, continuing a trend she has unintentionally developed with prior singles “Heart Like a Truck” and “Wait in the Truck,” a collaboration with HARDY.
“For so long,” she says, “I was like, ‘I’m not going to write about trucks.’ That’s what everybody does. [But] every single one of my biggest songs is about a damn truck. I couldn’t help it, but I guess you just write what you know. And the truth is, trucks are a big part of my childhood and even with the way that I live now, I’m always up and down the road.”
Appropriately, Wilson wrote “4x4xU” on the road when she played Indianapolis’ Gainbridge Fieldhouse on Nov. 1, 2023, in conjunction with the 96th annual FFA Convention. The event cultivated some of her creative mindset for the day.
“I was excited to be at the FFA Convention,” she reflects. “My daddy started one of the very first FFAs at Louisiana Tech in Ruston. It just felt cool. It felt like, ‘Man, I want to kind of write a song about my people. I want to write a song about keeping my people close.’ ”
It was not the first thing on the menu. Co-writers Aaron Raitiere (“You Look Like You Love Me”) and Jon Decious helped her craft a cheeky light-funk piece, “Ring Finger,” first. Once that was completed, they found themselves with a small pre-concert window, and they were all game for a whirlwind attempt at something else.
“We didn’t have more than 30 or 40 minutes,” Decious says. “She had to go be a superstar, you know, in 50 minutes.”
Decious wasted no time — as they strummed guitars on the bus, he brought up the “4x4xU” hook he had developed during a brainstorming session.
“I spend, gosh, several hours a week just title-hunting, I call it, and that was one that I just kind of came across,” he says. “It sort of reminded me — like, I’m a big Prince fan, and you know how he would put numbers [in titles] and also, instead of writing out ‘you,’ he would just put the letter ‘U.’ ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ is a good example. That’s kind of cool, but I don’t see it too often in country.”
Wilson turned the “4x4xU” hook into a gently ascending melody, very close to the way Decious had imagined it, and the phrase became the opening line of the chorus. The next line, “From the bayou to Kentucky,” enhanced the truck’s travel vibe in a personal way.
“She’s from the bayou, and we’re from Kentucky,” Raitiere says. “We were putting all these little, little, little nuggets in there. Hopefully people hear it on the second listen or something.”
Those two lines had a subtle verbal tie — the “4×4 by you” sounds like the “bayou” — and they added a few more locations in the rest of the chorus. They changed those communities on the second verse, covering New York, Los Angeles and a couple of cities with quirky names.
“We just wanted to get them all over the place,” Raitiere says. “And then Timbuktu; I been putting Timbuktu in songs for a while. Kalamazoo rhymes with Timbuktu. Those just seem like weird words. I actually had somebody come up to me from Kalamazoo and say they were so proud to have Kalamazoo in another song.”
When they formed the opening verse, they instinctively took a cinematic approach. The plot’s lens focused first on the singer, riding shotgun in the moving vehicle, then on the guy in the driver’s seat, who has his “hands 10 and two on this heart of mine.” That’s one of those nuggets Raitiere cited, the steering-wheel numbers setting up the four-by-four to come.
They parked the car in verse two, dropping their speed “90 to nothing,” once more feeding more numbers into the text. By the time they reached the bridge, the plot seemingly left the vehicle, pointing the camera toward the sun, the stars and the moon.
“I love that contrast,” Decious says. “You know, four-by-fours, the idea of it is so down home and so tangible, but then the idea of space and time is very intangible. So I love the contrast of those. I think it was just an accident that we went there, a happy accident.”
When Wilson brought “4x4xU” to producer Jay Joyce (Eric Church, Miranda Lambert), the track was layered during tracking at the Neon Cross Studio with multiple keyboards, including soulful electric piano and churchy organ sounds. The bridge received special treatment with a revised set of more ambitious chords and a fermata — an extended hold as pieces of electronica create otherworldly atmospherics.
“Jay does this a lot,” Wilson says. “He kind of takes you to outer space. He’ll kind of take you somewhere up in the clouds, and then when you’re coming back into that chorus, it’s almost like he brings you back down to Earth. When you can get both of those feelings — when you can feel grounded and rooted, like your feet are on the ground but also feel like your head is in the clouds — to me, there’s something really special about being able to feel both in a song.”
One other unusual moment in “4x4xU” occurs in the last half of verse two, with the band breaking into double time, directly contrasting with the “slow motion” lyric.
“That was my one production note,” Wilson says. “I was like, ‘What about if we kind of dug in right here and got a little sexy on it?’ And Jay was down for it.”
The fan base reacted strongly to “4x4xU,” and it continues its steady upward movement on the charts, reaching No. 28 in its sixth week on the Country Airplay list dated Oct. 19 and No. 32 in its fifth week on the corresponding Hot Country Songs. Just as importantly, it has a key role in Wilson’s concerts.
“I still felt like we were missing something that was a big moment, a put-your-hands-in-the-air, sway-back-and-forth kind of thing,” she says. “Truthfully, it’s all about the live show.”
It’s a harsh fact of life for songwriters that the bulk of their creative output is consigned to a shelf, never to be heard outside a small group of friends and co-workers.
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By contrast, nearly every story a reporter turns in typically gets printed. And the vast majority of broadcasters’ voiceovers make it onto the airwaves.
But where the reporters and air personalities are tasked with turning in new content on a daily basis, a great song gets played repeatedly for weeks, months or years. So songwriters keep churning out new material on a regular basis, only to send it into a landscape where a fraction of the industry’s output ever gets significant attention. Under those conditions, ERNEST’s new single, “Would If I Could,” is an outright miracle, a song composed in the 1990s that spent most of the last 30 years collecting figurative dust on a digital shelf.
“There’s a thousand songs coming in today,” ERNEST speculates. “You can imagine, between now and 1993, how many songs are just sitting there.”
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Only one of those songs, though, was penned by Dean Dillon (“Tennessee Whiskey,” “Ocean Front Property”) and artist-writer Skip Ewing (“You Had Me From Hello,” “Love, Me”). They were two of country’s most significant writers during the ’90s, but they only collaborated once. Ewing brought in the hook, they worked through it in short order — and never tackled another song.
“I had that little idea, ‘I would if I could,’ and when I knew I was going to write with him, I thought, ‘Well, that could be right in his wheelhouse,’” Ewing remembers. “We didn’t spend very much time together, and I’ve never talked to him since. It’s the only song we’ve ever written.”
The title, “I Would If I Could,” is a phrase that stands on its own, but it’s also part of a larger meme, “I would if I could, but I can’t, so I shan’t,” that has been in circulation for decades. It appears, in fact, in the dialogue of Jim Parsons’ nerdy Big Bang Theory character, Sheldon Cooper.
Funny enough, neither Ewing nor Dillon had ever heard it. But when they chipped away at the chorus, they ended up chasing a more colloquial version of the same sentiment: “I would if I could, but I can’t, so I won’t.” And then they tagged it with an extension: “But I want to.”
The chorus became an intricate word puzzle. “Want,” “like” and “love” are weaved into the text — along with “I’d love to say, ‘Yes’ ” and “I’m tellin’ you, ‘No.’ ” That maze is attached to a spiraling melody that sounds, as ERNEST notes, a bit like the George Strait hit “The Chair,” written by Dillon.
The first verse — cast in a lower range with a different, but compatible, phrasing — established the story of a former partner asking for a second chance. The singer is respectfully skeptical, though tempted, and the melancholy tone and winding melody add heartbreaking tension to the encounter. “He’s trying to say no,” Ewing observes. “If he was sure, the ‘I want to’ wouldn’t be there, so I still don’t know which one wins.”
Strait, who famously recorded dozens of Dillon’s compositions, got the first crack at “I Would If I Could.” “Every Monday of the week George recorded, I’d go to his office at 10 a.m. in the morning over at [manager] Erv [Woolsey’s] place,” Dillon says. “The stuff he’d like, he’d keep, and then when he cut the session, if I got something, it was all good. And most of the times I did.”
Strait apparently liked “I Would If I Could,” because it got considered during a session. Producer Joey Moi (Morgan Wallen, Florida Georgia Line) notes that when they worked on ERNEST’s recording, fiddler Larry Franklin recognized the song from that earlier Strait date. Strait had toyed with it during that session, but had other songs that were just as good and passed on “I Would If I Could.” Dillon was unaware that Strait had come that close to cutting it. “That’s one more thing I can b–ch to him about,” Dillon deadpans.
The song languished in the Sony/ATV vault for years until July 2023 when Ewing’s demo was issued on numerous platforms. Lainey Wilson cut a version with a fair amount of minor chords for Apple Music’s Lost & Found series, appearing in November 2023. And Dillon’s daughter, Jessie Jo Dillon (“Messed Up As Me,” “Am I Okay?”), brought it to ERNEST’s attention. He loved it.
“All of it,” he clarifies. “The way it felt; I thought the lyric was awesome. Skip’s performance on the demo is very inspiring as well. I mean, Dean Dillon guitar chords and melodies are just as much of a signature as a Banksy painting.”
ERNEST cut his own version of “I Would If I Could,” mixing a few old-school session players — including Franklin and guitarist Brent Mason — with other musicians who have joined the A-list ranks in more recent years. They developed a starkly spacious arrangement, with Bryan Sutton’s acoustic guitar leading the opening verse. Jerry Roe doesn’t start his drum part until the second line of the chorus, and much of the band — including Franklin, Mason, Sutton and steel guitarist Dan Dugmore — operated in unison on many of the key instrumental turnarounds, mimicking a signature Strait element.
“It has to sound like an old classic George Strait song,” Moi says. “We all heard it and barely had to talk about it in the room. It was so obvious how it had to be cut. Every musician walked away and knew the assignment.”
The sparseness of the track let the nuances of ERNEST’s vocals shine. He enunciates the consonants crisply, his breaths are detectable, and those touches enhance the fragility in his performance. “It had to be intimate, but it also had to hurt at the same time,” Moi says. “That’s a hard thing for certain singers to do. Some singers, they kind of have one gear and they sing one way, and they don’t emote the best. But ERN, I feel like he nailed it.”
Wilson added her voice to ERNEST’s version, and their collaboration appeared in April. But she had her own album in the works, and Big Loud released his solo version of “Would If I Could” (the first “I” is shaved off the title) to country radio via PlayMPE on Aug. 21. “Lainey is one of the busiest women in country music, rightfully so,” ERNEST says. “I can’t burden her with another thing to do, but I still want this song on country radio.”
Its official impact date is Oct. 7. Two previous hits, “Flower Shops” and “Cowboys,” teamed him with Wallen; surprisingly, “Would If I Could” — after sitting ignored for three decades — is ERNEST’s first solo release to radio.
“I’m super thankful for the features I’ve had at radio,” he says, “but I’m excited to go do the work it’s going to take to run this song as far as it can go.”
When Bryce Leatherwood repeatedly outlasted the other competitors each week to win NBC’s The Voice in fall 2022, he experienced music as a raw competition.
As he moves into the next chapter of his music career, Leatherwood is still aware of the scads of artists all vying for the same brass ring, and his first radio single, “Hung Up on You,” is designed specifically to make an impression in a busy music marketplace.
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“The biggest part in today’s country is you got to stand out some way,” he says. “You got to differentiate yourself from the pack.”
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“Hung Up on You” definitely separates itself. The chorus features an edgy, anthemic melody, while the production sports a funky bass part at its open, a squealing guitar near its close and tons of growling, uneasy sounds in the middle. In the process, “Hung Up” fulfills Leatherwood’s competitive intentions.
“The whole time we were in the studio, building it out with the musicians, I was just like, ‘Be as off the wall as you can. Do what you want to do. Do the wildest stuff,’ ” he recalls. “As we got into post-production, I was just like, ‘Crank the guitars up, crank that bass up. Make it just punch.’ And it does.”
“Hung Up on You” has existed for a decade. Brandon Lay, then signed to Universal Music Nashville, had a co-write canceled, but Warner Chappell Nashville got him into a room with Neil Medley (“Made for You”) and former Dirt Drifters guitarist Jeff Middleton (“Drowns the Whiskey”) at Liz Rose Music.
“Thank God you’re here,” Medley said when Lay arrived. “We were about to write a ballad.”
Nearly every artist is looking for something uptempo, and all three writers turned their attention to that pursuit. Lay, it turned out, had part of the hook, and his comrades were able to figure out what to do with it.
“I had half of that title,” Lay says. “I was ‘hungover, hung up’ on something, and then they were like, ‘Hung up on you.’ I kind of was missing the forest for the trees, but I had a general idea of the title.”
Middleton dialed up a phat, scrappy bassline he had been playing with and topped that dark sound with some R&B-infused keyboards. They introduced the story with a vivid line, “Stumbled in with the rooster crowing,” that speaks to a long night of partying. The verse continues with more partying as two people stumble down the hallway to a rolling cadence.
“Brandon Lay’s lyrics are so wordy,” Medley says. “I think he listened to a lot more rap or whatever than I did, but I’ve always loved his phrasing. I would assume that the verses are just littered with Brandon Lay-isms. He’s so good at those lyric phrasings and the meter of everything.”
“The choruses,” Middleton adds, “are a little more settled in country songwriter kind of things.”
Those choruses emphasize the melodic part of the quotient with some longer-held notes as the hangover becomes a greater focus: “Keep the shaaaades down, keep the daaaaay out.” A little more rhythmic phrasing ensues “till the haaaaze clears,” and the stanza finally arrives at its “Hungover, hung up on you” hook.
Verse two started with another line, “Woke up with the room still spinning,” that shows some time has transpired. It continues the hungover theme while underscoring that the buzz from the evening is about the two people as much as it’s about the vices they might have employed.
Middleton guided a long bridge, slowing down the mood a bit before they pick up again at the final chorus. It mimics — perhaps unintentionally — the stop-and-start flow between the song’s two characters, whose relationship is not entirely defined. “I’ve always thought of it as kind of a random hookup,” Lay says. “But it could go either way. I guess that’s open for interpretation.”
Lay sang on the fuzzed-up demo with his voice electronically altered. He turned it in to the label and it got some attention, but not enough that it became a single. It was the heart of the bro-country era, and the funk core and long bridge of “Hung Up on You” were likely a little outside the box for the time. “It kind of fell into that Eric Church kind of lane,” Medley says. “And I guess Eric was the only one doing Eric.”
A few other acts cut it but didn’t release it, and before Lay left the label, he recorded it once more with producer Jonathan Singleton (Luke Combs, Riley Green). That version stayed in the Universal vault.Leatherwood moved to Nashville in January 2023, shortly after he won The Voice, and heard “Hung Up” within his first couple of months in town. He was sold on the spot.
“It definitely had that funky vibe to it,” he says. “I think it inspired what the final product was in a big way, but it was definitely not what the record turned out to be.”
Producer Will Bundy (Ella Langley, Graham Barham) oversaw the session at Nashville’s Sound Emporium, with Billy Justineau on Wurlitzer, Evan Hutchings handling drums, Ilya Toshinskiy strumming acoustic, Derek Wells playing seering electric guitar and Mike Johnson manning pedal steel. “That always helps just bring it back in country land,” Bundy says of the steel.
Jimmie Lee Sloas ran his bass through a fuzz pedal, approximating the tone on the demo. “Buckley [Miller], who engineered it with me, he whizzed up a big fuzz on that bass and just made it sort of nasty and made that sort of the backbone of the song, which I feel like is a high risk, high reward,” Bundy says. “It’s definitely different, but it’s cool to see people love it.”
The writers were pleasantly surprised when they learned their 10-year-old song had been cut and even more pleased to discover it was Leatherwood’s first radio single, which Mercury Nashville/Republic released via PlayMPE on Sept. 5. Imitating the demo, Leatherwood’s cut has his voice electronically altered during the verses, though it shifts to its natural tone as the haze clears in the chorus.
“I love the way Bryce sings it,” Middleton says. “It feels country, even with all that stuff going on. He’s a country singer, and that song pushes the boundary a little bit.”
Leatherwood performed “Hung Up On You” during his Grand Ole Opry debut on Sept. 14, and he hopes to keep singing it for years to come. It definitely gives him a chance to be noticed. “There’s nothing like it,” he says. “I think it’s go big or go home. If you go to country radio, you don’t want to leave any stone unturned, and I think this song leaves no stones unturned.”
As Columbia Nashville prepared for the July 12 release of Megan Moroney’s sophomore album, Am I Okay?, the label held back the title track as it rolled out individual songs in advance of the project.
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The move was purposeful: The title matches the reputation she has built with her fan base, and she wanted to catch listeners off guard the first time they heard it.
“I’ve branded myself as the emo cowgirl, and so I knew everyone was going to think that this is going to be a really sad song,” she says. “If you just see it on paper, you’re like, ‘Oh, no, it’s going to be tough.’ And that’s why we didn’t release ‘Am I Okay,’ the title track, ahead of the album, because I wanted everyone to be surprised once the entire album came out.”
The fans would not be the only ones surprised by “Am I Okay?” Her co-writers, Jessie Jo Dillon (“Messed Up As Me,” “10,000 Hours”) and Luke Laird (“Drink in My Hand,” “Undo It”), hadn’t expected to work on something so optimistic. Moroney, in fact, was a little apologetic when she spoke her mind during an appointment at Laird’s writing cabin on Oct. 2, 2023.
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“When I was explaining how I felt, I was like, ‘Yeah, I want to write a love song,’” she recalls. “Like, ‘I’m tired of writing sad songs. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I met this guy, and he’s being really nice to me, and for once, I don’t want to sabotage it. And I think I could be a girlfriend.’ And they were just like, ‘Oh my God, are you okay?’”
That, of course, became the title. The bright, upbeat topic helped meet her musical goals, too. Moroney knew she would be touring with Kenny Chesney in 2024, and she wanted a song that would feel good in a stadium. Laird called up a chugging track he had created around a floating guitar intro, and he believed it would fit her musically.
“She delivers a song so well with just her and a guitar,” he says. “I thought this one will be easy to do that way, too. There’s only, like, three chords. It’s simple. It’s in her key. And she liked it. And I think that it kind of brought an energy to the room, like more of a live thing.”
They attacked the chorus first, capturing the moment Moroney’s then-new squeeze had appeared in a Nashville bar where she had been hanging with some friends. They threw out some descriptors of a guy that most women would find intriguing — 6 feet 2, funny, smart and “good in…” The songwriter antenna went up at that moment, though it only lasted an instant: Would saying he’s good in bed play at radio? On TV? In family settings?
They had the solution before they even discussed it. “We were just rambling,” Moroney notes. “I was probably like, ‘He’s funny and he’s smart and he’s good in…’ And then Jessie Jo or Luke just echoed me. And I was like, ‘Oh, that’s cool.’ There wasn’t too much thought behind it.”
“Instead of just saying it,” Dillon adds, “that felt flirtier, in a way, to just repeat it.”
It wound its way to the final hook — “Oh my God, am I okay?” — kicked out in punchy phrases that seemed right for a gang vocal. Which Moroney didn’t entirely accept at first. “I wasn’t exactly sold on the gang vocals yet,” she recalls. “The last seven syllables of the song are the same note. I was like, ‘Is that weird?’”
As they dug in on the verses, they led with the singer checking to make sure she’s really breathing, a recognition of the change in personality that this new guy had inspired. “I’ve been playing less black keys, baby,” they wrote in that first verse, alluding to the sharps and flats on a piano keyboard, which create an alternative musical scale on their own.
“It’s alluding to writing less sad music,” Dillon says. “I feel like that was [about] being less emo and writing [fewer] sad songs because she’s known for some of her sad songs as much as ‘Tennessee Orange.’ ”
One of Moroney’s managers later capitalized Black Keys on a lyric sheet, believing it to be a reference to the Nashville-based rock band. That development surprised all three writers, who had not contemplated that interpretation.
“I’m a huge Black Keys fan, and their s–t can be pretty emo,” Dillon says. “Their lyrics can be pretty sad — and so I guess either way somebody interprets that, it kind of works.”
In verse two, Moroney sang, “And wait” — then literally waited before continuing, “There’s guys that can communicate.” It was clearly sarcastic; if listeners had any doubt that this “fun little bop,” as Dillon calls it, belonged to Moroney, that confirms it’s legitimately her. “She’s definitely a little snarky,” Laird says, “but the delivery gives it a lightness. I thought it was good.”
Laird finished the demo with the pulsing guitars creating a new wave feel, and all three of them did the gang vocals at the end of the chorus. It provided a solid template for the full recording, produced by Sugarland’s Kristian Bush at Nashville’s Blackbird Studio in January. The musicians bumped up the tempo a few beats per minute, but mostly followed Laird’s demo as a guide. With real musicians replacing some of the programmed elements, it took on more of a Tom Petty pulse, while Jordan Schipper’s steel guitar upped the country quotient. The steel, Brandon Bush’s keyboards and some of Benji Shanks’ guitar tones leaned hazy or fuzzy.
“I’m totally into ambient pedals right now,” Kristian says. “You don’t really know what you’re getting. You put a tone into it, like you’ll play your steel into it, or you play the guitar into it and it’s a very Brian Eno-y thing, where it starts to sort of randomize at certain frequencies the sound that’s coming out of it. You can control it with your hands, like on these knobs, but it’s all kind of voodoo. It becomes dreamy very quickly.”
Bush heightened the dynamic range; the track goes quiet when Moroney sings “Wait…,” and it nearly does it again at the bridge. At the finale, the instruments drop out as she delivers the last line, “I think I’m still breathing.” She could have followed it with a sigh, but it never quite appears.
“At the end of this song, when it cuts off, I wanted you to be waiting for the next song to happen,” Kristian says. “When you’re playing live, at the end of that first song, you want people to be like, ‘Is it over? What’s happening? Oh my God.’ And then all of a sudden, you’re into your next song.” The vocals challenged Moroney. Ironically, the week she sang about her boyfriend, they broke up.
“I’m in the studio having to sing this song about a guy being really nice to me, when actually it was just like three months and he showed me who he actually was,” she says. “And now I have to sing this forever.”
She just might. Columbia Nashville released it to country radio via PlayMPE on Aug. 5. It’s at No. 20 and rising on the Hot Country Songs chart dated Sept. 28. Even if it’s uncharacteristically buoyant for Moroney, the sarcasm still comes through.
“If I’m writing a love song, I must be ill,” she says. “That’s the whole premise of the song.”
Plenty of listeners likely did a double take when Parker McCollum’s new single premiered on radio stations and streaming playlists on Sept. 13.
It was McCollum’s voice all right, but the Dylan-style harmonica, rough-cut Flying Burrito Brothers arrangement and Hawaiian steel-like slide guitar challenge all the norms of modern commercial country. Even for McCollum, who openly tries to live at the margins of mainstream country, “What Kinda Man” is boldly different.
“I’m a little nervous about this song,” he confesses. “I think it’s going to stick out on country radio like a sore thumb.”
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Standing out from the crowd is, of course, an asset for recording artists, even if it’s sometimes uncomfortable. Willie Nelson, Chris Stapleton, Waylon Jennings and Dolly Parton all earned their place in the genre’s strata by owning a unique sonic personality. McCollum, clearly aware that there are no guarantees about the length of a recording career, seems intent on enhancing his public identity while he has the opportunity.
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“I’ve only got two records left on my first-ever record deal, and I just didn’t want to go put out a record that sounded like the last two,” he says. “I always wanted to be John Mayer and George Strait, you know, and their records are sonically perfect. And I kind of came to the realization over the last year [that] maybe that’s just not me.”
“What Kinda Man” is decidedly McCollum. He started writing it at home alone several years ago after turkey hunting in Kansas, “banging around on my guitar trying to find a melody” and freestyling phrases. He landed on an apologetic line about pulling an all-nighter — “which,” he says, “I used to do all of the time” — and he played it forward from there, each melodic line and lyrical phrase arriving sequentially. The verse segued seamlessly into the chorus, and he worked his way to the payoff phrase: “Forget the man I am/ What kinda man do you need?”
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He knew that hook was worth pursuing, so he saved it for another day. That day arrived on April 26, 2022, when songwriters Natalie Hemby (“Heartache Medication,” “Pontoon”) and Jeremy Spillman (“Hell on the Heart,” “Arlington”) arrived at his house to work on songs. He played the verse and chorus of “What Kinda Man,” and it was already so far down the road, his co-writers felt strongly that they should try to finish it.
“Parker just gifted this to us like our Christmas presents,” Hemby says. “So very grateful to him. Maybe we changed a couple of lines, but that was about it on the first verse and chorus. He came in with a mapped-out idea.”
Like McCollum, they recognized the hook — “Forget the man I am/ What kinda man do you need?” — was strong. “I just don’t know what girl across the universe doesn’t want to hear that,” Hemby deadpans, “because we love to change people.”
McCollum had one specific demand for the second verse. He wanted to include a specific line, “Swore that I would never step foot back in the Union Valley Church again,” which he had written as a reference to a spot in Oklahoma he stumbled on during his drive home from the turkey hunt.
“We’d actually pulled over right there to smoke a joint, which is a little sacrilegious,” he allows. “But I took the picture on my phone.”
The church became a symbol for the singer’s determination to change his life around; he was willing to return to a place he despised and try to find salvation in an effort to win over a woman. “I think that’s a theme that’s true for a lot of guys,” Spillman says. “You can listen to that song and identify with that character. We are kind of hell-raisers till we find the one who gives us a reason not to be that way.”
They recorded a guitar/vocal work tape with a light swing feel to it, Hemby creating a template for a harmony part. McCollum considered recording it for his 2023 album, Never Enough, but never quite got to it. After cutting about seven tracks for his next album, he switched producers, looking to change his sound. He called on Frank Liddell (Miranda Lambert, David Nail) and Eric Masse (Charlie Worsham, Waylon Payne) and recorded a few songs at Nashville’s Blackbird Studio in mid-summer with a handpicked, five-piece studio band: drummer Nir Z, bassist Eli Beard and three guitarists — Adam Wright, Harrison Whitford and Cage the Elephant’s Nick Bockrath.
The night before the session, McCollum decided the phrasing in the back half of verse two could be tighter, and he rewrote that section of “What Kinda Man.”
At the session, Liddell had the band cut an instrumental first to develop some cohesiveness as a unit. Sitting in the control room before they tackled “What Kinda Man,” McCollum determined they should record it as a shuffle, but outside of that, they mostly let the band play the song repeatedly, finding their groove along the way. They played without a click track, giving the performance a looser feel, and the ultimate single was built on one specific pass. McCollum sang full-throated with every take.
“He brought it almost like an athlete,” Liddell says. “It’s really important because, especially when you’re doing something live like that, [the voice is] the most important instrument in the room, and if they can’t hear it, or if the person can’t sing, or they’re just mailing it in, then it affects everything else.”
Liddell thought McCollum’s vocal from the studio floor was strong enough to be the final performance, but McCollum insisted that he was a bit worn down from the road and could improve upon it, so he held an overdub session later, completing his vocal work and throwing in the harmonica piece, too. Wright sang a harmony part, and they called in Madi Diaz, who had worked with Liddell on Lambert’s “Vice,” to lend an atmospheric countermelody in the background.
“We were kind of feeling like there should be a female and just trying to find something interesting,” Liddell says. “It kind of solves the whole element of having a woman in there. The song’s about, you know, talking to a woman.”
The resulting track is at once swaggering and apologetic. “It sounded like a jam when we heard it,” Spillman says.
MCA Nashville surprised McCollum by picking “What Kinda Man” as his next single, since he thought the production might be too rough for country radio. But the storyline fits his own conversion from a rabble-rouser to a married man, and the song overall meets his standards.
“The only thing I ever think about when I write songs,” McCollum says, “is, you know, would Rodney Crowell think this is good? Would Steve Earle think this is good? Would James McMurtry or Robert Earl Keen think this is good for country music? And I think they would think this song was good for country music.”
With apologies to Boy George, Meghan Patrick can be considered a charter member of a small new club of punctuation punks, the Comma Chameleons.
Her debut single, “Golden Child,” purposely omits a comma from the title, disguising a twist in the song’s hook, “Everything that glitters ain’t golden, child.”
Patrick’s not the first to use that punctuation mark to make a clever switch in a song’s meaning. Craig Campbell’s “Family Man” emphasizes the singer’s priorities by answering a question with the simple phrase “Family, man.” Kacey Musgraves’ “Space Cowboy” injects new meaning into an old Steve Miller Band expression: “You can have your space, cowboy.”
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Patrick accomplishes some wordplay by implying there’s a comma in the song’s hook, but leaving it out of the title isn’t only an attempt at creating surprise. It’s also a method of underscoring the parent album’s theme.
“The biggest reason why we didn’t put the comma in was because it’s the title track to the record, and the record is just Golden Child,” she says. “The whole record is connected. It’s sequential, it’s meant to be listened to top to bottom, in order. This song kind of ties it all together.”
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Patrick had the album title and concept before she had the title track, which arrived thanks to a suggestion by a co-writer.
After attending the CMT Music Awards on April 7 in Austin, Patrick flew back to Nashville for a next-day writing appointment. Operating on two or three hours of sleep, she showed up at the home studio of co-writer Aaron Eshuis (“One Bad Habit,” “This Is It”), where they were to collaborate with Joey Hyde (“Later On,” “Made For You”). Naturally, she told them about the album she was working on, already titled Golden Child, based on the opening line of “Blood From a Stone.” Eshuis decided the album needed a song named “Golden Child.”
“Aaron is kind of the quiet shaman,” Hyde says. “He doesn’t speak a whole lot. I mean, when we’re together, I take a lot of oxygen out of the room. So when he does say something, everybody really shuts up and listens.”
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Hyde came up with the hook, “Everything that glitters ain’t golden, child,” and Patrick decided the song should represent a letter to her younger self. That angle helped them write the first line or two, but then they turned their efforts toward the chorus, where she compiled some sage advice, a bit like “Humble and Kind” at a faster tempo.
“The thing about writing songs where you’re sort of trying to impart wisdom or give advice, in some ways, you don’t want to ever come across too preachy or too judgy,” Patrick says. “It’s more just ‘Hey, this is what I’ve learned. This is how it goes.’ ”
The clincher, developed by Patrick, was a warning to “wear your diamonds on the inside.”
“The moral of the story is that a lot of things that I thought were the diamonds — the things that I was wanting and striving for within the industry, the people I thought I needed to hang out with, or the things I thought I needed to do — they weren’t that great,” she says. “You can win all you want in this industry, but what you have on the inside — your character and how you treat people — that should be the most valuable thing about you.”
They made a point of crafting “Golden Child” as her own personal statement. “So many of those lyrics were just spoken by her in the room,” Eshuis says. “We just tried to make them rhyme.”
Hyde addressed it musically with a chord progression that invites the listener to lean forward. The opening seconds begin with a minor chord, infusing the piece with a darker texture. The chorus would start with a five chord — a brighter triad that still needs to resolve.
“We never fully give the big breath of relief at any point in this song,” Hyde says. “From a music standpoint, we keep the hooks coming at you so it’s familiar and comfortable, but we don’t let you get off the edge of the cliff.”
They closed shop after nailing the chorus and first verse, then reassembled the next day, April 9, determined to bring “Golden Child” to the finish line. Where the first verse had focused on the younger girl who was to receive the letter from her older self, the second verse highlighted several challenges she could expect to face, offering solutions for each.
Eshuis and Hyde were determined to build a demo that would provide a strong guide for the final production, though since they had produced some of her earlier material, they had an idea that the day’s recording might prove to be the master. “We didn’t know,” Hyde says, “but we knew.”
As they shifted into production, they adjusted the underlying rhythm for “Golden Child.” They had written it as a shuffle, but to toughen it up, they gave it more drive — “kind of a Tom Petty groove,” Eshuis says.After the guys laid down some acoustic guitar parts, Patrick tackled the vocal informally in the center of the studio.
“I do have a vocal booth, but we didn’t use it,” Eshuis says. “She was singing on a Telefunken U47 in the middle of my writing room, and all three of us had headphones on, just looking at each other while she’s singing, which is how I do almost all my vocals now. It just makes it easy for communication.”
She anticipated coming back at a later date to deliver a more suitable vocal when she was better rested, though it was so strong they later decided only to do a small amount of touch-up.
With her vocal in place, Hyde played drums and Eshuis took on the bass parts, establishing the foundation for the track. Leading into the final chorus, Eshuis filled in one instrumental hole with a bass lick played high on the neck, inspired by Craig Young’s work on Lady A’s “I Run To You.” Hyde threw on the electric guitar opening riff and a solo with a dirty tone.
They needed only one additional musician; Patrick had them send the track to fiddler Jenee Fleenor for extra country texture.
“There was just something about adding in that fiddle that gives you that great classic country feel,” Patrick says. “Jenee is just such a great, tasteful player. And also, if I’ve got a chance to put a spotlight on or empower another woman in the industry, I’m going to take it. So all in all, it was a great choice.”
Already established in Canada, Patrick created a Golden Child web series to better introduce herself to American country fans. River House released “Golden Child” to country radio through PlayMPE on Aug. 5, with a Sept. 9 add date. The label believed so strongly in the song that it sent it to broadcasters even before it went to digital service providers, marketing the Comma Chameleon entry with an exclamation mark.
“We did send it out for some testing to a few trusted friends and stuff at radio, and the response was really positive,” Patrick says. “But I have known and felt like this needed to be the single ever since I wrote it.”
The primary question around Texas country singer Randall King for the last several years has not been if will he break through on a national stage, but when? The answer could well be 2024, as Warner Music Nashville releases a single to country radio. “I Could Be That Rain” has a classic sound that draws from his ‘90s-country influences, and a weather-beaten lyric that rings true to his Amarillo roots.
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“I just flat out love storms, man, being from West Texas, how open it is, how flat,” he says. “They say you can watch a dog run off for three days out there. And you can watch the thunderheads just rolling in, and it’s beautiful.”
The emotions in “I Could Be That Rain” aren’t nearly as beautiful, though, as they are twisted. The protagonist finds himself shut out by his ex, with no chance to get close to her again. If only he could take the place of a rain shower, he could manage to touch her once more. Morphing into a downpour might be a little sci-fi for country, but the broken heart behind it grounds the story.
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“It’s just so real,” King says. “That’s what country music should be.”
Songwriter Mason Thornley developed the title and concept circa 2021 when he heard Brit-pop artist Labrinth’s 2014 ballad “Jealous” on Spotify. That song goes through a list of people and natural elements that may be sharing space with an ex, leaving the singer frustrated that his love interest is moving on when he cannot.
Thornley focused specifically on the rain in the opening image of “Jealous,” believing that that smaller concept could be built into something much larger. “I always thought that was a whole country song in itself,” he says.
Thornley developed the chorus hook and opening line, “Wish I could be that rain,” and wrote the front half of the chorus, personifying a downpour. As raindrops, he fantasized, he could touch his ex’s skin or sing her a song through the rhythm of raindrops on a tin roof.
He pitched the idea in several writing appointments, but didn’t get any traction. Finally, he got a good reception for his rain song during a writing appointment at the office of his publisher, the aptly named Deluge Music. Artist-writer Brian Fuller, one of Thornley’s frequent writing partners, thought humanizing the rain was a bit of an outlier concept, but he saw that as a positive.
“The wackier or weirder the idea, the more interesting it is to me,” Fuller says. “I like being able to chase hooks like that and just see [what happens]. Sometimes they turn out great. Sometimes they don’t turn out at all. But I really loved it. I mean, it wasn’t anything that I hesitated on at all.”
They finished the back half of the chorus – the first line in that exercise, “Wish I could move some clouds into your sunshine,” might be the song’s best – then moved to the first verse, pitched significantly lower to create some drama in the chorus.
“I like to write those big, overarching choruses a lot of times, if you got a singer in the room who can do it,” Thornley says. “Brian’s got a great voice, and it’s not a problem for him to go up and hit those notes.”Going low in the verse allowed for introspection. For that first stanza, they used a July shower to make the protagonist nostalgic, recalling the romantic moments the couple experienced in the rain. For the second verse, the singer contemplates how, if he had morphed into rain, he could affect her in ways he could not as a human.
“It’s not that I’m going to text her, or I’m going to go try to see where she’s at, if she’s at a bar that we used to hang out at, or she’s with her friends,” Fuller says. “I’m not going to drive by her house and see if she’s home. If there’d be a unique way to do this, if there’d be a way that I could get back to her and make her think about me, I know that the rain would be the way to do it.”
They didn’t cut a demo immediately, but when Thornley was on vacation months later, Fuller discovered that Parker McCollum was considering outside songs for a project. “I Could Be That Rain” seemed like a potential match to Fuller, so he asked Thornley if they could finish the demo. Thornley worked on it during his downtime, and when he got back to Nashville, Fuller put a vocal on it.
“Rain” didn’t land with McCollum, so Fuller recorded his own version with producer Joey Hyde. When Durango artist manager Scott Gunter was shopping for a producer for developing vocalist Jake Jacobson, Hyde sent that recording among several others to demonstrate his skills. Gunter listened steadily to “Rain” for weeks before he realized that the song might work for King. Indeed, King was instantly attracted to it, though he called Fuller to make sure it was cool.
Once he got a thumbs-up, King and co-producer Jared Conrad recorded it at Nashville’s Soundstage in July 2023, intent on balancing his ‘90s proclivities with 2020s touches. “I wanted it to still be the traditional country sound that I have, but with a little bit of that darker, modern edge,” King says. “I have a Gary Allan/Dierks Bentley influence in me, that’s kind of ‘Smoke Rings in the Dark.’ And that’s what we wanted on this record. I wanted to put some ‘Smoke’ on it.”
The band played it three times at a slightly faster tempo with okay results, but on the fourth go-round, King suggested steel guitarist Justin Schipper take a more prominent role, playing the opening signature lick and handling the instrumental solo.
“Production-wise, we did try to take it a little more sad,” Conrad says. “I mean, just adding a steel guitar to it helps that immediately.”
King also wanted to weave the feel of rain on a tin roof into the sound. Tim Galloway hinted at that with a pulsing rhythm on bouzouki, a tinny-sounding Greek stringed instrument, but King heightened the effect by asking drummer Evan Hutchings to play in tandem with Galloway, tapping the metallic side of the snare.
When King sang the final vocals for the album, Into the Neon, he held “Rain” back until the end, fearful that its range might destroy his voice for the rest of the songs. “This is by far the hardest record I’ve ever sang in my life,” he says. But he handled a couple full run-throughs well, then Conrad changed things up to focus on specific parts of the song.
“We just chopped it up into the sections so I could do all the low verses together and then move into the choruses,” Conrad says. “But I’m assuming he had practiced it a lot, because in the studio, it felt super natural.”
Warner Music Nashville released “Rain” to country radio via PlayMPE on July 10, making it his first single the label has worked nationally to primary stations. King is confident in its potential.
“It’s a song that people can relate to,” he says. “People understand when you’re hurting and missing somebody. You’re hoping that they hurt and miss you, too. That’s as straightforward as it could go.”
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When Randy Travis emerged as a game-changing country icon nearly 40 years ago, he won over the audience by mixing songs of infinite love — including “Forever and Ever, Amen,” “Deeper Than the Holler” and “I Won’t Need You Anymore (Always and Forever)” — with songs that address mortality, such as “Three Wooden Crosses,” “He Walked on Water” and “Before You Kill Us All.” And he blended both love and finality with the pledge of “’til death do us part” in “Forever Together.”
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Russell Dickerson has adhered primarily to the first half of that equation during his career, embracing long and lasting love in his singles “Yours,” “Every Little Thing” and “Home Sweet.” But with his latest release, “Bones,” he manages to combine both grown-up Travis themes: commitment and the end of life.
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“Bones,” he says, is “like ‘Yours’ with a mortgage payment.”
Dickerson suggested “Bones” during his last writing session of 2023, held around Thanksgiving at a wood-paneled studio on his Tennessee property. Co-writers Parker Welling (“Blue Tacoma,” “What’s Your Country Song”), Chase McGill (“Chevrolet,” “Next Thing You Know”) and Chris LaCorte (“23,” “Wind Up Missin’ You”) were down the road with it before anyone mentioned that Maren Morris already had a significant recent hit titled “The Bones.” No one was particularly concerned.
“I felt like we were pretty good,” McGill reflects. “They’re just completely different songs.”
Dickerson started strumming through a guitar progression, and LaCorte came up with a gritty riff that created a rough-cut musical tone for the work. On the lyrical side, they wanted to find different ways to incorporate the title throughout the song, so they developed a list of phrases that contained the word “bones,” including “shaking right down to my bones” and “flesh and bones.”
And as Dickerson kept singing a chorus setup line, “I’ll love ya ’til I’m six feet down in the ground,” they played with numerous payoff lines until McGill finally found the winner: “And the gold on my finger’s wrapped around/ Nothin’ but bones.”
“That was just kind of the — no pun intended — nail in the coffin,” Dickerson deadpans. “It’s like, ‘Holy cow, this is a song here.’”
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The melody for that chorus started at an anthemic level and maintained power through the bulk of the stanza until it reached its conclusion with calm serenity. As a result, that chorus sonically mirrors the story of the relationship it covers: intense at the start and steady over time until death brings it to a close. “We didn’t intentionally do that, but I think there’s a feeling about that song that we kind of just followed,” Welling suggests. “I think that’s why it all matches up.”
Welling has been friends with Dickerson and his wife, Kailey, since all of them attended Belmont University, and she spun specific descriptors about Kailey and the couple’s relationship for the opening moments. That verse ended with the singer “shaking right down to my bones” as he proposes. The second verse finds him putting the woman on a figurative pedestal, comparing her to an angel while grading himself as “just flesh and bones.”
“It’s like, ‘Thank you for choosing me,’” Dickerson says.
They inserted new lyrics in the final chorus to drive the point of “Bones” home, folding part of a wedding vow into a line LaCorte suggested about carving a pledge into his tombstone, a word the group changed to “headstone.” The image emerged earlier in the writing process, but they saved the drama of that visual for the song’s closing moments.
“We thought the headstone line in ‘Bones’ would have been a lot to have at the halfway point of [an earlier] chorus and then land on the ‘gold on my finger wrapped around nothing but bones,’ ” Welling says. “That’s just a lot of, like, casket.”
It was stark, but no more so than the deathly stories in Travis’ songs, George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” Vern Gosdin’s “Chiseled in Stone” or The Carter Family’s “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” “What I love about country is you can go there,” McGill says. “You can say that.”
LaCorte produced most of the demo that day, creating the intro by layering two different acoustic guitars, one playing a pulsing figure and the other building melodic tension with the foundational minor-key riff. It was a little raw, as LaCorte recorded the part in an uncomfortable position. “It was recorded so haphazardly,” he says. “I had an SM7 microphone, but it was just lying on a table, and I was trying to scoot up next to it to play this thing.”
Dickerson rerecorded the demo vocals within a few weeks to ensure he had a version that showcased well for his team, and he recorded the final version in the spring. Producer Josh Kerr (Maddie & Tae, For King & Country) asked LaCorte to co-produce with him and Dickerson, and insisted that they use LaCorte’s imperfect acoustic guitar parts from the demo. The session came together so quickly that the night before, they were uncertain where that would happen. Ultimately, they booked Peter Frampton’s Studio Phenix for a 6 p.m. date with drummer Evan Hutchings, bassist Tony Lucido, keyboardist Alex Wright and guitarist Nathan Keeterle. After one pass that featured some syncopation, Dickerson asked the band to play the rhythms straight, like an elephant stomping through the jungle. It needed to sound simple and determined, even if it was compiled from different sources.
“A lot of the track is Chris and the bones of the demo — pun intended — and then some other layers,” Kerr says. “I added some drum programming in the second verse and some new synth layers, so it’s a true hodgepodge of things going on in this song.”
Several elements provided a ghostly effect, including a windy sound in the opening section. “That’s my old Moog Model D synthesizer, and it has this one mode on it that’s just called ‘Noise,’ ” LaCorte says. “Sometimes it just adds kind of a cool texture in the background, [but] it’s more felt than heard.”
LaCorte’s Dobro solo from the demo stayed in the master, though Kerr had him double it with electric guitar to create a quasi-slide tonality. Dickerson purposely sang parts of “Bones” a little off-kilter. The phrasing in the opening verse is intentionally awkward, and in the final chorus, he sings two lead vocals for a brief period that lend their own haunting quality, as the voices engage in a short-term battle.
“It’s gritty, it’s crisp, there’s a lot of depth and dynamic to it,” Kerr says of Dickerson’s performance. “That’s something that we really made a point of doing in this song.” Kailey was so enamored with “Bones” that she stayed out late one night just driving and listening to the cut. “If she digs it,” Dickerson says, “then that’s a good sign.”
But not everyone at Triple Tigers thought it should be a single. Several alternative titles were thrown around, though Dickerson held out for “Bones.” The label released it to country radio via PlayMPE on July 15.
“It’s a little jarring at first,” he concedes, “but once you really settle into the song, that kind of fades away. I had to fight for this song to be the single, but I’m betting everything on this song.”
Jordan Davis has built quite the reputation as a modern-day storyteller, winning the Country Music Association’s song of the year award in 2022 with “Buy Dirt,” claiming the Academy of Country Music’s song trophy this year for “Next Thing You Know” and climbing to No. 1 on Billboard‘s Country Airplay chart in May with “Tucson Too Late.”
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Moving at a ballad or midtempo pace, all three explore a life lesson or personal crossroad. But his latest release, “I Ain’t Sayin’,” takes a different attitude, mirroring the barroom setting of his 2017 debut, “Singles You Up,” with a steady dance texture similar to Morgan Wallen’s “One Thing at a Time.”
“It’s been a minute since we’ve released this kind of song,” Davis says. “I feel like I’ve been long overdue for it.”
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“I Ain’t Sayin’” was tailor made for Davis, fashioned May 25 on the final day of a writing retreat in snowy Livingston, Mont. While Davis wrote that morning with several other creatives in a rented cabin, Travis Wood (“Girl in Mine,” “’98 Braves”), Mark Holman (“Flower Shops,” “Don’t Think Jesus”) and Steve Moakler worked in a separate building, determined to craft something a little more speedy for Davis. Holman had created a few musical tracks prior to the trip, and one of them, built around some hand claps and a buzzy acoustic guitar, energized the room.
“It might just be like little guitar parts and a little loop or something behind it just to kind of catch a vibe,” Holman says. “It’s not a full thing. It’s just enough to be like, ‘Oh, we like this. We like the feeling of this.’ ”Wood had a ready-made chorus that he had penned with Los Angeles-based songwriter Emily Reid, with whom he frequently writes “starts” — small chunks of potential songs that can serve as a foundation during a full writing session. He reached out to her to make sure she was OK with this one getting used on this trip.
“I’m in L.A., they’re in Montana, and I got the FaceTime from him,” Reid remembers. “He was like, ‘Hey, we’re writing this “I Ain’t Sayin’” idea. It’s really going well. Can you just make sure this first verse makes sense?’ Because sometimes when you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to have perspective. And I was like, ‘Damn, sounds brilliant.’ ”
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Reid’s original idea wasn’t actually the title. It was the phrase “He sure as hell ain’t,” which became the payoff line at the end of the chorus that she and Wood started. They weren’t entirely certain what the plot should be, though it fit a scenario involving a mismatched couple. As they built it, they used the phrase “I ain’t sayin’ ” as a repetitive lyrical device in a loaded chorus.
“When we were punching out that phrasing, we wanted to do something that felt really fresh,” Reid notes. “We wanted to make it really rhythmic and get a lot in there.”
When they came up with one particular line, “I’m here and he’s MIA,” they felt it had a lot of potential, though once they finished writing it, Reid put it out of her mind. Thus, the call from Wood was a welcome surprise.
As it started taking shape in Montana, Wood, Moakler and Holman unlocked the opening verse, depicting a woman who had bought a beer for a date who seems to have stiffed her. The protagonist presents himself as a short-term alternative, though the writers knew instinctively that he couldn’t be too pushy.
“We could have gone to further extremes with the guy and the girl,” Moakler says, “but we ended up choosing [to] walk the line, I think, in a cool way where he’s not overtly trying to steal the girl. He sees his opportunity, and he seems like a relatable guy, you know. That was the job of the day.”
As the protagonist moves in during the second verse, he attempts to reframe the woman’s bad moment with a bit of hope: “He let you down, but here’s the upside” — using a word, “upside,” in a way that’s rarely heard in a country song.
“It’s a little different,” Holman acknowledges, “which is always good.”
They saved the most elaborate lyrical twist for the end of that second verse, guaranteeing that that stanza could meet — if not exceed — the quality established in verse one.
“ ‘I ain’t trying to change that miss to a missus/But he don’t know what he’s missing’ — I just love that wordplay, Wood says. “It perfectly paraphrases the ‘I ain’t sayin’ I’m the one, I’m just saying he ain’t.’ I mean, you couldn’t find a cooler way to paraphrase that.”
They debated “He Sure As Hell Ain’t” as the title, but settled on “I Ain’t Sayin’,” avoiding a slightly profane word in favor of the song’s most frequently heard phrase.
“I think we picked the right one,” Moakler says. “I haven’t heard a song called that. The only hang-up with the song is, people say, ‘What’s it called?’ And you say, ‘I Ain’t Sayin.’ ’ And they say, ‘Wait, why won’t you tell me?’” Holman quickly whipped a demo together, and Wood went back to his cabin, where Davis’ small group was still writing in a different room. When that team finished, Wood had writer-producer Paul DiGiovanni (Travis Denning, Justin Moore) play the demo, which seemed to connect with Davis.
“Jordan was pretty effusive about it, but I didn’t know if he was just being polite,” Wood says. “When we hit that miss/misses line, he turned around and looked at me after that line. So I was like, ‘I think he likes it.’”
Indeed, the next week, Davis, DiGiovanni and a studio band tackled “I Ain’t Sayin’ ” at Sound Stage in Nashville with drummer Nir Z sharing duties 50/50 with the programmed percussion. “The loop thing was going basically throughout the whole song, so I needed to just go to another level on the master and just keep the energy going,” DiGiovanni says. “The demo was just like the verse feel the whole time, and I just kind of kicked it over the top.”
But the enhancements were comparatively incremental. “We never made a lyric change, we never made a melody change,” Davis says. “We dropped the key a half step from the original demo, maybe we bumped the [beats per minute] down a couple. But other than that, it was basically taking Mark’s demo and letting Paul kind of pepper in his touch on it.”
While the tracking band established most of the rhythm and textural sounds, DiGiovanni did add some color during overdubs, including a Spanish-flavored guitar in the background, steel-sounding guitar parts and a Southern rock-like twin guitar break.
“It didn’t need a shreddy, really crazy guitar solo by any means,” he says. “There’s so much melodic stuff happening in the song, so I just tried to do something that was kind of familiar. I think I sat down and put my track on loop and played like five or six different kinds of melody things, and that one just stuck out.”Davis tends to inject downward-sliding grace notes into his vocal performances, and though the writers didn’t specifically put that into “I Ain’t Sayin’,” it adapted well to his approach.
“That chorus melody, I was kind of like, ‘Wait a second, you’re sure I didn’t write this?’ ” he notes. “It just felt like something that I would write and something that I would say.”
MCA Nashville released “I Ain’t Sayin’ ” to country radio via PlayMPE on July 24, and it’s at No. 52 in its beginning stages on the Country Airplay chart dated Aug. 17.
“It’s something that I think people want,” Davis says of its breezy, summer-ish sound. “It feels like it’s the right release right now.”