Everything You Hate

Cole Barnhill has always written like a guy who’s paying attention — to the cracks in the sidewalk, the tone in a room, the things most folks scroll past. Long before this EP, Cole was already building a reputation for songs that don’t posture or polish themselves up for radio. His earlier work leaned into reflection and restraint, letting the weight sit where it falls instead of forcing a chorus to save it.

Now he drops Everything You Hate, a six-song collection that feels less like a release and more like a carefully stacked pile of truths. Each track feeds the next — no filler, no wasted space — just a tight compilation that understands exactly what it is and refuses to be anything else. That’s the genius of it. It’s curated, not cranked out. Thoughtful without being soft.

The older I get, the list of things I hate keeps getting longer. Haters never seem to run out of breath. But finding the beauty inside those irritations — that’s where the heart and soul come alive. Ray Wylie Hubbard said it best: the days I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations are really good days. This EP feels like a reminder of that truth.

This ain’t rock, and it damn sure ain’t country. It’s something better — honest. The world as I know it, right here, right now. And Cole Barnhill captures it without flinching.

Clay Street Unit Sam Walker- Sin and Squalor

There’s a sound rolling in lately that feels familiar but won’t sit still — like bluegrass that learned how to drink electric coffee and stay out past midnight. That’s where we find Sam Walker, frontman and road captain for Clay Street Unit.

Sam doesn’t sound like he studied the rulebook — sounds more like he lost it somewhere between a back porch and a barroom stage. The bones of this thing are old: bluegrass runs, folk storytelling, front-porch harmonies. But Clay Street Unit plugs it in, leans into the throttle, and lets it scrape sparks. It’s roots music that knows the past but ain’t scared of the present.

They’ve got a new album on deck called Sin and Squalor, and if the early singles are any indication, this one’s gonna live somewhere between redemption and bad decisions — my favorite neighborhood. A few tracks are already out in the wild, and I’ll tell you this: I sat down to “check one out” and next thing I knew I was lost down the Newgrass rabbit hole, nodding my head like I missed my exit on purpose.

There’s motion in these songs. Fiddle lines that don’t ask permission. Rhythm sections that push instead of politely escort. Lyrics that feel lived-in — not polished to death, not pretending to be something they’re not. That’s Sam’s voice leading the charge, steady and human, like he’s telling you a story he remembers because it happened, not because he wrote it down.

Sin and Squalor already feels like one of those records you don’t just hear — you end up inside it. If this is where Clay Street Unit is headed, I’m fine riding shotgun and seeing where the road bends next.

Pancho’s Picks

— follow the sound, trust the drift 🎶

Red Shahan — “Cotton Fire”

Red Shahan dropped Cotton Fire and it ain’t a feel-good tune for the porch swing crowd. This one’s a scorched-earth story about a man pushed past his breaking point — prices squeezed by the government, debts stacking like busted fence posts, and an insurance man who somehow comes out smelling like money.

It’s hard livin’ on hard land.

Wind-burnt rows, red dirt under your nails, and no soft landing when the numbers quit working. So the match gets struck, the cotton goes up, and that quiet little voice says let that sucker burn.

Shahan doesn’t preach it — he just tells it straight. Same way West Texas tells you the truth: no shade, no mercy, no apologies. Flames licking the sky while a man watches everything he built turn to smoke… and maybe, just maybe, feels lighter for a second.

That’s Cotton Fire.

Not a song about arson — a song about pressure.

With Heaven on Top — first-listen thoughts before the shine dulls

Zach Bryan is flat-out on fire with this new record.

Yeah, I’ll lump him in with some of that other Nashville trash from time to time — guilty — but that’s lazy on my part and unfair to what the man actually does.

Because here’s the truth:

Zach writes like somebody who’s lived it. No rhinestone filter, no committee-approved chorus, no fake drawl for radio. Just busted knuckles, bad decisions, good intentions, and melodies that feel like they were scribbled on a bar napkin at 1:47 a.m. because they had to come out.

You don’t accidentally write songs like that.

That’s instinct. That’s honesty. That’s a songwriter doing damage in the atmosphere.

With Heaven on Top doesn’t feel like a “release.”It feels like a dump truck backed up to the heart and somebody yanked the gate. This album is long, it’s heavy, it’s messy in spots — and that’s exactly why it works.

Zach’s not chasing singles here. He’s documenting a season. You can hear the wear in it — fame sitting awkward on his shoulders, relationships cracking, new love trying to grow in rocky soil, old ghosts still coughing in the corner of the room. This isn’t a highlight reel. It’s the whole damn tape.

Musically, he stretches out more than folks give him credit for. Yeah, the acoustic bones are still there — they always will be — but there’s grit, muscle, and movement all over this thing. Some tracks swagger. Some stumble. Some sit quietly and stare at the floor like they’re waiting on a verdict.

And that’s the point.

Lyrically, he’s still writing like a man who doesn’t know how not to tell the truth — even when it makes him look small, bitter, hopeful, or confused. Especially then. There are moments that feel aimed straight at old wounds, and others that sound like someone cautiously learning how to trust daylight again.

Is it bloated? Maybe. Twenty-five songs is a long walk with no shortcuts. But this record isn’t meant to be skimmed. It’s meant to be lived with. Some songs will hit you now. Others won’t show up until six months from now when something goes sideways in your own life and suddenly that line makes sense.

That’s the difference between a Nashville product and a songwriter. Products age out. Songs like these age with you.

With Heaven on Top isn’t perfect — but it’s honest, and honest albums last longer than perfect ones. Zach Bryan isn’t trying to clean up country music. He’s just telling the truth and letting the chips fall where they may. And right now, those chips are stacked pretty damn high.

Roots Over Mimicry

Raised on a cattle ranch in rural West Texas, Hayden Redwine comes by that sound honest. To my ear, his voice carries some of the same grit folks hear in Ryan Bingham—but I don’t hear imitation. That’s just West Texas dust settlin’ into a man’s accent. I’ll choose roots over mimicry every time.

I’ve had Redwine in steady rotation lately, especially after seeing his name listed as the supporting artist on Colter Wall’s upcoming tour. That show I’ve been circlin’ on the calendar? It’s about to come alive in Fort Worth weekend after next—and if the room’s got any sense, it’ll show up early and listen close.

Y’all—do yourself a favor and check out The Quiet, the latest release from Hayden Redwine, pulled from his Southbound Sessions.

This one’s been stickin’ with me. It’s stripped down, heavy in the chest, and honest in that way West Texas songs tend to be when they ain’t tryin’ too hard. No flash, no filler—just space, silence, and the kind of weight that settles in after the last note fades.

I’m diggin’ this one a lot.

Turn it up.

Then sit still and let it do what it does.

Some songs don’t need much—just a voice, a truth, and enough quiet to let both breathe. This is one of those. If you’re passin’ through Fort Worth soon, get there early. The good stuff usually happens before the lights come all the way up.

— Pancho’s Picks 🎶

High on Our Own Supply

I didn’t stumble into Band of Heathens on purpose. That ain’t how it happens with bands like this.

They come in sideways.

First time I heard the name was through the Vandoliers — and when they tip their hat, I listen. Those folks don’t run with just anybody.

Then I see Hayes Carll drag a chair up to the table and cut a record with ’em — Hayes & the Heathens — and that sealed it. Hayes doesn’t collaborate out of charity. If he’s in, it’s because the songs can stand up without help.

Fast forward and now I can’t turn the dial without hearin’ High on Our Own Supply gettin’ spun like it owes money on Outlaw Country Radio.

Twice a day.

Every day.

Like they’re daring you to change the station.

And here’s the thing — it don’t get old.

That song sounds like a band that quit askin’ for permission a long time ago. Loose. Confident. Slightly smug in the way only people who’ve earned it can be. Not drunk on hype — drunk on mileage.

“High on our own supply” ain’t a punchline. It’s a shrug. It’s a band sayin’, “Yeah… we know what we’ve got.”

And it ain’t just a stray single either. It’s the front porch creak before the door swings open on a new record — Country Sides — due later this year.

That title alone tells you this ain’t a radio grab. It’s for the edges. The B-roads. The parts of country music that don’t clean up nice but last longer.

This feels like a band deep into their grown-man phase —

If the rest of Country Sides carries the same dirt-under-the-fingernails energy as “High on Our Own Supply,” then this one’s gonna stick around long after the trend-chasers move on.

No hype train.

No reinvention arc.

That’s the good stuff.

— Pancho’s Picks

Trust the bands that sound like they’ve already been counted out

and kept playin’ anyway.

Flatland and the Rumor Mill

I didn’t hear it from the internet.

Didn’t read it in some think-piece or see it trend with a damn hashtag.

I heard it.

The way rumors get heard — sideways, through a jukebox hum and half a sentence somebody didn’t mean to say out loud.

Somebody slid a phone across the bar like it was contraband.

Didn’t say nothin’.

Just let the words sit there.

Flatland Cavalry

Bio reads: “never coming back…”

Now that’s the kind of line that don’t ask permission.

That’s a line that walks in, orders whiskey, and stares at the wall like it knows somethin’ the rest of us don’t.

So I laugh it off at first.

Because Flatland does this.

They’ve always done this.

They don’t announce — they haunt.

But then somebody plays me a snippet.

Just a sliver of a song, not even a full verse.

And damn if it don’t circle the same drain.

Leaving.

Finality.

That quiet kind of goodbye that don’t slam doors — it just never turns the porch light back on.

Now here’s where the bar gets quiet.

Because when Cleto Cordero writes about not coming back, folks start wondering if he’s writing songs or writing receipts.

And when your life’s been shared with Kaitlin Butts, a hell of a writer in her own right, people get real curious real fast.

I don’t know anything.

None of us do.

That’s the truth.

But here’s what I do know —

Cleto’s always written like he’s bleeding, even when the wound’s already scarred over.

And Flatland’s never needed real heartbreak to make you feel one.

So I sit there, staring into my drink, wondering which hurt this is.

Is this life cracking open?

Or is this just another Flatland trick — letting silence do the talking until the song shows up to finish the sentence?

Because “never coming back” can mean a lot of things.

A town.

A version of yourself.

A season that don’t exist anymore.

And Flatland’s been real good at writing about all three.

So I tell the boys at the bar what I really think, even if it ain’t as dramatic as the rumor mill wants it to be:

If something was broken, we’d hear it in full, not in fragments.

And if something’s coming, Flatland’s exactly the kind of band that’d light the fuse and walk away smiling.

Either way —

If a song’s on the way, it’s gonna hurt real pretty.

And if it ain’t?

Then we’ll shut up, drink up, and mind our business like grown men ought to.

But until then…

I’m keepin’ one eye on that bio

and one ear on the jukebox.

Because when Flatland says “never coming back,”

they usually mean

something’s about to arrive.

— Pancho’s Picks

Ridin’ with rumors, duckin’ conclusions,

and trustin’ the song to tell the truth when it’s ready.

Album Review Music for the Soul- Sam Barber

There ain’t a damn thing flashy about Music for the Soul, and that’s exactly why it works.

Sam Barber didn’t come up through the Nashville machine or some glossy songwriting factory. No sir — he’s a farm kid from Frohna, Missouri, who didn’t pick up a guitar until his late teens, wrestling with his great-grandfather’s old strings and discovering he had something slow-burn honest to say. He started out just playing because it felt like breathing — posting songs online, not knowing if anybody would listen except a handful of folks who stumbled in by chance or curiosity. Before long, the music did what good music does: it found people who needed to hear it.

This record doesn’t kick the door in.

It just walks up, sits down across from you, and starts telling the truth — whether you asked for it or not.

Barber’s got that rare ability to sound young without sounding confused, wounded without sounding dramatic. These songs aren’t dressed up for radio or rounded off for a playlist pitch. They’re left a little rough around the edges, like he didn’t sand down the parts that still hurt — and thank God for that.

“Same Sad Shit” is the gut punch early on. Not because it’s clever, but because it’s honest. It’s the kind of song you don’t discover — you recognize it. Same cycles, same mistakes, same damn thoughts circling the drain even when you’re trying to do better. No big chorus pretending there’s a fix. Just a mirror held up long enough that you don’t look away.

That’s the through-line of this whole album:

reflection without resolution.

Barber doesn’t preach. He doesn’t promise redemption by the last track. He just documents the interior weather — the quiet sadness, the self-awareness, the longing for something steady without knowing exactly what that looks like yet. Musically, it stays right where it needs to be: acoustic-leaning, restrained, letting the words carry the weight instead of burying them under production tricks.

This ain’t barroom anthems.

This is drive-home-after-midnight music.

This is sitting alone, clear-headed, realizing growth doesn’t erase the ache — it just teaches you how to live with it.

Music for the Soul doesn’t try to save you.

It just keeps you company.

And sometimes, that’s the better gift.

Saturday Special: Parker Ryan — “Safe Tonight”

Parker Ryan/Jordan Nix

Let’s rewind to last November. Parker Ryan dropped Safe Tonight, a co-write with Jordan Nix that didn’t come kickin’ the door down — it just leaned against the frame, hat tipped low, waitin’ on you to notice.

Parker’s built his reputation the honest way. Long guitar riffs that take the scenic route, paired with quick-hittin’ lyrics that don’t ramble or apologize. He says what needs sayin’, then lets the strings finish the thought. No filler. No panic to get to the chorus. Just trust in the song.

“Safe Tonight” feels like it was written somewhere between mile markers — when the road’s hummin’, the coffee’s gone cold, and you’re decidin’ whether you’re headin’ home or just headin’ on. It ain’t beggin’ for attention. It’s just tellin’ the truth and lettin’ you sit with it.

And right when you think it’s gonna fade out clean, that guitar leans forward — somebody steps a little too hard on the wah pedal — and suddenly it starts talkin’ back. Bendin’. Cryin’. Hangin’ in the air longer than it should. Like a thought you didn’t mean to keep, but couldn’t shake loose if you tried.

That’s the magic right there.

The song doesn’t end — it lingers while the sun’s burnin’ off the clouds and the world’s still stretchin’.

Some songs hit harder before the noise shows up.

This is one of those.

The Great Highway- VNE

Vincent Neil Emerson, one of my all-time go-tos when I need a sad-bastard tune with a little dust in its teeth, just rolled out something… lighter. Cleaner. Almost hopeful.

And somehow it still works.

The Great Highway isn’t about heartbreak sittin’ heavy at the kitchen table. It’s about motion. About wheels hummin’, lines blurrin’, and a life lived somewhere between gas stops and green rooms. A working musician’s tune—coast to coast, mile marker to mile marker.

There’s still that Vincent Neil Emerson honesty in it, but instead of sinkin’ into the ache, this one keeps movin’ forward. Windows down. Sun hittin’ the dash. That feeling when the road ain’t your enemy—it’s your livelihood.

It’s got me thinkin’ about:

the long haul between gigs motel coffee that tastes like regret but still gets the job done drivin’ all night because the song has to be played somewhere else tomorrow

Today, that Great Highway is runnin’ through my head coast to coast. Not sad. Not broken. Just rollin’.

And maybe that’s the point—

sometimes even the sad-song writers get a day where the road feels kinda kind.