Alexandra—who goes by just that, Alexandra, like she’s pop royalty from a place nobody can find on a map—and I are talking the afternoon away. I ask her to tell me about St. Clairsville, Ohio, population 5,000, tucked into the eastern hills where Ohio starts thinking about becoming West Virginia. The kind of place where everybody knows your business and leaving is both a betrayal and an inevitability.

“Nobody knows where St. Clairsville is,” she says, laughing. “I mean, nobody. Even people from Ohio are like, ‘Where?’ And I’m like, it’s that little town. You drive through it and you blink and you miss it.”

But that little town produced this. A young woman who studied audio production at Ohio University, who taught herself guitar in her twin bed dreaming about being on the radio, who graduated in 2018 with a degree in Music Production & Recording Industry and immediately started applying to jobs in every major city she could think of. Not the perfect job. Not the dream job. Any job that would get her out and let her start building the life she could see in her head but couldn’t yet touch with her hands.

“I applied to jobs in every major city,” she tells me. “Like, I knew that I was going to move, even when I was younger. I was just like, I’m going to get out of here. And I applied to jobs, anything in music, at all, in any major city. And I got a job in Dallas teaching music, which was not the plan. But I was like, well, it’ll keep the lights on and I could pay my bills. And It’ll just be an adventure.”

So she moved. Just like that. Twenty-two years old, no safety net, no grand plan beyond “figure it out as you go.” She started teaching music at a performing arts school in Dallas—where she’s now the director of the musical theater program—and in the evenings, she’d write songs and play shows and do the thing she came to Dallas to do, which was become Alexandra.

Eight years later, she’s still doing both. Teaching young vocalists during the day, many of whom have no idea their teacher is out there grinding in the Dallas indie scene, recording EPs in her living room, getting nominated for Dallas Entertainment Awards, working as photo crew at Austin City Limits just to be close to the music. It’s the double life that every working musician knows: the day job that pays the bills, the night job that feeds the soul.

“I’m still doing that, which is crazy to think,” she says. “It’ll be eight years. That I’ve been there. Which is crazy.”

What’s not crazy—what’s actually the sanest thing in the world—is that she’s good at both. Her students love that she’s a performer. It adds credibility, authenticity, the sense that someone who’s actually out there doing the thing is teaching them how to do it too. And her music benefits from the discipline of teaching, the understanding that craft matters, that you don’t just feel your way through a song, you build it, brick by brick, note by note.

“My theater director from high school just texted me yesterday and we were reminiscing,” she says. “And it’s crazy to think that I’m on the other side of it now.”

Alexandra started putting out singles in 2020 or 2021—she has to think about it, the pandemic scrambled everyone’s sense of time—and by the time she’d released four or five of them, she was itching to put out something more substantial. An EP. A collection. A body of work that could exist in the world as a complete thought rather than a series of isolated moments.

“I just, I don’t know, I really wanted that to exist, like in the world,” she tells me. “Because I feel like we’re in such a singles culture. Like with music, everybody’s just pumping out singles. Nobody really listens or makes a full body of work anymore. Especially as an independent artist, it’s expensive. It’s hard. But I wanted to do it. So, it felt good to put out a collection of songs.”

This is the heart of it, right here. The tension between what the algorithms demand—constant content, the never-ending feed, the dopamine hit of the new new new—and what artists need, which is time and space to make something that coheres, that builds, that takes you on a journey from beginning to end. The EP, the album, the body of work that hangs together and means something beyond the sum of its parts.

Her early singles were about heartbreak. She was in her early twenties, dealing with “so much heartbreak,” and the songs reflected that. But by the time she got around to recording her EP, she’d healed. She was in a great relationship. She wanted to write about what comes after the pain.

“I wanted to write about the healing, like what happens after healing, and then falling in love again,” she says. “And I feel like the theme was just like life. I don’t know. It was really just what I had been experiencing.”

The EP was recorded in her living room. Her producers came to her house in Dallas, set up shop in a spare bedroom, and they summer-camped it for four days. Tracked the whole thing right there, eating meals together, living with the music 24/7, creating the kind of intimate artistic space that’s increasingly rare in an era of email attachments and Dropbox links.

“We did the whole EP in four days,” she says. “Which was crazy, but it was a lot of fun. I’ve never done anything like that before. So, it was nice to like post record and like have meals together and really do the whole thing.”

Before that, she’d recorded singles all over—Austin, Nashville, Fort Worth. Each one a different adventure, a different sonic palette, a different approach. But there’s something about recording at home, in your own space, with people you trust, that strips away the artifice and gets you closer to the truth. The EP sounds lived-in because it was. It sounds like Alexandra because it was made in the place where she actually lives her life.

Here’s where the story gets interesting in that specifically American music industry way, where the path to success is never the one you think it’s going to be.

Alexandra’s best friend Bailey works in festival public relations. They met working a side gig , and they struck up a conversation and became friends. Bailey had worked some powerhouse festivals like  Austin City Limits and Lollapalooza, and she’d been in the music industry long enough to know talent when she saw it.

“I found her to be so interesting,” Alexandra says. “Because she’s a little bit older than me. And she’s been in the music industry for so long. And I wanted to just pick her brain. And she’s my best friend. But I also have so much respect for her as a woman.”

When Austin City Limits rolled around in 2021, Bailey called. “She was like, we need some more people to be on the photo pit,” Alexandra recalls. “I know that you’re not in PR. But you’re a musician. And so you probably will be okay in these high-stress environments and talking to people. And I think you’d be great at it. And we can hang out while I’m there. And so I was like, okay.”

That first ACL led to more festivals. Now she works four to six festivals a year. She’s in the photo pit, managing access, watching some of the biggest artists in the world from ten feet away, getting paid to be that close to the music she loves.

“They just kept asking me back,” she says. “And it’s the best. It’s the best side gig. It’s inspiring to go to these festivals.”

This is how it works now. You don’t get discovered singing in a coffee shop by a A&R guy with a checkbook. You build multiple revenue streams. You teach. You work festivals. You release music independently. You apply for grants and awards and residencies. You do all of it at once, and you don’t complain, because this is what choosing music as a life looks like in 2026.

Dallas is not a music city. Everyone agrees on this, including the people trying to change it.

In 2021, Dallas was designated a music-friendly community by the Texas Music Office. The Dallas Music Office opened a new chapter, with programs designed to develop the scene and attract industry attention. 

In the meantime, the community is small but tight-knit. Everybody knows everybody, which cuts both ways—less opportunity than Austin, but more genuine support. Less competition means more collaboration. When Alexandra talks about the Dallas scene, there’s real affection in her voice, the sense that she’s found her people.

“Everybody, I think, is really, really supportive, been really supportive of me,” she says. “It’s just nice. It’s really funny, because I mean, Austin City Limits was always country. And they didn’t comprehend all the difference. The festival has grown so much. But it’s a testament. I mean, Texas is growing in terms of music. I feel grateful to be there. But yeah, the community is great. Everybody is really talented, too.”

She’s been nominated for Dallas Entertainment Awards—pop vocalist of the year, pop act of the year for her and her band. This year she’s been nominated again for EP of the year….. Yes that EP…..Let It Burn.

When I ask Alexandra what advice she’d give to someone else from St. Clairsville or any other small town who wants to do what she’s doing, she thinks for a minute. This isn’t a question she takes lightly. She understands that her path—the chaos of it, the lack of a clear plan, the willingness to take a teaching job she didn’t want just to get to a city where things might happen—isn’t the path they tell you about in music school.

“I think my advice is, if you have an inkling to pursue something, it doesn’t have to be in the most picture perfect way to do it,” she says. “I think a lot of people, especially college graduates, are like, I will move to a big city or I’ll move if the job is right. And I know that I’m going to be doing what I want to be doing. But I didn’t do that. And I kind of was just like, as long as I can pay my bills, then I’m just going to go for the adventure of it and see what happens.”

This is it. This is the thing that separates the people who make it from the people who don’t. Not talent—there’s talent everywhere, spilling out of every coffee shop and open mic and bedroom studio in America. Not connections, though they help. Not even luck, though you need that too.

It’s courage.

The courage to take the imperfect opportunity. The courage to move without knowing how it’s going to work out. The courage to believe that you’ll figure it out as you go, that you have more resources within yourself than you think, that hard things are possible even when they’re scary.

“I think the first advice piece of advice would be to just do it,” Alexandra continues. “I think people underestimate how much courage you have as a person. And so it takes courage. But I think people can do hard things, even if it’s scary. And it doesn’t have to look picture perfect. You just kind of figure it out as you go and you be good to people. And you just keep reminding yourself of why you’re doing it. And you just do it a little bit at a time and then all of a sudden. And it worked out. Thank God.”

Thank God indeed. But it wasn’t just God or luck or cosmic alignment. It was also Alexandra, showing up every day, doing the work, teaching the classes, writing the songs, recording the EPs, working the festivals, applying for the awards, building the career brick by brick.

Alexandra is always writing. Has to be, she says, because writing is a practice, like yoga or running or any other discipline you have to maintain if you want to keep getting better at it. But it’s also healing and special to her. She enjoys the process even when nobody’s going to hear the songs, even when they’re just for her.

“I’m trying to all the time just be writing,” she tells me. “Because I think it’s a practice. But it’s also just healing and special to me. Like, I enjoy the process of writing, even if nobody hears it.”

But she’s intentional about the pace. Deliberately so. This is not the streaming era strategy of releasing a new single every six weeks to feed the algorithm. This is an artist who’s made a promise to herself: she won’t rush.

“When I began this journey, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t rush,” she says. “Growing up, I always felt like I was racing against the clock. With this, I wanted to do things honoring the timing of my life. I am very intentional about my pace. To others, it might seem like I’m not moving fast enough… but I don’t care. Not one bit. All that matters to me is making music that I really love. And am proud of. And will be proud of for the rest of my life.”

This is radical in 2026, when the entire music industry is built on urgency, on the fear of being forgotten, on the idea that if you’re not constantly releasing content you might as well not exist. But Alexandra has decided that her integrity matters more than her visibility, that she’d rather make something she’s proud of than something that trends for a week and disappears.

“So I have a bunch of songs,” she continues. “I have enough to record another EP. And I would like to almost make it like a part two of what is already out. Because I feel like there’s so much of that story that needs to be told still. Like, I’m still in that house. And I’m still feeling all of those things. And so I’d love to do something similar to what we did with the first EP.”

Here’s what the glamorous life of an independent artist actually looks like: You have a full-time job that you love and that pays your bills and gives you health insurance. You have students who depend on you to show up and be present and teach them how to breathe properly and hit the high notes and project from the diaphragm. 

And then, in whatever time is left over—evenings, weekends, random Tuesday afternoons—you try to carve out space for your own art.

“I feel like there’s a lot of young artists that are going to school, and then they can record TikToks and be in their room,” Alexandra says. “Which is, if that’s their journey, then great. But like, I’m an adult. Like, I have a job. I have to, I have relationships that I have to nurture. I have things to do. So just carving out time to like do all of it is just as hard as I think writing it. Actually, writing it feels…”

She trails off, but the implication is clear: Writing is the easy part. Writing is the joy. Writing is what she’d do for free, what she does do for free most of the time. It’s all the rest of it—the logistics, the scheduling, the constant balancing act between the life that pays the bills and the life that feeds the soul—that’s the real work.

Late in our conversation, I ask Alexandra why she makes music. It’s a stupid question, the kind of thing journalists ask when they can’t think of anything else, but sometimes the stupid questions get the best answers.

“I think music is the closest thing we have to magic,” she says, and suddenly it’s not a stupid question anymore. “The way it makes people pause… and feel… and forget. Or maybe remember. It’s a vessel into what feels out of body. It soundtracks the most important memories. It creates the ability to time travel. Our way to create unforgettable moments. And it’s a common thread… a way to connect the most different types of people. I think we need that now more than ever.”

This is it. Music is magic. Music is time travel. Music is the common thread that connects us when everything else is trying to pull us apart.

“I make music because it feels like a superpower doing it,” she continues. “Being able to participate in something so special… it feels like fulfilling my life’s purpose.”

When I ask about her influences, Alexandra doesn’t name specific artists. Instead, she talks about life experiences, lessons learned with age, places seen, people met, conversations had. The real stuff. 

“My biggest influences are the lessons I’m learning with age. The places I see. The people I meet and the conversations I have with them. As I get older, my conversations have changed… and as I expand my view, I think my brain twists and turns a bit differently.”

This is the mark of a real artist: understanding that the music comes from the life, not the other way around.. The songs will come if you’re paying attention.

Alexandra is paying attention.

We finish our chat and Alexandra has to go—she has students to teach, songs to write, a life to live that doesn’t stop just because a journalist wants to pick her brain about her career. As we’re packing up, I think about what she said earlier about courage, about how people underestimate how much of it they have.

Alexandra from St. Clairsville, Ohio, is building a career the hard way, which is to say the real way, which is to say the only way that actually works for most people. There’s no shortcut. There’s no hack. There’s just the work, day after day, brick by brick, song by song.

“Jump in and the net will appear,” she said at one point, quoting someone or something, the origin lost to time but the sentiment eternal.

She jumped. Eight years ago, she packed up her life and moved to a city where she didn’t know anyone, took a job she didn’t want, started building a music career from scratch. And the net appeared, slowly, piece by piece. The teaching job became a directorship. The side gig became a friendship became a festival career. The singles became an EP. The heartbreak became healing became new love became new songs.

The net appeared because she kept showing up to weave it.

Before I leave, I ask her if she has any final thoughts for people reading this who might be in St. Clairsville right now, or some equivalent small town, dreaming about getting out and doing something with their lives.

She thinks for a minute.

“I think people can do hard things, even if it’s scary,” she says finally. “And it doesn’t have to look picture perfect. You just kind of figure it out as you go and you be good to people. And you just keep reminding yourself of why you’re doing it. And you just do it a little bit at a time and then all of a sudden…”

She trails off, but we both know how the sentence ends.

All of a sudden, you look up and you’re doing it. You’re making music. You’re building a career. You’re living the life you dreamed about in that twin bed in St. Clairsville, and it doesn’t look like you thought it would—it’s harder and weirder and more logistically complicated and less glamorous—but it’s real. It’s yours. You did it.

Alexandra did it.

And if she can do it, starting from a town nobody’s heard of, with no connections and no plan beyond “figure it out as you go,” then maybe you can too.

That’s not inspirational poster jargon. That’s just math. Courage plus persistence plus time equals something. Not always success as the world defines it. Not always fame or fortune or even financial stability. But something. A body of work. A career. A life in music.

Alexandra stands up, slings her bag over her shoulder, and heads back out into Dallas. She’s got students waiting. Songs to write. An EP to plan. A career to build.

The net will appear.

It already is.

by Dave Parsons

The promoter walking with me on the way to do an interview with Nashville artist KC Johns was pulled away for a moment.  As I stood in the spot where the promoter got pulled away, KC emerged from a camper, walking with a confidence that bore all the sweetness, sweat, and hope. KC Johns, with her guitars, her stories, and that voice, one part Memphis grit, one part roadmap across honky-tonk highways, didn’t wait for the formal introduction.  We shook hands, found two folding chairs that weren’t doing anything, and had a seat behind the makeshift trailer/stage at the Monongalia County Fair in Morgantown, West Virginia.

She had just come from the other end of the Fairgrounds, where she sang the National Anthem for the fair’s rodeo. For an artist used to performing in some of the most famous Nashville honky-tonks, this might be a setting out of time, but for KC Johns, the middle of a West Virginia field, with dirt under her boots, feels like coming home.

I haven’t been on a horse in over 12 years, she confesses during our conversation, But being back here in the dirt, the smell of it—it’s like a full-circle moment for me. I call this home.

It’s a sentiment that echoes through every note of her breakout viral hit Rodeo Queen, an upbeat rocker awash with country steel and roaring guitars that opens with the declaration: Mama didn’t raise no big city pretty girl. The song isn’t just a catchy anthem, but an autobiography set to music, a raw and honest tribute to the world that shaped her into the artist she is today.

Every great country music story begins somewhere humble, and KC Johns’ tale starts on a front porch in Mississippi with a grandfather who never pursued music professionally but understood its power. The whole reason I got into music was because of my granddad, Johns says, her voice softening with memory. He taught me how to play, gave me my first guitar. He loved good old country music, which made my love for country music. He basically brought me into this music life.

Born in Memphis and raised in Mississippi, those lazy afternoons picking on the front porch with her grandfather weren’t just music lessons, but classes in storytelling, in finding the universal truths hidden in personal experience.  He and I would just pick on the front porch, and I always told him he had the best seat in the house. That was like his seat, right there in that rocking chair. Then he’d bring out his lawn chair to all my shows, and he’d always have the best seat in the house at shows.

When her grandfather passed away two years ago, Johns could have let grief silence her music. Instead, she channeled it into Best Seat in the House, a tribute that reads straight from her heart. Even though he’s not physically present anymore, she says, he’s still there—he’s got the best seat in the house.

When she finally stepped off those ships, she found her way to Dollywood, the Smoky Mountain mecca where young dreamers learn what it means to be part of a show bigger than themselves. For KC, it was another rung, another rehearsal for the real thing. She did the work. She showed up. She sang. She smiled. She tucked away every lesson Dolly Parton’s kingdom offered about showmanship, heart, and making a song feel like a story being told just for you. She even landed a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cameo in a film, proof that she was willing to try anything if it kept her close to music and the stage.

Most aspiring country stars don’t spend six years as a cruise ship vocalist, but then again, most aspiring country stars aren’t KC Johns. At age 20, when most young artists are still scribbling in journals and singing into hairbrushes, she took a job offer that would shape her in ways no record label internship ever could.

I feel like the real courage came from when I got a job offer on cruise ships when I was like 20.  That was like a huge leap for me. And my family was like, you’ve got to do it. You’ve got to do it. I feel like you would love it. You’re going to learn a lot. So, I took the leap.

As a rock band vocalist alongside a male singer, Johns performed everything from disco to ’80s hits, country to rock and roll. You kind of become a family on that ship as well, because you’re with them for nine months at a time, every single day.  It was an intensive crash course in performance, professionalism, and the kind of stamina required to entertain an audience night after night.  These skills would prove invaluable when she eventually made her way to Nashville’s demanding music scene.

It was supposed to be six months, and it turned into six years. I loved it. They were great to me. I worked for Norwegian Cruise Lines. They were awesome.

It was work, but it was also practice for her soul. She learned to hold a mic so that people halfway around the world feel your heart. She learned that an audience wants sincerity even more than perfection.

After that ship docked for good, she found her way to Dollywood, the Smoky Mountain mecca where young dreamers learn what it means to be part of a show bigger than themselves. For KC, it was another rung, another rehearsal for the real thing. She did the work, and she showed up. She sang and smiled. She tucked away every lesson Dolly Parton’s kingdom offered about showmanship, heart, and making a song feel like a story being told just for you.

At the same time, the pull to write her own songs and tell her own stories was strong. In 2017, she made the leap, and moved to Nashville with nothing but an acoustic guitar, a dream, and more faith than comfort.  I was like, you know what? I’m just going to sleep on people’s couches and just go. I’m just going to do it. 

It wasn’t her first leap of faith—that had been the cruise ship job that launched her adult life—but it was perhaps her most defining one. I feel like my family really gave me the courage to take that leap. The decision to pack up her life and move to Nashville, living on couches and scraping together gigs, was both terrifying and exhilarating.

The first gigs were on Broadway, the strip where country dreams go to be tested under neon and beer signs.  She sang because she had to, because every night was a new test of her voice, her spirit, her belief that she belonged. The moment she knew she’d made the right choice came not with a record deal or a hit song, but with something far more valuable……community. I think, honestly, my drummer and I have been playing together for like eight years. He was the very first drummer I played with on Broadway. I met his wife, Lisa, who is my best friend to this day. She made me feel so much a part of the Nashville community that that was my ‘I belong here’ moment. I was like, I know that I’m going to make and build a community here.

She didn’t come to Nashville to be smooth. She came to be real.

That’s not the sort of line you write into a song because it sounds pretty. That’s the kind of confession you hear in the back corners of life, the ones you tuck into notebooks, the ones that later become choruses that lift strangers out of their own darkness.

Nashville can chew you up and spit you out before your first song even finds a chord. It’s a city built on broken dreams, neon smiles, and the constant shuffling of new arrivals dragging their guitars down Lower Broadway. KC Johns knew all that, but she came anyway. She didn’t come for the polish or the pageantry. She came for the pulse. She came because something in her bones said she had to.

There’s something in the way KC Johns talks about music that feels like sitting on a front porch swing at dusk. The day’s been hard, but you also know it was worth it. She doesn’t sugarcoat. She admits the industry can knock you down. But she keeps coming back to that rodeo image, because it’s the metaphor that raised her. The music and the show will continuously knock you down, but if you continuously get back up… that’s the whole point.

And yet, she’s not all grit. There’s sweetness in her, too.  It’s the kind of sweetness you can’t fake. It’s in the way she tells you about fans who surprise her by showing up hours from home, wearing her t-shirts in some strange town.

I just ran into some friends out there that had my t-shirt on….And I was like, what are y’all doing here? They’re from 5 hours away in Pennsylvania. And they came all the way out here.

That’s the kind of thing that makes her eyes sparkle. Not chart positions, not industry buzz, but the human connection of people showing up because the songs meant something to them.

That connection is why she doesn’t try to put on airs. She doesn’t manufacture some sleek image of a country star. On social media, she just is who she is.

Just be yourself on social media and, hopefully, people will connect with you. I’ve done that my entire life, and just throw what you can on social media and hopefully people relate to what you’re doing and just have fun with you.

When Johns released Rodeo Queen in April 2024, she had no idea she was about to capture lightning in a bottle. The song, a deeply personal tribute to her parents and her rodeo heritage, struck a chord that resonated far beyond Nashville’s city limits.  The track draws directly from Johns’ family history.  Her mom was a world-champion barrel racer, and her stepdad was a bull rider. But what started as a personal story quickly became something universal, connecting with listeners who recognized their own small-town roots and family pride in Johns’ honest lyrics.

The numbers tell their own story as the song climbed to number 28 on the Texas charts, garnered over a million streams on Spotify, and accumulated over 70,000 video uses on TikTok.

That’s like the craziest thing to me. To just watch that do its thing is actually really, really cool.

In an industry obsessed with algorithms and aesthetics, she bets on authenticity. And it works because it’s not a strategy, but an instinct.  KC Johns’ Nashville story isn’t a fairytale. It’s a patchwork quilt made from Memphis blues bars, cruise ship spotlights, Dollywood stages, Broadway dives, and borrowed couches. It’s a story of stubbornness disguised as faith. It’s the kind of story that makes sense only when you hear her sing, when her voice carries the weight of every leap she’s ever taken.

I grew up listening to a lot of Sheryl Crow. Sheryl Crow was my favorite. I love what she does with rock and roll meets country. That record, all of her writing is so impeccable to me. I absolutely love her.

Success hasn’t softened Johns’ edges or diminished her appreciation for the grittier side of the music business. When asked about the challenge of maintaining authenticity in a town known for manufacturing stars, Johns is characteristically direct….

Be yourself. It’s like, totally be yourself. I feel like we all struggle with that, especially in Nashville, where you continue to try to find who you are as an artist. And I think if you’re just yourself, and you write about what’s true, I think that’s the most important thing.

KC still dreams like the girl who packed her courage and a guitar onto a cruise ship at twenty. I asked her, if the next year unfolded perfectly, what headline she would love to see written about her. She laughed at herself for even imagining, then confessed:

Wouldn’t it be the hit to have a monster hit? That would be the coolest thing ever. Yeah. That’s the dream.

Not fame for fame’s sake. Not glitter for the sake of the lights. A monster hit because it would mean her stories, her people, her losses and loves had traveled farther than she could drive in a van. That strangers she’d never met were singing her life in their kitchens, in their trucks, at their weddings and funerals.

With soundcheck and showtime approaching quickly, I asked Johns what she wanted people to take home at the end of the night. When the lights are dim, the crowd has scattered, and the amps are cooling in their cases, what truth does she want following her fans back to the parking lot? She didn’t pause:

I hope everybody just comes to a show and has a good time. Just leaving and having a good, great time. And just like, know that there’s still good in this world. … I hope people go away thinking that they know us. And we know them. And I just hope people just go away and just take us for friends. See at the next show.

That’s KC Johns’ showmanship in a nutshell.  It’s part grit, part tenderness, part rodeo queen, part barroom rocker. She’s as comfortable barefoot in dirt as she is under a spotlight, and maybe that’s why people trust her. Maybe that’s why fans who didn’t know her name at 9:30 on this evening leave the show at 11 feeling like they’ve known her forever. She doesn’t demand attention, but she earns it. She doesn’t talk down to the crowd, but pulls them in, arms around shoulders, as if every last one of them belongs in her band.

It’s that trust that makes the rest of her story believable. KC Johns doesn’t just want to be heard. She wants to be known. And by the time you leave her show, you will know who she is.

KC Johns Set List – September 12, 2025 – Monongalia Country Fair, Morgantown, WV

Smoke Show

Bad Perfume

Maybe it was Memphis

Kind of Vibe

Wrong Side of Goodbye

The Chain

Dodging Bullets

You Shook Me All Night Long

Whiskey Break

Pour Me

Wild as Wyoming

Best Seat in the House

Confused

Break From the Heart

Black Dog

Rodeo Queen

KC Johns Photo Album

by Dave Parsons

The sun is headed down over the back of the Guernsey County Fairgrounds, where several thousand country music fans are enjoying the Old Washington Music Festival.  Still to come in about an hour is the closing act for the day, the Roots and Boots trio of country legends that are Sammy Kershaw, Aaron Tippin, and Collin Raye.  A charming lady, who is actually Collin Raye’s bus driver on this run, gets me past security and up onto Raye’s bus for an interview.

It wasn’t the first time we had done this.

At 64, the Arkansas native still carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone who’s been doing this for a lifetime. I’m greeted like an old friend in his home away from home, with a hug, a handshake, and thanks for asking to get together.

So, where to begin?

The shirt….It began with a shirt.

Not just any shirt, but one of those bright, boldly patterned Western numbers every country artist worth their boots was wearing in the early 90s, which was the Garth Boom. I had found photos I had taken of that time, and I brought them with me on my phone, safely secured like a sacred relic. Collin Raye smiled when he saw it. I remember that shirt, he laughed. Back then, everybody was trying to look like Garth.

And just like that, we were back in 1991. He was promoting All I Can Be, his first major label single and album, and I was just a kid with a tape recorder and a notebook. He told me that night it was the second interview of his career. This was our full-circle moment. I thought this would be a great starting point for our chat, but I know enough to turn the recorder on and let the conversation go where it will. In the next 30 minutes, we talked about his journey, about God, grief, Garth, Foghat, and the miracle of still being here.

Since I was 15 years old, this has been my dream. And 15 years later, it happened. We didn’t know if I was going to have a bunch of hits or if it would be one and done. So I just tried to enjoy it while it lasted. Luckily, it didn’t end.

Collin Raye was actually born in De Queen, Arkansas, a small town that seems worlds away from Nashville’s music industry machinery. Growing up in a household where country music was the soundtrack, Raye was initially resistant to the genre that would eventually make him famous.

When I was a little kid, the country music was always on. I thought that was it because that’s all my mom and dad listened to, and we loved the old stuff. I knew Hank Williams like the back of my hand. And then I grew up and went out around 13 or 14 and went to see Foghat, and it was kind of life-changing. I thought, okay, this is fun. Because we’d gone to country shows, and when I was a kid, country shows weren’t like that.

That exposure to rock and roll would prove crucial in shaping Raye’s eventual approach to country music. Unlike many of his contemporaries who came up purely through honky-tonks and country venues, Raye spent years in the bars and the casinos as what he calls a pretty lively entertainer. This rock influence would later help him stand out in an increasingly crowded Nashville field.

Well, let’s back up a second. The transformation from rock-influenced bar performer to country star wasn’t immediate. It required the kind of artistic courage that would become a hallmark of Raye’s career.  He has always had the willingness to tackle serious subjects when others were content with party anthems and truck songs.

When Collin Raye hit the scene in the early ’90s, he came out swinging with heart and harmony. The hits came fast: Love, Me, In This Life, Little Rock. But behind the polish was a man raised on Haggard and honky tonks, rock clubs, and real life. He wasn’t just chasing fame, but he was chasing meaning.

We were just learning. Everything was so new. But I was also in awe that radio personalities even wanted to meet me. That felt like a miracle.

He remembered that period with reverence, especially the relationships built on those radio tours. People were welcoming, complimentary of the record. We’d make sure they came to the show, spent time with them, and shook hands. That meant something.

That sincerity became his hallmark.

Raye’s career coincided with the Garth Brooks revolution that transformed country music from a niche genre into a mainstream powerhouse. But rather than simply copying Brooks’s approach, Raye found his own way to merge traditional country storytelling with rock energy.

Let’s face it, everybody was chasing Garth already, he admits. So, Garth had kind of broken the wall down to what a country show could all of a sudden be.  His rock influence helped Raye develop a stage presence that was both traditionally country and dynamically modern. Songs like That’s My Story and My Kind of Girl showcased his ability to deliver high-energy performances while maintaining the emotional authenticity that defined his ballads.

I wanted to make sure that we got to record some songs like that too, so that people would know if he goes to see Collin, it’s gonna be fun, it’s not gonna be sleepy, and so we did I Want You Bad and That Ain’t Good. We did the video for Worth It at Billy Bob’s, and it really accomplished that to where people were like, ‘Oh, whoa, I didn’t know he was like that.

Raye’s breakthrough came with All I Can Be, but it was the follow-up single that would define his artistic identity. Love, Me became his first number-one hit and established him as an artist willing to explore emotional territory that many of his peers avoided.

When I started the first album, All I Can Be, and Love, Me was of course the second single, and it went number one for three weeks. And we thought, okay, we got something going now. And then it was a message of sorts, but it was still a love song, not necessarily social, though. But, I thought okay, people like me doing this kind of thing with a message.“

That willingness to deliver meaningful content would become Raye’s calling card, but it wasn’t without commercial risk. When Tom Douglas’s Little Rock came across his desk for the third album, Epic Records was initially hesitant about releasing such a heavy social commentary as a single.

We had heard Tom Douglas’s song ‘Little Rock,’ and Paul Worley and I, my producer, were like ‘this is a great song. We really pushed Epic to put it out on the radio, and they were first hesitant about it. They were like, you know, this song’s kind of social, it’s kind of sad, this might be a downer for people driving home during drive time. We’re like, I get it, but I just really feel like it’s just such a good song.”

The song, which peaked at number 2 on the U.S. Billboard Hot Country Singles & Tracks chart, proved that country audiences were hungry for substance. This was the first hit for songwriter Tom Douglas, who had all but given up hope on a career in songwriting, working in real estate and dealing with Walmart stores at the time.

So once that song happened and went to number one, I thought okay, so I know now what I can get away with and what I can’t get away with, Raye says. And so that sort of started me on a path of looking for more deep songs like that.

I shared with Raye that lyrics like the one from Little Rock hit me square in the chest back when it was out, but for just one line: Jesus will forgive, but a daddy don’t forget. As a young father raising daughters, I took that line to heart. It became part of how I saw my role as a father.  Love like Jesus, but also to protect like a father who remembers the pain his children should never have to know. It wasn’t just a lyric. It was like a mission statement, but instead of coming from a pulpit on Sunday morning, it whispered from a car stereo into my conscience.

Perhaps no aspect of Raye’s career has been more consistent than his Christian faith, which has served as both inspiration and filter for his artistic choices. Unlike artists who compartmentalize their beliefs, Raye has always seen his faith as integral to his musical mission.

I’m Christian, right? I love the Lord, and I knew I always knew that it was He who was allowing this to happen to me. And so it’s like okay, because there are a lot of people in this country that can sing circles around me that aren’t gonna get that chance. I was getting it, and so I thought okay, what do you want me to do?

This spiritual foundation led to some of his most powerful songs, including Not That Different, What If Jesus Comes Back Like That, and The Eleventh Commandment.  The latter, being a haunting ballad and accompanying long-form music video, about child abuse and the failure of institutions to protect the innocent, revealed a boldness not often heard on country radio. That one didn’t chart high, but it wasn’t meant to. It was meant to wake people up. And some things are more important than chart positions. 

Raye’s Christian convictions eventually found fuller expression in a 2005 album of hymns titled His Love Remains. It would become his best-selling post-Sony album. Fans responded deeply to the spiritual sincerity of tracks like It Is Well with My Soul and Give Me Jesus.

People still ask about it. That record touches people in a different way. It’s the kind of thing you make because you feel called to do it.

This part, I almost kept to myself.

It was at the Sweet Corn Festival in Millersport, Ohio, eight years ago. My daughter was a broadcasting major in college, and she interviewed Collin that night, which later turned into a radio special she produced.  When we were done and took pictures, Collin paused, and out of a clear blue sky, he looked at us and said, There’s something going on in your life. Can I pray with you?

What he couldn’t have known was that my wife, a minister, was at home handling a crisis in the family. I was rattled, miles away, trying to keep it together.  Somehow, Collin felt it, and right there in a trailer, rain beating down on the roof, he took our hands and prayed for us and with us.

Collin acknowledged doing that with us.

That’s happened to me before, where I don’t know, the Holy Spirit just kind of tells me, gives me this feeling, and I feel like I need to do something. When he does that, I act on it because that happens for a reason. It doesn’t happen often. Maybe I’m thinking three or four times in my life that’s happened.

Twenty-one of his singles have reached the Top 10 on the country charts, including 14 singles reaching the top 10 consecutively between 1991 and 1996. But for Raye, the numbers tell only part of the story. He sees himself and his contemporaries, guys like Sammy Kershaw, Aaron Tippin, and Joe Diffie, as bridges between country music’s golden age and its current iteration.

I feel like ’90s country was special. It was a special, special time. Since the last great era was, of course, George Jones, Haggard, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Waylon, Willie, and Willie’s like the last man standing there, it’s gone. So, I feel like we’re the new those guys. I’m not comparing us to those guys, but to the public, we’re kind of those guys now, and that’s a beautiful thing to get to be a part of that.

We couldn’t avoid the elephant in the arena: the state of country music today.

There was a time when every song was about cold beer and dirt roads. And the first 1,800 of those were fine, but I’m a lyric guy. I want something that moves me.

He praised the new generation. Guys like Jelly Roll, Cody Johnson, and even Luke Combs. Jelly Roll surprised me. Incredible voice. I haven’t met him yet, but I’d like to. And Cody? He could have made it in any era.  I hope they’re the start of a shift. Because country music was always about the story.

This understanding of his place in country music history informs his current approach to his career. Rather than chasing contemporary trends, he’s focused on more personal projects in the future.  If I do another record, I’m thinking seriously about doing a tribute record to an artist that I really love. I did a Glen Campbell album, and I loved every second of it. I thought about doing a Bob Seger tribute because, praise God, I can still sing those songs in his key.

At 64, Raye continues touring, though he’s realistic about the physical demands. I’ve been nursing a bad knee since September of last year, so I’m a little hobbly, but I still get it done, and I’m just thankful I still can.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of spending time with Collin Raye is his perspective on mortality and meaning. The man who once worried about chart positions and radio play now measures success differently.  The moments of spiritual connection with strangers, the letters from fans whose lives were touched by his music, the stories of how his music was the soundtrack in people’s lives —these have become the real currency of his career.

When we get to heaven, it’s gonna take us forever to realize how much He loves us. We think ‘well, I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy.’ We’re not. But He loves us just that much anyway, and it’s just mind-boggling to me.

This eternal perspective doesn’t diminish Raye’s appreciation for his earthly success, but it provides context. The hits, the awards, the platinum albums—they’re all part of a larger story about using whatever platform you’re given to make a positive impact.

I’ve always put Him first, even when I wasn’t living right, and asked What am I doing? What do you want me to do with this? And the more you’re living away from Him, the less you’re hearing. But He’s always been my guy.

As our conversation winds down and Raye prepares for the show, he reflects on the miraculous nature of his career with the humility that has always defined him.

I’m not delusional enough to think that I’m going to be remembered forever…my grandson and I were watching a game show, and two different times on this one game show, the answer was Paul McCartney. It already had all but a few letters of his name exposed and a clue that it was a former Beatle, and not one contestant out of three knew who he was.

It’s a sobering reminder from an artist who understands his place in country music history better than most.

Don’t take anything for granted…..Don’t just assume this is going to go on forever….and never stop giving thanks to God for it.

Today, Collin Raye continues to travel the highways between small venues and county fairs, carrying with him three decades of hits and hard-won wisdom. He’s no longer the ambitious young artist chasing radio success, but he’s something perhaps more valuable.

He is a keeper of country music’s deeper purposes.

In an industry increasingly driven by streaming numbers and social media metrics, Collin Raye represents something increasingly rare. He is an artist whose career was built on the belief that country music should mean something. A reminder that authentic artistry and commercial success aren’t mutually exclusive, but they do require the courage to choose substance over formula.

The road hasn’t ended for Collin Raye. If anything, it’s taken on new meaning as he’s learned to see each performance, each connection with a fan, each moment of spiritual recognition as part of a larger purpose. In a career defined by number-one hits and platinum albums, his greatest achievement may be maintaining his artistic integrity while never forgetting that the real measure of success isn’t what you accomplish, but how you use whatever gifts you’ve been given.

For an artist who’s spent his career asking What If Jesus Comes Back Like That?, the answer has become clear through decades of experience. You treat every encounter as sacred, every song as an opportunity to touch lives, and every day as a gift that shouldn’t be taken for granted. It’s a philosophy that’s served him well through the peaks and valleys of a remarkable career, and one that continues to guide Collin Raye down the long road home.

by Dave Parsons

Rain had shortened the first half of the day at the Old Washington Music Festival on Friday, July 18. 2025.  I had tried to arrange an interview with the Davisson Brothers band by email for a couple of weeks, and got no reply.  A novel idea to be sure, came to me while they were signing autographs in the merch tent after their set.  I could just get to the end of the line and ask them to do the interview after they have finished signing.

43 years ago, when I started this writing/photography adventure, this was the way it was done.  Find a road manager or group leader, and ask for what you want from them.  Nowadays, your email goes to the publicist, who goes to management, who loops you into members of the road team that never get back to you. (Yes, it happened twice during this festival weekend!)

Or you just never get a reply for your efforts.

So, I approached the Davisson Brothers Band with hat in hand and asked for a few minutes of their time, and they graciously said yes.  They took me around the side of the merch tent, which was great for shielding noise to record the affair on my phone, but we continued walking to their bus, past the bunks, and to the lounge area in the back.

Donnie Davisson and I settled into chatting, with subjects ranging from Charlie Daniels to Terry Bradshaw, until brother Chris Davisson was able to join us, and we got down to answering every imposing question on their career I could think to ask.  What made it special was that it was like talking to someone in your family, and considering they are family, it made it all the more special to be there.

The story of the Davisson Brothers Band isn’t just about three siblings who picked up instruments and found success—it’s about a musical lineage that stretches back through the hollers and ridges of West Virginia like the roots of an ancient oak. Blending bluegrass, Southern rock, and country into a refreshing and often progressive acoustic sound, the Davisson Brothers Band draws from their Appalachian heritage and a wide array of musical influences, including Garth Brooks, Willie Nelson, Del McCoury, and Dickey Betts.

We’re sixth-generation musicians. Seven generations, Chris told me as we settled into the chat. We come from Old Mountain Fiddlers. And I like the thing that we just keep growing and learning. We’re still learning every day and trying to teach these young next generation.

This isn’t mere mountain folklore, but it’s a living, breathing tradition that continues to evolve on stages from West Virginia honky-tonks to Australian music festivals. The band has built its reputation not just on its musical prowess, but on its commitment to carrying forward something that runs deeper than entertainment: cultural preservation through artistic expression.

The journey from playing the bars in Morgan County to touring internationally speaks to both the band’s talent and their relentless work ethic. It’s a path that’s taken them from the smallest venues in their home state to sharing stages with some of country music’s biggest names, yet they’ve never forgotten where they came from.

We have got to do it in arenas for 15 or 20,000 people. We toured all last year at 10 to 15,000-seat venues, and we come home. And the next weekend we get right back and do something in the place that we used to play,” Chris reflects, his voice carrying both pride and humility.

The band’s international success, particularly in Australia, illustrates how authentic Appalachian music transcends geographic boundaries. Their song Po Boys became a number one hit down under, leading to appearances at major festivals and even a reality television show on Australian CMT.

When that song went to number one over there, we went and did what they have, what they call the CMC Music Fest.  It was like Jamboree in the Hills back in the day. And then we had a reality television show on their CMT over there.”

Perhaps most remarkable about the Davisson Brothers Band is how they’ve managed to nurture the next generation of family musicians while maintaining their own artistic growth. The interview revealed a particularly touching aspect of their story: the emergence of sons Nick and nephew Landon as artists in their own right.

These boys here, Nicholas, Jared, and Lanham, have been on stage with us since they were three years old. Now Nick Davidson has his own career starting. And he’s about to put out some music. Then Lanham is about to put out some music. Lanham McFadden and Jared B. But these boys have been on stage with us since they were three years old.”

The pride in Chris’s voice was unmistakable as he described watching these young men, who literally grew up on stage, now stepping into their own as artists. Their performance of Chris Stapleton’s Tennessee Whiskey during the rain-shortened set demonstrated not just their vocal abilities but their understanding of how to honor both tradition and contemporary country music.

They also write all their own music, these two boys. But since this was a new audience for them, we did a cover song, which they killed it on.”

The band’s upcoming tour with Oliver Anthony represents perhaps their biggest mainstream breakthrough to date. Anthony’s meteoric rise with Rich Men North of Richmond has opened doors for authentic Appalachian artists like the Davisson Brothers, who’ve found themselves at the center of a cultural movement that values genuine mountain music over polished Nashville productions.

We’re currently on tour with Oliver Anthony, who is the biggest breakout artist of the last two years. He’s broken every traditional country chart with his spiral hit, Rich Men North of Richmond.

The connection goes deeper than just touring together. Chris was involved in the recording process for Anthony’s latest single “Scorn for Warming,” which went to number one on the charts. The collaboration represents a meeting of minds between established mountain musicians and the new wave of authentic country artists who are challenging Nashville’s commercial approach.

He went to an old farmhouse down in West Virginia and recorded it and made the video. It just went number one on all the charts. And the video was trending at number five.

The band’s recent appearance at Joe Rogan’s comedy club, The Mothership, in Austin, Texas, marked another milestone in their career. Being the first musical act to perform at the venue speaks to their crossover appeal and the cultural moment they’re helping to define.

We also just got to be the first ever act to play Joe Rogan’s Mothership in Austin, Texas. Three weeks ago, with Oliver Anthony. Joe Rogan invited us down, and Oliver did the podcast, and we filmed and recorded the first ever music in the comedy club, the mother ship.”

The significance wasn’t lost on them. In an era where authentic voices are increasingly valued over manufactured ones, the Davisson Brothers Band represents something that resonates beyond traditional country music audiences. Their appearance on one of the most influential platforms in American media demonstrates how far their mountain music has traveled.

Their latest album, Home Is Where the Heart Is, was produced by Brent Cobb and David “Ferg” Ferguson, and features Tim O’Brien, Rob McCoury, Stewart Duncan, Leftover Salmon’s Vince Herman, Ronnie Bowman, Kyle Tuttle, Lindsay Lou, and more. The record represents both an artistic peak and a personal statement about their identity as musicians.

That record was awesome. That was kind of a record for my brother and I. The family. It was like we weren’t trying to write for the radio. We weren’t trying to write hit songs on the radio. It was more just writing what was happening with us.”

The album process, recorded at the legendary Cowboy Jack Studio in Nashville, where Johnny Cash once laid down tracks, brought together musical heroes and friends in an atmosphere that prioritized authenticity over commercial considerations.

We recorded it at the original Cowboy Jack Studio in Nashville. We got to record it with Brent Cobb, produced it with David Ferguson on 30. And it was cool to have our buddies producing it too… We’ve got guys that were our heroes from the Del McCoury band and Leftover Salmon to guys like Tim O’Brien.

The creative process involved whittling down about 50 some songs to the final twelve tracks, a challenge that speaks to their prolific songwriting and the difficulty of capturing their full artistic vision in a single release.

Beyond their musical achievements, the Davisson Brothers Band serves as cultural ambassadors for a region that’s often misunderstood or stereotyped in popular media. Their success provides a platform for sharing the rich musical traditions of Appalachia while dispelling misconceptions about mountain culture.

We’re just a family group going up and down the road, doing what we know and representing West Virginia, Appalachia, and our family culture and heritage. And kind of waving that West Virginia flag everywhere we go.”

This representation goes beyond symbolism. Their music carries the stories, struggles, and triumphs of their community, offering audiences worldwide a genuine glimpse into Appalachian life. In an industry often criticized for its lack of authenticity, they provide something increasingly rare: music that emerges organically from lived experience rather than marketing calculations.

Perhaps what strikes me most about the Davisson Brothers Band is their understanding of music as both art and inheritance. They’re not just performing songs; they’re maintaining a cultural tradition that connects past, present, and future generations. The sight of multiple generations sharing the stage represents something increasingly rare in modern music: genuine intergenerational collaboration.

We just had a viral video with our dad… three generations of Davidson were singing and it went viral. And we just keep going up the ladder and doing what we love to do, and trying to build a future for the young boys and set an example.

Their approach to nurturing young talent within the family structure provides a model for how traditional music can evolve without losing its essential character. By bringing their children up on stage from an early age, they’ve created a learning environment that no music school could replicate.

As our conversation wound down and the band prepared to load their equipment for the next show, I reflected on how the weather-shortened performance had provided something more valuable than a full concert set: insight into the character and philosophy of artists who view setbacks as opportunities and who measure success not just in terms of career achievements, but in terms of family legacy and cultural preservation.

The Davisson Brothers Band represents something essential in American music: the continuation of authentic traditions by artists who understand that their role extends beyond entertainment to cultural stewardship. In an era of manufactured personas and algorithm-driven playlists, they offer something increasingly precious: music that emerges from real places, real people, and real experiences.

Their story isn’t just about three brothers from West Virginia who made it in the music business. It’s about the power of family, the importance of cultural heritage, and the way that authentic artistry can transcend geographic and social boundaries to connect with audiences around the world.

As they prepared to continue their tour with Oliver Anthony and plan for future projects including the young family members’ solo careers, one thing was clear: the Davisson Brothers Band isn’t just preserving Appalachian musical traditions—they’re actively writing the next chapter of that story, ensuring that the mountain music legacy continues to evolve and inspire for generations to come.

The goal is to continue to carry on our family tradition… And I like the thing that we just keep growing and learning. We’re still learning every day and trying to teach these young next generation.

They’re not selling an image—they’re living an inheritance. They stand at the intersection of tradition and tomorrow, singing through storms, bringing crowds together like church congregations in the rain.

On this day at the Old Washington Music Festival, through torn-out songs, downed wires, damp amps, drenched feet, and last-minute interview requests, they delivered more than music. They offered a testimonial that music, forged in mountain mud and generations of a family, rises above storms.

by Dave Parsons

The skies above Guernsey County Fairgrounds hung thick with uncertainty on the early afternoon of Friday, July 18. 2025. Rain fell all night and most of the morning, soaking the grounds and the equipment, and threatening the rhythm of the Old Washington Music Festival. Schedules shifted, sets reshuffled, and tension crackled like unground wire.

For most emerging artists, a weather delay at a major festival would spell disaster. For MaKayla Prew, it became the perfect metaphor for her entire journey.

You know, no matter what the show throws at you, you always have to have your hat in the game, Prew tells me backstage, still buzzing with adrenaline from her performance just hours earlier. The 22-year-old country-pop singer-songwriter from Michigan had just navigated one of the most challenging days of her young career, and somehow emerged looking like she’d been doing this for decades.

The rain delay had cut her originally planned 90-minute set down significantly, forcing Prew and her band into an impromptu crisis mode backstage. When we found out, we immediately got to work and rearranged the set list and got our songs in, she explains, her voice carrying the kind of seasoned professionalism that belies her age. Definitely, when you have challenges like that thrown your way, you’ve got to learn how to work around them and get your head back in the show and in the moment.

It’s this kind of resilience that has defined Prew’s career trajectory since she first stepped onto a stage at age four. Now a songwriting major at Nashville’s prestigious Belmont University, she’s already accumulated an impressive resume that includes opening slots for major acts like Maddie & Tae, festival appearances across the Midwest, and even a stint as Miss Oakland County 2022 in Michigan. But perhaps most notably, she was part of Disney’s Dream Big Princess campaign, an experience that gave her early exposure to professional recording studios and national media attention.

That was really one of my first experiences in a recording studio, Prew recalls of her Disney collaboration. I went into the studio and I started singing for their campaign, and the guy goes, ‘Wow, you remind me a lot of Kelly Clarkson.’ What a compliment – she’s a powerhouse and she’s been a big inspiration of mine.

The Disney experience proved to be more than just a career milestone. It was a formative moment that helped shape her understanding of music as both art and business. Disney was a surreal experience. I’ve grown up watching Disney, and so being able to sit down in my house and watch Disney and hear my voice on the screen – it’s crazy.

But it’s Prew’s songwriting that truly sets her apart from the crowded field of young country-pop artists. Her catalog reveals a mature understanding of life’s complexities that seems almost impossible for someone who won’t turn 23 until next year. Take Fake Friends, her debut single released while still in high school. Originally written as a piano ballad that leaned more pop than country, the song has proven to have remarkable staying power.

Fake friends is looking back at my writing and seeing how much I’ve grown, she reflects. People still bring up fake friends to this day. They’re like, ‘I love that song.’ I’m like, ‘That’s so funny that you like it.’ But I feel like everyone has fake friends in their life, and that song is such a good way to know that you’re not alone and get through those feelings.

The song also served as preparation for the realities of the music business. It’s also to prep you for this business, which you can have a whole lot of fake friends in it and a whole lot of fake everything, Prew adds with a knowing smile that suggests she’s already learned some hard lessons about the industry.

Her songwriting process is deeply intuitive, with songs often dictating their own direction. I’ve always been a country girl, and I’ve always loved country music, and I was experimenting with my sound. I kind of let the songs choose for themselves, she explains. This organic approach has yielded tracks like Number One Fan, written on a plane returning from South by Southwest in Austin, Texas.

It’s the idea of you having feelings for somebody, and regardless of whether they have feelings for you or not, you’re always going to support them and all their endeavors, Prew explains. But the song has taken on a life of its own beyond romantic interpretation. That song has actually turned into a really big song with sports and is being it for edits. I see a lot of people on TikTok who use it for sports edits, for concerts. It’s been super cool to see people take their own interpretations of number one fan.

Perhaps her most emotionally complex work is Growing Pains, a track that emerged from one of life’s most difficult transitions. I wrote that when my childhood dog passed away, she revealed. That’s why the lyric ‘got my dog when I was four, he’s not around anymore. And the family video just closed down the road.’ When I turned 21, I don’t know if it’s like a girl thing, but it felt like my whole world was ending.

The song captures something universal about the transition to adulthood that many artists twice her age struggle to articulate. The transition into adulthood and feeling like, oh wow, I’m an adult now. And realizing how so many things around you that you’ve grown up with and that are familiar change. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it. There’s nothing you can do to slow it down. There’s nothing you can do to make the things that feel like home stay there.

This emotional depth extends to her exploration of mental health themes, particularly in songs like Freak Show and Pre-Show. The latter deals with the performative aspects of entertainment and life itself. “I wrote it about being a singer and being an entertainer and going on stage. You could be having the worst day in the world, but no one will ever know, she explains. I wrote it about not just me being an entertainer, but also other people. You never know what someone’s going through. You never know what’s going on in their lives.

Freak Show tackles similar themes from a different angle. It’s about mental health and kind of channeling it and realizing that people can put a smile on, but you never really know what’s going on, Prew says, demonstrating a psychological sophistication that’s remarkable for such a young artist.

Despite tackling heavy themes, Prew maintains an anchor that keeps her grounded. Music has always been my anchor, and I’m very fortunate I’ve developed this career in music and being able to use music asa catharsis for me – writing, singing, performing. I always love to be on stage, so that’s where I feel most myself. I feel like my job and what I do, and just singing itself keep me anchored.

Her commitment to making a difference extends beyond music. Through her involvement with Miss America since childhood, Prew advocates for food allergy awareness and education, a cause close to her heart due to her own nut allergy. Food allergies are very under-researched. There are a lot of issues with food labeling, and it causes a lot of issues in kids’ lives – bullying, stress, anxiety. It can cause eating disorders in young children because they’re afraid to eat.

She’s currently in the process of creating her own nonprofit to help people who need EpiPens but may not have insurance coverage. Just raising advocacy and awareness for food allergies and making those changes where things lack, she explains, showing the same kind of strategic thinking she applies to her music career.

But it was at Old Washington Music Festival where all these elements – her resilience, songwriting prowess, and performance skills – converged into something special. The rain delay that could have derailed her set instead became the backdrop for one of her most memorable performances to date. Most significantly, she chose this challenging day to debut Never Be Her, a brand-new track she’d just received from her producer the week before.

It was our first time ever performing it live, which was so much fun. I was very excited to debut it at this festival and see what the people’s reactions were. I literally just got the tracks from my producer last week, and he goes, ‘All right, let’s do it.’ So it was a blast.

It seemed like a lot of people in the audience liked it and they caught along and started singing, so it was great.

For an artist who’s still building her fanbase, having an audience immediately connect with brand-new material is the kind of validation that can’t be manufactured or bought. Her abbreviated performance also showcased her evolution as an artist. Where her earlier work, like Fake Friends, leaned heavily into pop territory, her recent material demonstrates a more embrace of her country roots while maintaining the elements that make her music broadly appealing. It’s a delicate balance that many artists struggle with throughout their entire careers, yet Prew seems to have found her sweet spot remarkably early.

I’ve always been a country girl and I’ve always loved country music, she reaffirms, but she’s not interested in being boxed into any single genre. I was experimenting with my sound, remains her philosophy, allowing each song to find its own voice rather than forcing them into predetermined categories.

This approach has served her well in Nashville’s competitive songwriting scene. As a student in Belmont’s highly selective songwriting program – it’s a separate major and a separate program that you have to audition for to get in – she’s not just learning to write for herself but developing skills that could sustain a long career in music regardless of her performance success.

I really want to obviously open for more tours and eventually start headlining my own – that is the ultimate goal, she says of her performing ambitions. I also write for myself, and I have written for other artists. I want to continue to do so and expand more in the Nashville space in that way.

It’s this multi-faceted approach to her career that suggests real longevity. Too many young artists pin everything on performance success alone, but Prew is building a skill set that positions her for various pathways within the music industry. Whether she becomes the next big country-pop crossover star or builds a successful career as a songwriter and occasional performer, she’s creating options for herself.

The Old Washington Music Festival performance also demonstrated her growth as a live performer. Despite the compressed set time and weather challenges, she managed to create moments of genuine connection with the audience. Her setlist, hastily rearranged backstage, flowed seamlessly from her earlier pop-leaning material through her more recent country work, showcasing an artist who understands pacing and knows how to take an audience on a journey.

I always love to be on stage, so that’s where I feel most myself,  she says, and it shows. There’s a natural confidence in her stage presence that can’t be taught, the kind of intangible quality that separates true performers from merely talented singers.

Looking ahead, Prew has a lot more music coming out very, very soon, including the official release of Never Be Her sometime this summer. Each new song seems to reveal another layer of her artistic development, and if her trajectory continues, she’s positioned to become a significant voice in country-pop music.

But perhaps what’s most impressive about MaKayla Prew isn’t her vocal ability, songwriting skills, or stage presence. It’s her maturity and perspective. At 22, she’s already learned lessons about resilience, authenticity, and the importance of staying true to yourself that many artists never master. She’s faced challenges head-on, from weather delays to industry politics to personal loss, and emerged stronger each time.

Definitely, when you have challenges like that thrown your way, you’ve got to learn how to work around them and get your head back in the show and in the moment,” she said of that rainy day at Old Washington Music Festival. But she could just as easily have been describing her entire approach to building a music career in an increasingly difficult industry.

As the rain finally stopped and festival-goers found their way to the muddy bowl in front of the stage, MaKayla Prew was already looking ahead to the next show, the next song, the next challenge. For an artist who’s been performing since age four and writing songs that resonate with audiences across demographic lines, the sky – cloudy or clear – isn’t the limit. It’s just the beginning.

The music industry needs artists like MaKayla Prew – young voices with old souls, writers who understand that the best songs come from real experience, performers who know that the show must go on regardless of what weather life throws at them. Based on what she accomplished on one challenging day in July, the forecast for her career looks remarkably bright.

In a business full of fake friends and artificial moments, MaKayla Prew represents something increasingly rare: authenticity backed by genuine talent and an unshakeable work ethic. Whether she’s debuting new material in less-than-ideal conditions or advocating for causes she believes in, she brings the same level of commitment and sincerity that makes her music resonate.

That’s the kind of artist who doesn’t just survive industry storms – they learn to dance in the rain.

McKayla Prew Setlist July 18, 2025

Growing Pains

Keep Your Eyes Open

Prince

Mine

Who Are You?

Kissing Frogs

Mama’s Broken Heart (Miranda Lambert cover – with a wink and a snarl)

Never Be Her (Live debut)

Jolene (Dolly Parton cover – stripped down and haunting)

The Fool

21st Century Hopeless Romantic

By Byron Morris

In a genre known for its intensity, raw emotion, and sense of community, a new voice is emerging with a mission to be both brutally honest and deeply unifying. Enter Concave Notions, a fresh force in the hardcore and metalcore scene whose debut single, Panic Bleed, is making a powerful first impression. Formed across state lines and fueled by shared struggles and creative chemistry, hometown friends and life-long collaborators have formed a powerhouse.

We caught up with the band to learn more about their origin, their message, and the meaning behind Panic Bleed.

What’s the origin story of the band? How did you come together, and what inspired the formation of Concave Notions?

Spencer, the band’s guitarist, had a collection of instrumental tracks that had been sitting on a hard drive for years. In 2023, he decided to post on social media looking for a vocalist to bring them to life. Christian—already familiar with Spencer through the music scene—answered the call. Their collaboration on what would become Panic Bleed quickly turned from a casual experiment into something more serious.

Chase, who had a long history of playing in bands with Spencer, was a natural fit for drums. Casey was initially brought in as an extra for the Panic Bleed video shoot, but after a few days of working together, it became clear he belonged in the band full-time. Despite living in three different states, the members came together through road trips, online collaboration, and shared passion to form a cohesive unit: Concave Notions.

How would you describe your sound to someone who’s never heard you before?

“Our roots are in metalcore,” the band explains, citing influences like Erra and Invent Animate. “We combine melodic major-key riffs with aggressive minor-key breakdowns. You’ll hear ethereal, clean vocals alongside emotionally driven screams—something that feels both angelic and unrelenting.”

What themes or messages are you exploring on Panic Bleed?

Mental health is front and center in this track. “All of us have dealt with mental health struggles in some way, and we wanted to be completely transparent about that,” the band shares. “Panic Bleed is about putting on a brave face for others while quietly dealing with your own demons. It’s raw, honest, and reflective of what many people go through.”

Were there any specific influences—musical or otherwise—that shaped the writing or recording process?

Spencer credits a live show with the band Archers for inspiring him to incorporate heavy riffs and MIDI textures. “I love writing with both major and minor keys—it creates this tension between light and dark,” he says. Vocally, Christian takes cues from Spencer Chamberlain of Underoath. “You can definitely feel that same energy on this track.”

Why did you choose Panic Bleed as your debut single?

“It was just the one that hit the hardest,” the band admits. “Once Christian laid down the vocals, we played it back and knew it had to be the first. It was undeniable.”

Is there a particular element of this release that feels especially personal or powerful?

“The fact that we made this work despite being spread across the country is a huge deal,” they say. “This project is a testament to our determination and the friendships we’ve built. Plus, bringing these old songs to life after nearly a decade makes it all the more special.”

In your view, what is hardcore missing right now, and how does Concave Notions aim to fill that space?

Spencer offers a candid take: “Hardcore has a strong sense of community, but it can also feel like a closed circle. We want to be a band that makes people feel seen—especially those battling personal struggles. The message is simple: you’re not alone, and we’re stronger together.”

How have your past musical experiences influenced Concave Notions’ sound and direction?

Many members share a background in worship music, which has shaped their melodic sensibilities and emphasis on emotional builds. “We love massive chords and big lead tones,” they say. “Christian, on the other hand, comes from an easycore background, so his vocal range brings a perfect contrast—smooth one moment, guttural the next.”

Where do you see the project heading over the next year or two?

Like most new bands, Concave Notions hopes to grow a fanbase and eventually make music their full-time pursuit. “We’re mostly an internet band right now, but if the demand is there, we’ll make it work. We just want people to connect with what we’re doing.”

What do you hope new listeners take away from Panic Bleed?

“We write music for ourselves first—it’s what keeps us grounded,” the band says. “But if someone hears Panic Bleed and feels the same release or connection we felt while making it, then that’s everything. We want listeners to feel like they’re part of something bigger.”

With its emotional weight, dynamic production, and fierce authenticity, Panic Bleed is more than just a debut—it’s a mission statement. Concave Notions is here to break down barriers, both musical and personal, with a sound that refuses to be ignored. If this first release is any indication, the band has only scratched the surface of what they’re capable of.

Panic Bleed is now streaming on all platforms.