Brett Anderson could look back on her early experiences with the Donnas with a jaundiced eye, and nobody could blame her. Sure, the ‘90s was when “the fun generation” flourished, as she characterizes it. But for girls and young women, its music landscape could be a viper pit.

“We never went to the bathroom, or anywhere, alone, ever, on tour,” the former “Donna A.” tells GRAMMY.com, while commuting home from her job as a social worker at Long Beach Memorial Hospital. “There was some understanding that bad things happen when you're alone.”

“And I hate to even Voldemort this into life,” Anderson says later — and goes on to recount a shocking article that salivated over the band members' bodies.

Yet Anderson betrays no bitterness: her love for the other three Donnas, and the music they made, permeates her words. Her head’s full of memories of recording their scrappy, precocious punk songs at a Bay Area Mail Boxes Etc.; some of them, like “High School Yum Yum,” “Let’s Rab!” and “Da Doo Ron Ron,” seem to spring from an interband, invented language.

Now, you can hear those tunes anew, via Early Singles 1995-1999, which dropped March 1. It’s a monument to the friendship between Anderson, guitarist Allison Robertson, bassist Maya Ford, and drummer Torry Castellano.

The band they formed as teenagers went on to be signed to a major label, rock the late-night circuit, perform on MTV and even appear in the 1999 teen comedy Jawbreaker. In 2012, after seven albums, the Donnas, unceremoniously and undramatically, “wrapped it up.”

For now, Anderson’s fixed on their beginnings, when anything seemed possible.

“When you're that age — or, really, any age — it's easy to be self-conscious, but I always really looked up to the other three girls and a hundred percent believed in them,” Anderson says. “When we were together, we definitely felt like a force to be reckoned with.”

This interview has been edited for clarity.

I’m very curious about your job as a social worker. But if you’re burned out after a long workday, you don’t have to talk about it.

I don’t think I'm going to be burned out for a couple of years, at least, because I'm on the palliative care team. And it's always been a passion of mine ever since I learned about it, because no one really understands it.

And I'm always attracted to things that are a little bit off the beaten path and not understood, and I want to explain it. So the idea just in general, that hospice and palliative care are not the same thing, if I could just address that, that would be a major victory.

Can you tell me the difference? I didn’t know that.

Yeah, I would love to. So hospice is end-of-life care, and you need a prognosis of six months or less to live. Palliative care is this much broader, much lesser known extra layer of care that people can get if they have any life-limiting illness.

So, anything chronic, anything that you could, not be dying from it, but you might need help with difficult decision-making or uncontrolled symptom management — things like that.

What spurred this life change?

I think part of it was how ageist the music industry is.

Wow, tell me more.

I think I just saw it all around me. People just complaining about feeling old and being out of touch and calling other people old and internalized and externalized ageism. And just so ridiculous, because I feel all -isms are bad.

And I feel that the reason that ageism is bad in particular, is that our age is one of the least informative details about us, because it's constantly changing.

From when we started, it was like we were working against something, so I was like, Oh man, why is it like this? And then I was like, Oh, right. I chose this. I identify as a person who's working against something, OK.

*Photo courtesy of the Donnas.*

I’m looking at a very early photo of the Donnas right now. Does it feel like you were reincarnated into a completely new life or something? Or are you super connected to that version of yourself?

I feel like even at the time, I wasn't super connected to it. I mean, especially with the Donnas, it was a persona, because we started the Donnas as a joke band — like a side band. And our real band was called the Electrocutes.

When we were doing the Donnas, it was a shtick — tongue in cheek. And I think some people didn't know that we were in on the joke, because we're too young and there was an older man who could have been a Svengali involved. They assumed that we didn't understand the context with which we were living.

Sounds pretty misogynistic to me.

It's crazy, yeah. It is actually really funny that you said, because I'm watching “Mad Men” for the first time, so it's getting me all riled up again about just the s— you have to do to get by in a world where the rules are not made for you. And I realized so clearly that I'm really only talking about one identity, and that's gender. But yeah, it was hard.

What do you remember about the emotional or psychological atmosphere back then, being as young as you were?

There’s one thing I did not remember until the drummer, Torry, and I just did this interview for some archive in Texas not too long ago. She always remembers things that I would never, ever remember, and it was such a huge part of our existence.

We never went to the bathroom, or anywhere, alone, ever, on tour.

Whoa. What was up with that?

I don't remember the specific incident or incidents that started that, but whatever it was, there was some understanding that bad things happen when you're alone — whether it was when we were on Warped Tour, or when we were just on tour.

And the smaller clubs didn't seem that bad, because you usually know those people. But when the clubs started getting bigger and it was more anonymous — yeah, you don't go anywhere alone.

Just out of general safety concerns?

I think it was multilevel. It was just your general safety. And then there's also the reality of the things that people said to us from when we were in middle school and high school. They would literally say, "Go home and play with your dolls, girls can't play rock and roll."

And I mean, we thought it was funny. We weren't personally wounded by it, but people will say things to you when you're alone that they won't say when you're with another person. Usually, sexual harassment doesn't happen on stage; it's backstage.

It was ‘93 when we started, so we were 13.

That’s really young.

Yeah, I know. And I mean, I hate to even Voldemort this into life, but there'd be articles that would say something like our "bouncing nubile breasts." And we're like, "F—." I wore two bras for a year after that — like, This is not what I want to be putting out there.

To drill into the Early Singles collection: what do you remember about these sessions? These are pretty scrappy recordings.

We were recording at Mail Boxes Etc. after hours. So we would just throw the equipment up on the counter. That was when we were doing the Donnas with [producer] Darin Raffaelli, and he worked there, so we could get in there after, at night. We would smell them baking donuts next door.

I'm still like this when it comes to creativity. I'm so much more creative at night when everyone else is asleep, because there's less external noise distracting you, and you're not missing anything; you can be in your own world. The whole world fell away when we were doing that. We were just us, in that Mail Boxes Etc.: in heaven.

What was your interband friendship like? Were you like a Beatles-style four-headed monster?

In a way. Actually, it's funny. I think about things like that a lot, and I haven't applied it to our band ever. But yeah, I mean, when you put four people in a vacuum, everything's relative, someone's the most like this and someone's the most like that.

I think as compared to other bands like the Spice Girls or things like that, where people have really defined identities, we didn't pigeonhole each other or ourselves as much, I don't think.

Despite the tongue-in-cheek, Ramonesy conceit — everybody has the same name, we’re a happy family — it sounds like you were all very serious about the band. It sounds like you were driven to do something substantial.

I think there are a lot of people who are dying to be famous and to make it. And those were never words that we used or feelings that we felt.

It wasn't that we wanted to be big and famous for no reason. We wanted to be as committed as possible to the band, so that we could go as far as we could with the band, because we believed in what we were doing.

The content was the driving force, the fact that we were with friends playing music that we loved. That was the important part, not the ultimate scope of the thing.

You believed in the songs and each other. Plain and simple.

Yeah, yeah.

Do any moments or tunes from this collection stick out in your memory?

Well, the first one that pops into my head is “I Don't Wanna Go to School No More.” Which is funny, because I think we all ended up going back to school, but it's different when you're older. It's a whole new game.

We had a couple of songs, “Let's Rab” and “Let's Go Mano!” They were made-up words, which I always love. Rab, it's so random, was what this one guy in school called this other guy in school. His name was Rob, but he called him Rab, and then we made it into slang for partying.

I’m just thinking about believing in the songs and in each other. When you're that age — or, really, any age — it's easy to be self-conscious, but I always really looked up to the other three girls and a hundred percent believed in them.

So, whenever I was self-conscious about myself, I was never self-conscious about our band. It was fun to walk into a new venue and be able to feel confident.

I just know that we were bringing something good, even if I sometimes doubted myself. And I think everyone may have doubted themselves too, in a singular way. When we were together, we definitely felt like a force to be reckoned with.

What was up with “I Wanna Be a Unabomber?”

That was from the before times. Every once in a while, I'll have a shame wave thinking about that. I mean, it was just a different world…

Personally, I love it. That’s the best title in the entire thing.

Well, that's the thing about humor, isn't it? It's like what's funny on a certain day in a certain context, it's horrifying in a different one. So, there you go; that was an extreme statement.

Any other anecdotes pop up?

Another amazing thing that we got to do was, when we were 16 — I think between junior and senior year of high school, or maybe it was between sophomore and junior, we got to go to Japan for a week and play five shows.

Wow, what was that like?

It was just beyond our wildest imaginations. It was 16-year olds in a band flying to Japan. There were people waiting at the airport when we got there. And we felt like what the Beatles would feel like, a little bit.

The clubs that we played at were so cool. One of them [was] four stories underground and just completely thick with smoke — and as a singer, that's horrible. But just as a memory, there's just nothing like it.

What do you remember about how these sessions — and your early success — flowed into the next stages of your career?

I think one thing we are really lucky about is that everything grew very gradually and incrementally. So, we never had that big spike. And I think often when someone does have a big spike, then they have a huge drop that's just as steep. And for us, it was like we just gradually grew and grew and grew.

And then, it made it nice on the other side, when we just gradually stopped saying yes to as many things and wrapped it up. But without having some big blowout, break up, farewell tour or anything.

While you were saying that, I was remembering seeing the Donnas open for the Hives at the Fillmore, in 2008. You played “Smoke You Out” and green lights came on.

Oh, I love that song so much. “Everybody’s Smoking Cheeba” — that’s another early one.

I mean, it does seem so quaint, and such a different time. Because now, I'm thinking about our photo shoot for the cover for [our self-titled 1997 debut] The Donnas.

I don't remember where we were, but we just went to some school with a camera and took some pictures and that was it. It was just so very simple. And also sometimes it felt like it was almost not real. We were like, "Oh, we're going to do a photo shoot, because we're a band and we're going to make a record." Because there was no one watching.

And I'm just so glad we got to grow and spend all this time learning our instruments and our positions without that critical eye so much. Because I don't know that any of us would've enjoyed it.

How would you compare the music industry when the Donnas began versus when they ended?

I don't want to sound negative, but I think it was amazing in the '90s.

I mean, all of MTV and Sub Pop and Kill Rock Stars and Maximum Rocknroll and Spin and Rolling Stone — there was just so much good content, and so many authentic bands that were actually independent and actually alternative. And it just felt so inspiring.

And then towards the end of it, social media was coming into it and you had to be creating content all the time. And for me, that blew the mystique on both sides as a band and as a fan. I do remember thinking when I first started listening to Sonic Youth imagining Thurston Moore having breakfast, and thinking about stuff like that was exciting, but I don't actually want to see that. I wanted it in my imagination. It was better in my imagination.

I realize that that probably ties me to a certain generation. But maybe you just like whatever's happening when you're in your teens and twenties better than when you're in your thirties. But I don't know, I'm not sure about the reasoning behind that.

But I feel like there was just a lot of room for growth and people could get into it, younger, smaller bands could. There was a place for people to enter the industry.

Are you still playing music?

I do things here and there. I don't pursue anything, but sometimes things will pop up. Like, “That ‘90s Show.” I did the theme song for that; James Iha's doing the music for the show. He had my number from when we were on Lollapalooza 20 years ago, and just neither of us changed our numbers.

It's just so cool when things happen like that, where it's like you plant this little seed two decades ago, and then it sprouts in 2023. So I'm always up for stuff like that.

I've been playing with some Irish bands in L.A., which has been really fun. There's a band called The Ne'er-Do-Wells that I've done stuff with. I had a couple of side projects. And I don't know, also still writing music on my own for nothing and no one, which is always fun.

That’s a nice counterweight to your professional life.

It's nice to be able to pursue another thing. When I first went back to school, I started studying psychology, and I finished my BA, which I started in 1997.

It took, what, twenty-something years? I just went to one semester in '97 before we went on the first tour, and then went back to school in 2012. And I finished my BA in 2019.

I can see how your music career blossomed into your love of helping human beings.

Oh, yeah. I think in the band, there was an element of helping people. After every show, when we would meet people, they would say, "I listen to your music to feel confident, and feel better about myself, too, as an example that girls can play rock and roll."

We had these two shows in Joshua Tree called Desert Moon at Pappy and Harriet's, and they were fan club shows. And after one of them, someone told me that they flew for the first time in their life to get to that show, so it was a motivating factor. Another one: someone told me that they listened to our music before they came out to their parents.

So it's the idea that music can be empowering and liberating and give people permission to feel a certain way, I feel is something very similar to what I do now.

I mean, social work is all about empowering people, and respecting their agency, and trying to figure out what motivates people — and to activate that, and advocate for that.

The Exploding Hearts' Terry Six Shares The Stories Behind Guitar Romantic

Since Mike Piacentini’s switch from computer science to audio engineering in college, his family has been his biggest champions. So, when he received his nomination for Best Immersive Album for Madison Beer's pop album Silence Between Songs, at the 2024 GRAMMYs, it was a no-brainer to invite his parents and wife.

“He’s always been into music. He had his own band, so [the shift] wasn’t surprising at all,” Piacentini’s mother says in the newest episode of Family Matters. “He’s very talented. I knew one day he would be here. It’s great to see it actually happen.”

In homage to his parents’ support, Piacentini offered to let his father write a short but simple acceptance in case he won: “Thank you, Mom and Dad,” he jokes.

Alongside his blood relatives, Piacentini also had support from his colleague Sean Brennan. "It's a tremendous honor, especially to be here with [Piacentini]. We work day in and day out in the studio," Brennan explains. "He's someone who's always there."

Press play on the video above to learn more about Mike Piacentini's support system, and remember to check back to GRAMMY.com for more new episodes of Family Matters.

How Madison Beer Broke Free From Pressures Of Internet Fame & Created Her New Album 'Silence Between Songs'

It's fair to say that the 1980s hadn't been particularly kind to country legend Johnny Cash. Once considered the Don of the Nashville scene, the singer/songwriter suddenly found himself dropped by Columbia Records, recording terrible parody songs (remember "The Chicken in Black"?), and addicted to painkillers after a bizarre accident in which he was kicked by an ostrich.

But as the new decade approached, Cash's reputation gradually started to recover. A 1988 tribute album, 'Til Things Are Brighter, alerted a much younger indie generation of his catalog of classics. He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1992. And then arguably the biggest band in the world at the time, U2, invited him to take lead vocals on Zooropa's post-apocalyptic closer "The Wanderer." The scene was set for a triumphant comeback, and on 1994's American Recordings, the Man in Black duly obliged.

The Rick Rubin-produced album was far from a one-off. Cash delivered three American follow-ups in his lifetime (1996's Unchained, 2000's Solitary Man, and 2002's The Man Comes Around). And two posthumous volumes (2006's A Hundred Highways, 2010's Ain't No Grave)  further bridged the gap between his statuses as country outlaw and elder statesman — and helped further his legacy as one of country's all-time greats.

As the first American Recordings installment celebrates its 30th anniversary, here's a look at how the series deservedly rejuvenated the career of an American recording legend.

It United Him With A New Muse 

Best known for his pioneering work with Run-D.M.C., Beastie Boys, and Public Enemy, Rick Rubin seemed an unusual fit for a sixty-something country singer whose glory days were considered decades behind him. But left spellbound by Cash's performance at a Bob Dylan anniversary gig in 1992, the superproducer offered to make the Nashville legend a superstar once more.

Cash took some persuading, but eventually agreed to join forces on the assurance he'd be in the creative driving seat, and a new unlikely dream team was born. Rubin lent his talents to all six volumes of American Recordings — co-producing the middle two with Cash's son John Carter Cash – and won the first GRAMMY of his career for his efforts. The Def Jam co-founder would also later work his magic with several other '60s heroes including Neil Diamond, Yusuf and Neil Young.

It Saw Cash Lean Into Contemporary Music More Than Ever

Cash had never been averse to tackling contemporary material. He covered Bruce Springsteen's "Highway Patrolman" in 1983, just a year after it appeared on The Boss' Nebraska. But the American Recordings series saw the Man in Black embrace the sounds du jour like never before, whether the grunge of Soundgarden's "Rusty Cage," electro-blues of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus," or most famously, industrial rock of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt."

On paper, this could have been nothing short of a disaster, the sign of an aging artist desperately latching onto a much younger musical generation in a transparent bid for relevancy. But instead, Cash elevates the Gen X classics into modern hymns, his sonorous voice injecting a sense of gravitas and Rubin's production stripping things back to their bare but compelling essentials. Far from an embarrassing grandad act, this was the sound of a man respectfully making the source material his own.

It Returned Cash To The Charts 

Cash had reached the lower end of the Billboard 200 in the '80s as part of supergroups The Highwaymen and Class of '55. But you had to go all the way back to 1976's One Piece at a Time to find his last entry as a solo artist. The American Recordings series, however, slowly but surely restored the Man in Black to his former chart glories.

Indeed, while its first two volumes charted at numbers 110 and 170 respectively, the third peaked at a slightly more impressive 88 and the fourth at 22, his highest position since 1970's Hello, I'm Johnny Cash. The posthumous fifth entry, meanwhile, went all the way to No. 1, remarkably the first time ever the country legend had achieved such a feat with a studio effort (live album At San Quentin had previously topped the charts in 1971).

"Hurt" also became Cash's first solo US country hit in 14 years in 2003. And while it only landed at No. 56 on Billboard's Hot Country Songs chart, it remains Cash's most-streamed song to date with over 600 million streams on Spotify alone.

It Included Masterful Collaborators 

As well as handing over the producer reins to Rubin, Cash also surrounded himself with some of the rock world's finest musicians. Tom Petty, Red Hot Chili Peppers' Flea, and Fleetwood Mac's Lindsey Buckingham and Mick Fleetwood all lent their considerable talents to Unchained. Sheryl Crow and Will Oldham did the same on Solitary Man, while Nick Cave, Fiona Apple and Don Henley joined him in the studio on The Man Comes Around.

But Cash also kept things more traditional by recruiting fellow country legend Merle Haggard, 'fifth Beatle'Billy Preston, and "Ballad of a Teenage Queen" songwriter Jack Clement, while the presence of wifeJune Carter Cash and son John made the third American Recordings something of a family affair.

It Went Back To Basics 

While American Recordings was, in many respects, Cash's most forward-thinking album, it wasn't afraid to keep one foot in the past, either. For one, the star recorded most of its first volume in his Tennessee cabin armed with only a guitar, a throwback to his 1950s beginnings with first producer Sam Phillips.

Cash also trawled through his own back catalog for inspiration, re-recording several tracks he believed had unfairly gone under the radar including 1955 single "Mean Eyed Cat," murder ballad "Delia's Gone" from 1962's The Sound of Johnny Cash, and "I'm Leaving Now" from 1985's Rainbow.

It Proved He Was Still A Masterful Songwriter…

Although Cash's unlikely covers grabbed most of the attention, the American Recordings series showed that his stellar songwriting skills remained intact throughout his later years, too. "Meet Me in Heaven," for example, is a beautifully poignant tribute to the older brother who died at just 15, while the folksy "Let the Train Blow the Whistle" added to Cash's arsenal of railroad anthems.

"Drive On," meanwhile, is worthy of gracing any Best Of compilation, a powerful lament to those who came back from the Vietnam War with both emotional and physical scars ("And even now, every time I dream/ I hear the men and the monkeys in the jungle scream").

…And Still A Master Interpreter 

As well as putting new spins on his own songs and various contemporary rock favorites, Cash further displayed both his interpretive and curatorial skills by covering a variety of spirituals, standards and pop hits first released during his commercial heyday.

The likes of early 19th century gospel "Wayfaring Stranger," wartime favorite "We'll Meet Again," and Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water" may have been firmly in Cash's wheelhouse. But more leftfield choices such as Loudon Wainwright III's offbeat morality tale "The Man Who Couldn't Cry" proved that even when outside his comfort zone, he could stamp his own identity with aplomb.

It Made Him An Unlikely MTV Star 

Cash was 62 years old when American Recordings hit the shelves — not exactly a prime age for MTV play. Yet thanks to some inspired creative decisions, the career-reviving series spawned two videos that received regular rotation on the network. Firstly, "Delia's Gone" caught attention for two major reasons: it was directed by Anton Corbijn, the man renowned for his long-running creative partnership with Depeche Mode, and it starred Kate Moss, the world's biggest supermodel at the time, as the titular victim.  

Then nine years later, Cash picked up six nominations — winning Best Cinematography — at the MTV Video Music Awards thanks to Mark Romanek's emotionally devastating treatment for "Hurt." Interspersing clips of the clearly fragile country singer at the rundown Museum of Cash with footage from his earlier days and artistic shots of decaying fruits and flowers, the promo perfectly embodied the transient nature of life. And it had the capacity to reduce even the hardest of hearts to tears.

It Added To His GRAMMY Haul 

Cash won almost as many GRAMMYs with his American Recordings series as he had during the previous 40 years of his career. The Man in Black first added to his trophy collection in 1995 when the first volume won Best Contemporary Folk Album. This was the first time he'd been recognized at the ceremony for his musical talents since the June Carter Cash duet "If I Were A Carpenter" won Best Country Performance for a Duo or Group with Vocal back in 1971  

Three years later, Unchained was crowned Best Country Album. And after picking up a Lifetime Achievement Award in 1999, Cash won 2001's Best Male Country Vocal Performance for "Solitary Man," then again in the same Category for "Give My Love to Rose"in 2003. He posthumously won two more GRAMMYs for Best Short Form Video, in 2004 for "Hurt" and in 2008 for "God's Gonna Cut You Down." In total, the American Recordings series won Cash six more GRAMMYs, bringing his overall count to 13. 

It Was A Powerful Epitaph

In 1997, Cash was told he'd just 18 months to live after being misdiagnosed with neurodegenerative condition Shy-Drager syndrome (later changed to autonomic neuropathy). He ended up outliving this prognosis by a good four years, but during this period, he lost the love of his life and was forced to record his swansong in-between lengthy stints in the hospital.  

Little wonder, therefore, that the American Recordings series is defined by the theme of mortality: see "The Man Comes Around," a biblical ode to the Grim Reaper ("And I looked, and behold a pale horse/ And his name that sat on him was death, and hell followed with him"), Death Row anthem "The Mercy Seat," and funeral favorite "Danny Boy." As with David Bowie's Blackstar, Cash was able to reflect on his impermanence in his own terms in a sobering, yet compelling manner that continues to resonate decades on. 

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Jon Batiste walked into the 2022 GRAMMYs with a whopping 11 nominations, making him the most recognized artist of the evening. By the end of the night, he received five GRAMMYs for Best American Roots Performance, Best American Roots Song, Best Score Soundtrack For Visual Media, Best Music Video, and the highly coveted Album Of The Year.

In this episode of GRAMMY Rewind, watch Batiste take the stage to accept the award for Album Of The Year for his sixth studio album, We Are

Batiste began his praises by acknowledging God: "I just put my head down and work on the craft every day. I love music, he said. "I've been playing since I was a little boy. It's more than entertainment for me — it's a spiritual practice." He also thanked the "many people that went into making this album," including his grandfather, nephew, father, and executive producer, Ryan Lynn.

"This [award] is for real artists, real musicians. Let's just keep going. Be you! That's it. I love you even if I don't know you," Batiste cheered.

Press play on the video above to hear Jon Batiste's complete acceptance speech and check back to GRAMMY.com for more new episodes of GRAMMY Rewind.

Watch: Jon Batiste Delivers A Heartfelt Performance Of “Ain’t No Sunshine” & “Lean On Me” | 2024 GRAMMYs Performance

When Wyatt Flores released his second EP, Half Life, on April 19, he ended his celebratory Instagram post with one simple wish: "I hope these songs make you feel something."

That's been Flores' mantra since the rising country singer first began releasing music just three years ago. Hailed as one of the genre's most honest new stars, Flores speaks his truth in his red dirt music, on stage, and on social media. As Half Life showcases, he's unafraid to broach life's toughest topics, from suicidal thoughts on "Devil" to a complicated relationship with religion on "I Believe In God."

"I like to keep it very based on what I felt, and just try and go for that emotion," Flores says of his music. "If you can somehow captivate [listeners] in the story and make them feel the emotion through the song, then you've done your job. I guess that's all I'm after."

His unabashed vulnerability has made his music resonate widely — and fast. In 2023, Flores went from playing for hundreds to thousands in a matter of months, garnering more than 325 million global streams and more than 13 million TikTok likes along the way. He consistently uses his rapidly growing platform to champion self-care and mental health, even taking a brief tour hiatus in February to get himself back on track.

Two months later, Flores assures that he's feeling rejuvenated and healthier than ever, sparking some happier tunes that even caught him by surprise (more on that later). He'll spend the summer playing a mix of headlining shows, festival stages and a few supporting slots for Mitski, first kicking things off with his debut at Stagecoach on April 26.

As Flores gears up for tour, he sat down with GRAMMY.com during some time off in his native Oklahoma to chat about his remarkable rise, the complexities of being so vulnerable, and how he feels like he's getting the "best of both worlds."

Do you remember the first show that you were like, "What is happening?"

Yeah, it was Asheville, North Carolina. It was either the last week of April last year or the first week of May, I can't quite remember. But that was my first ever sold-out headline show. I think the venue cap was like 550, and they were screaming so loud that I got off stage and I was like, "Did anyone feel like there was a trash can going off in their ear?" And then my bass player, Bill, was like, "No, that's the last time you'll hear that frequency." 

That was where everything changed. It kind of started making me realize how real this was getting. Then, everywhere we went, [it was a] sold-out crowd, and they're excited as all get out. I literally thought that I was living a dream. 

I played at, you know, the s—iest hole in the walls you could ever imagine. I just thought I was gonna be there forever. Honestly, I was still having fun doing that. But I just couldn't believe the dramatic change that happened.

At what point did it actually feel real?

It was probably when we played Dallas [in December of] last year. That was the biggest room that we'd ever played. I was like, 3,000 people bought tickets to show up to my show. And then I just kind of had to kind of process like what was actually going on. I kept questioning it for the longest time, but that night it was just different.

We had just played in Fort Worth, like, three months [before that], and that was 600 people. So when we played Dallas, that was when I just looked at the crowd and I was like, Okay, this is it.

That's interesting, because you had to cancel a stretch of shows not long after that. Was that kind of all correlating — taking it in, but being overwhelmed from all of it?

Yeah, because there's a lot of things that went on in my life that I never took the time to process, and that was one of the first things — being like, This is my life from now on. And I think that's what I liked about the Life Lessons project so much, was giving listeners an inside view on what it looks like to be on this side of the fence. Because everyone thinks that it's gotta be the most wild thing to be an artist, but I don't think they realize what comes with it. 

I'm still sitting here going, I shouldn't be on this interview with you. I don't deserve it. Like, I don't have the cool style, I show up in sweatshirts and s—ty Adidas shoes. I don't put myself on a pedestal.

I've never wanted to become something I'm not, and that's kind of been the hard point. Because, you know, you got folks from the hometown [saying], "Don't forget who you are!" And then all of a sudden you get lost in all of it. And then you're sitting there going, Do I even know who I am? 

Making some healthier changes kind of opened up some other wounds that I bottled up. I never processed my grandpa's death, and at the same time that that was all going down, I was also firing management — which, they say in Nashville, the manager should be the one person that you do trust. 

I took one week off so I could come back for [my grandpa's] funeral, and had to delay some shows there. And then I was homeless for two weeks from another situation. But I was like, Nope, I'm just gonna work my ass off. I'm just gonna show up, do what I need to do. And I never took the time to actually look at anything that had happened. And that's kind of where the falloff went, because I was just trying to survive the chaos.

I'm sure it's hard being in the spotlight period while  going through so much  at the same time.

For a while, there were certain things that I did not like about myself. [I felt like I was] changing personalities. I know most people can't see it, but that was something that I was struggling with. Everyone was seeing how happy I was through social media — because I'm not afraid to post the silly s— that goes down on the road; me being a jackass in the van or something like that — but then people expected that from me. 

I had to fully come to terms with, wherever I am in my heart, that's who I am right there in that moment. I don't have to portray this image that people see just because we post it on social media.

I also think it's amazing to have the platform you do and be so honest about how you're feeling. Because it's probably healing for you, but also going to be healing for the people who see it — even if it's challenging and really personal to admit.

I put down my phone for a really long time, which was one of the best things ever. [Laughs.] I came back and I went through my DMs. People were like, "Thank you for saying something because I finally had the encouragement to say something to my wife" or something else. I'm glad that it gave people the encouragement to speak up, because if I don't, then how will they? 

I look at my fans, and I'm blessed. There's no better fan base, they're the sweetest people ever. They are diehard fans, but they talk to me like I'm their friend, like they've known me forever. For them to trust someone enough to say something [about] how they feel or what's going on in their lives, that means the absolute world to me.

Clearly that means that what you bring to the table is what your fans are also going to bring to the table for you.

One of the things that I've been trying to work through, is realizing that I can listen to their problems, but I can't take their problems with me. And that was something that I had to learn. I was like, I can't do that to myself, or I'm gonna plummet.

There was a time when we were in Colorado, and someone had sent me these messages [about this girl], and I ended up looking [her] up. She was an eighth grade girl, and the last video she had posted on TikTok was of "Please Don't Go." She'd committed suicide a month after she had posted that. Her mom was trying to raise attention towards bullying and things like that. 

It was hard for us. But we had to look at it through a new perspective. And it's like, we can't change someone's decision, as badly as you want to. And we try and look at it from this perspective of, How long did that song keep them here? Time is valuable, and even if it was for another month, at least it kept them here just a little bit longer, kept them through the fight. Even though you don't always win.

We're not just out here playing music. I still love the party songs. "West of Tulsa" is always fun to look out in the crowd, and they're having a great time. But we're not just playing music because we're here to distract people from their problems. We're lucky enough that we do get to save lives, and we get to do it through music. But it's also one of those things where I'm sitting there going, I'm a 22-year-old kid from Oklahoma, and I have this power. Am I going to use it correctly?

Now that you know that your music is so powerful to so many people, has it changed the way that you approach your songwriting?

A little bit. You know, the songs that I write are songs that I feel. I'm ADHD as all get out, so when I show up to write, it's whatever I'm feeling that day. But yeah, there's a little bit in the back of my head that says, Watch out for something like this, you don't want to say the wrong message here. 

I want to write these songs that are sad, that are very dark, and lost is kind of the feeling. Because I want people to see that I've gone through it, so that way, they can get a better understanding that they're not the only one. 

My inspiration was to be the artist that had those songs that kind of pulled me through my stuff. There's all sorts of jokes and like memes about when the song doesn't hit you hard enough the first time so you play it again, or, like, when you're sitting in a vehicle after you've already gotten home but you sit there until the song ends. That was always kind of a goal for me. I was like, I want to be that song that kind of helps them get through the next day. 

That's the way I kind of look at it when I play these shows. And I sit back and I look at the crowd, and I'm like, I get to be a part of y'all's lives every single day, and that is the coolest thing that I've ever done.

It's funny, there's always that interview question like, "What are your goals?" but it sounds like you've already accomplished the main one. 

Oh, absolutely. I've been having to find new goals because I've lived my dream. Like, if I died tomorrow, I'd hang my hat proudly. I've helped people, I've played all the venues — well, I guess I haven't played Red Rocks yet. That's coming up, though.

I'm still thinking, because it's just now finally hit me that, like, You've kind of done the damn thing. So it's like, What do you want to do now? I have all these wild ideas. I usually throw out some out of pocket s— and then I let someone else come up with if it's gonna work or not. My business manager hates me. [Laughs.]

Were you raised to be so connected with your feelings, or was it just kind of an innate thing for you?

I think I always felt out of place wherever I was. I was always kind of the weird kid. My friends hated me because I started talking about sappy s—. I'd want to have deep, meaningful conversations and sometimes they'd be like, "Would you just shut up?" [Laughs.]

But what I realized is that I'm very big on connection. At some point, not fitting in and being different kind of all changed for me. I was like, I can't change it, so I might as well be it.

Have you ever questioned how honest you're being in your music? 

For the most part, I don't try and hold back. In some ways, it is scary, but in other ways, it's kind of just telling your truth so people don't get shocked by something that you do.

For the first time, I'm writing happier songs. And I'm skeptical to see how people take that. I mean, I've had Life Lessons and stuff like that, but yeah, this is definitely a weird time in my life where I'm like, I'm writing happy songs, and I don't even know how to feel about it. Now, I'm like, How do I share happiness? How do I contain that idea, and that emotion, and put it into a song so it comes out to the listener and they feel it?

You're allowed to be happy! And with everything that's been happening for you lately, I'm not surprised you're happy.

[Fans] always say "We made the right person famous." It's been two short years of really doing this thing. And we're blessed.

I freakin' love playing live, I just had other things going on in the background that I never took time [to process]. For a while, I wanted to blame a lot of things that wasn't it. And then, I went to Onsite [Workshops, a therapy, counseling and wellness retreat center in Tennessee] for like a week and got my head back to normal. 

Playing live is what makes it all worth it. I knew that I was going to have to work for this, and I'm getting to see the fruits of my labor. I'm finally getting some time off. I'm getting to actually spend some quality time, but I at least now know how to have quality time in the healthiest way. Because for a while, I couldn't shut the other brain off. I'd come home and I was still somewhere else. 

I can't believe that I get the best of both worlds. That usually doesn't happen where you get your cake and eat it too. S—, I might go fishing later! I get to be on the road, play to thousands of people, and then I get to go fishing? I think the only thing that's missing is I don't have a boat. Man, I just might have to weld me one.  

Meet Charles Wesley Godwin, The Rising Country Singer Who's Turning "A Very Human Story" Into Stardom