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Tyler Childers – “Oneida”

[outlaw_events] Tyler Childers doesn’t just write songs — he writes scripture for the bruised and wandering. And with “Oneida,” he’s gone and carved another chapter into the outlaw gospel. It’s a song that walks barefoot through heartbreak, memory, and longing, wrapped in the same Appalachian soul that’s made him a prophet for the FM-after-midnight crowd. Like our Facebook Page, and share it with your music-loving friends Right out the gate, there’s a tension — a kind of emotional hum — that rides beneath the pluck of guitar and soft thrum of percussion. It’s not loud, but it’s heavy. Like a storm on the edge of the holler. The melody weaves like smoke, drifting through past lives and old regrets, and you get the feeling this song was written in the dark, by candlelight, with a half-empty bottle nearby. “Oneida” tells the story of love lost — or maybe love left behind. It ain’t spelled out clean. That’s the beauty of it. Tyler’s lyrics are laced with place — “Ran that old road through the hills of Oneida” — and every word feels like it’s been soaked in time. It’s part memory, part dream, and all sorrow. But this ain’t some pity parade. This is reverence. A man looking back not with bitterness, but with quiet ache. Childers doesn’t just write about women or whiskey or wide-open roads. He writes about the spaces between them. The silence after the door closes. The way the wind sounds different after she’s gone. What makes “Oneida” so powerful is how simple it is. No big hooks. No flashy solos. Just a man, a melody, and the ghosts he’s learned to live with. And that voice — weary, weathered, real. Tyler could sing the phone book and it’d still make your heart swell. But here, he’s doing what he does best: telling the truth. Musically, it’s understated. The production lets the lyrics breathe. Every note supports the story. The steel guitar curls like cigarette smoke, and the harmonies — subtle but present — feel like they’re echoing from some other room in the house. It’s intimate. It’s honest. This isn’t radio country. This is back-porch confessional. This is what outlaw means when it puts its guard down. Vulnerable. Raw. Human. “Oneida” doesn’t try to impress you. It tries to understand you. And in doing so, it becomes one of those songs you don’t just hear — you carry. Like our Facebook Page, and share it with your music-loving friends

Hailey Whitters “White Limousine”

“White Limousine” is a beautiful lie wrapped in rhinestones. Hailey Whitters takes the illusion of the high life — the big city, the big car, the big dreams — and peels it back layer by layer until all that’s left is heartbreak riding in leather seats. It’s not just a song — it’s a mirror for every small-town soul who thought success might save them. The track opens like a sunrise over the Hollywood Hills — shimmering keys, soft pedal steel, and a beat that glides more than it walks. But there’s tension in that polish. You can feel it under the surface — a quiet, unspoken something pulling at the seams. Then Hailey steps in with that voice — clear as mountain air, but laced with fatigue. She doesn’t belt it. She doesn’t beg. She remembers. That’s what makes this song so damn haunting. It’s not about the crash; it’s about the slow unraveling that comes when the fantasy starts to sour. “She was just a girl with a ticket to ride…”It’s a line that could’ve come from a Springsteen or Kristofferson notebook. And like those legends, Hailey paints her characters with compassion — but not naivety. The girl in this song climbs into the limo thinking it’s a carriage, only to find it ain’t heading to the ball. It’s headed somewhere colder. The production is lush but never overdone. Every instrument serves the story. The steel guitar doesn’t cry — it sighs. The background vocals float in like memories. There’s a cinematic sadness to it all, like watching your younger self walk into a mistake you can’t stop. What makes “White Limousine” outlaw isn’t the instrumentation — it’s the honesty. This ain’t some rage-against-the-machine rebellion. It’s the kind of rebellion that comes with clarity. With growing up. With realizing that the dream they sold you had strings attached — and maybe the strings are barbed wire. Hailey Whitters is carving out her own corner of country — one where truth matters more than twang, and stories hit harder than slogans. “White Limousine” isn’t here to party. It’s here to reckon. And it does that with the kind of grace that only comes from scars. You won’t find this one blaring at tailgates. You’ll find it echoing in your mind during quiet moments, when the lights dim and the champagne dreams fade into morning light.

Andy Griggs ” I Pulled A Hank Last Night”

There’s something about the phrase “I pulled a Hank” that says more in six words than most songs do in three minutes. Andy Griggs taps into that outlaw mythology — that barroom baritone of Hank Williams Sr. — and brings it roaring back to life with a track that’s equal parts tribute, breakdown, and whiskey-soaked redemption. The moment the fiddle hums its first sorrowful note, you know what kind of night this is gonna be. The pedal steel moans like a ghost in the rafters, and the guitars ring out with just enough dirt under the strings. This ain’t pop-country polish — it’s bruised-knuckle country soul. Andy doesn’t just sing this one — he owns it. His voice has that lived-in tone, smooth around the edges but cracking just enough when it matters. He sounds like a man who’s been there — not some actor reading lines, but someone who’s stared down the bottom of a glass and found Hank staring back. The story is as old as country music itself: heartache, a barstool, and a jukebox full of bad decisions. But where lesser songs treat it like a gimmick, “I Pulled A Hank Last Night” feels like a prayer — or maybe a confession after one too many rounds. It’s a man admitting he tried to outrun the pain, only to find it waiting for him at the next dive down the road. The lyrics aren’t flashy. They don’t need to be. They work because they’re simple and true. Lines like “I poured my soul into a song I didn’t write” and “Cried into my beer while the jukebox played” don’t try to impress you — they just hit you where you live. And of course, the hook:“I pulled a Hank last night…”It’s both an admission and a badge. A nod to every outlaw that’s come before. It’s not about copying Hank — it’s about understanding the weight of his ghost and carrying it for a night. This is the kind of song that hits hard because it feels like it was born from the same backroom sorrow. It’s a drinking song, sure, but also a reminder that country music ain’t about rhinestones and charts — it’s about truth, hurt, and healing in 4/4 time.

The Steel Woods – “Blind Lover”

“Blind Lover” by The Steel Woods is a slow-burning sermon of heartbreak, the kind that doesn’t beg for sympathy but lays it all out on the altar anyway. It’s heavy with Southern rock blood, carried by guitar licks that sting like regret and a vocal that sounds like it’s been soaked in bourbon and busted dreams. The first thing that grabs you is the tone — low, brooding, and deliberate. It’s not rushing to get anywhere, and it sure as hell ain’t trying to impress you. It’s just true. A simple drumbeat rolls in like a storm cloud, and the guitars stretch out like they’re aching to confess something you already know deep down. Wes Bayliss’ voice is the soul of this track. It’s not flashy — it’s real. Gritty in all the right places, tender where it counts, like a man trying to hold it together through a goodbye he didn’t ask for. There’s a rawness in his delivery that doesn’t ask you to feel sorry for him — just to feel it with him. The lyrics cut with quiet precision:“Love is blind, but it’s watching you walk away.”It’s a line that hits like a gut punch in slow motion. The whole song lives in that space between what could’ve been and what’s too late to fix. It’s not about anger or blame — it’s about sorrow so deep it settles in your bones. The band lets the sadness breathe. There’s no overproduction, no frills — just weight. The lead guitar sings as much as the vocal does, sliding in and out like memories you can’t outrun. Every note feels considered, every pause deliberate, like the band’s in no hurry to move on, because the pain’s the point. This ain’t just a song about heartbreak. It’s a lament. A Southern rock blues waltz for the lost and left behind. And in a world full of polished breakup tracks that fake the pain for streams, “Blind Lover” wears its bruises like a badge. The outlaw spirit here is quiet — not in-your-face rebellion, but the kind that comes from surviving the wreckage and finding some grace in the aftermath. It’s music for late nights, empty bottles, and thoughts you don’t say out loud. “Blind Lover” doesn’t yell, but it stays with you. It lingers like cigarette smoke in a bar that’s long since closed down.

Pokey LaFarge – “End Of My Rope”

Pokey LaFarge’s “End Of My Rope” isn’t your typical outlaw anthem — it doesn’t kick down the saloon doors or growl through grit. Instead, it croons its desperation through a throwback groove that feels like a haunted swing club at closing time. It’s all charm and unraveling, stitched together with whiskey smiles and trembling hands. The track opens with an off-kilter shuffle — jazzy drums, upright bass, and guitar tones that sound like they were pulled straight from a cracked vinyl record. There’s something old-world about it — not country, not blues, not jazz, but something in between all three. It sways, not struts. And it sets the stage for Pokey’s signature delivery. When he sings “I’m at the end of my rope, and baby, you’re tying the knot,” it’s not a cry — it’s a wink. A broken man with a crooked smile, confessing heartache like he’s performing it for a smoky backroom crowd that’s already half gone. LaFarge leans into his old-time crooner roots, channeling more Roy Orbison or Cab Calloway than Merle Haggard, but the outlaw spirit is undeniable. This song’s about falling apart with flair. The lyrics are pure pain, but the delivery dances. That contrast — sadness set to swing — is what makes “End Of My Rope” hit so hard. It’s a man barely holding it together, but still sharp enough to wear his best suit to the breakdown. And don’t mistake the playfulness for weakness — it takes a real kind of guts to turn despair into melody without losing the weight. That’s outlaw. That’s artistry. Pokey isn’t raging against the world — he’s nodding at it with a resigned smirk, saying, “Well, here we are again.” Musically, it’s sparse but rich. Every instrument has space to breathe. The production feels live, like it was cut in one take with no room for second guesses — just players in sync with a man on the verge. That looseness, that realness, is what makes it stick. “End Of My Rope” is the soundtrack to that moment when the bottom drops out, and instead of screaming… you light a cigarette, pour another drink, and raise a glass to whatever’s coming next. It’s beautiful, it’s sad, and it’s exactly the kind of song the Outlaw Circus was built for — not because it shouts, but because it tells the truth softly, with style.

Buckcherry – “Set It Free”

If outlaw music is a slow drag on a cigarette in the rain, then Buckcherry’s “Set It Free” is that first shot of whiskey that punches through your teeth and reminds you you’re still alive. This ain’t subtle. It ain’t clean. And it sure as hell ain’t polite. It’s rock-n-roll revivalism, revved to redline, kicking in the door and flipping the finger to anyone clinging to the past. Right from the jump, “Set It Free” delivers a riff that stomps in like it’s been drinking gasoline. It’s got that filthy, blues-drenched swagger Buckcherry’s built a career on — raw power wrapped in sleaze and sweat. The drums pound with a loose confidence, and the bass growls like a Harley left idling in a dive bar parking lot. Josh Todd’s vocals are a perfect mess — gritty, strained, and human. He ain’t trying to hit notes. He’s trying to hit nerve endings. He howls about breaking chains, getting loose, and burning every last rulebook — and you believe him, because he sounds like he already lit the match. Lyrically, “Set It Free” is less about poetry and more about release. It’s the sound of a man kicking out of his cage and daring the world to stop him. “I ain’t living in your cage no more / I got my demons but I settled the score.” It’s the kind of song you play when you finally tell the job, the ex, or the system to go to hell — and then peel out into the night. What makes this fit into the Outlaw Circus catalog isn’t the genre — it’s the attitude. This is outlaw rock in its purest modern form: loud, flawed, and unrepentant. There’s no fake polish here. Just raw nerve and dirty amplifiers. The production is tight but not sterile — everything’s dialed in to sound alive. The solo in the bridge squeals and snarls like it’s chewing through rusted steel, and the final chorus comes back like a punch you didn’t see coming. “Set It Free” doesn’t want to be your favorite track. It wants to be the one that gets you arrested or saved — depending on what kind of night you’re having. It’s not music for the radio. It’s music for the back alley behind the radio station — blasting from the tape deck of a car nobody ever expected to keep running this long. And yet… here it is. Still roaring. Still breaking free.

Colter Wall – “Kate McCannon”

Colter Wall’s “Kate McCannon” isn’t just a song — it’s a funeral dirge soaked in moonshine and vengeance. It rides the line between old-world ballad and modern outlaw poetry, told in a voice that sounds like it crawled out of the coal mines with blood on its hands and a story to settle. There’s no big production here. Just a mournful finger-picked guitar, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat in the gallows, and Colter’s voice — deep, gravel-soaked, and unmistakably from another time. He sings like someone twice his age and ten times more haunted. The story is simple — and devastating. A man falls for a girl with a “dark turn of mind.” He loves her, dreams of building a life with her, and then finds out she’s been stepping out behind his back. There’s no begging. No bargaining. Just a cold resolution, and a gun in his hand. “I put three rounds into Kate McCannon” — that line lands like a hammer to the gut. No metaphor. No flair. Just a quiet end to a twisted love story. This song taps deep into the outlaw storytelling tradition — think Townes Van Zandt’s “Waitin’ Around to Die” or Johnny Cash’s “Delia’s Gone.” But Colter does it with less noise and more chill. He doesn’t raise his voice. He lets the silence do the screaming. Lyrically, it’s pure mountain noir. Lines like “She was my rose of the Sharon, from the valley of the plains” drip with old-timey poetry, but it never feels forced. It feels earned. Like every word was carved into wood, not written on paper. What makes “Kate McCannon” so damn powerful is what it doesn’t do. It doesn’t try to justify the killing. It doesn’t play hero or victim. It just tells the truth, through the eyes of a man whose heart was twisted one too many times. The production — sparse and eerie — keeps the tension simmering. There’s an echo around his voice that makes it feel like he’s singing to ghosts. And maybe he is. Colter Wall’s not playing country music. He’s channeling it. And with “Kate McCannon,” he reminds us that outlaw country isn’t just about attitude or sound — it’s about stories. Raw, tragic, and real as rust. This one don’t belong on the radio. It belongs on the wind, out past the tree line, where no one’s innocent and no one gets out clean.

Lynyrd Skynyrd Ft. Bo Bice, 3 Doors Down and Hank Williams Jr – “Call Me The Breeze”

“Call Me the Breeze” has always been a freewheeling piece of outlaw gospel — a breeze-blown anthem for drifters, road dogs, and folks with more miles than maps. But when Lynyrd Skynyrd lit this thing up live in Atlantic City with Bo Bice, 3 Doors Down, and Hank Jr., they didn’t just play it — they baptized it in sweat, swagger, and Southern fire. Right out of the gate, that iconic riff hits like a punch through a screen door. It’s clean, confident, and undeniable. You can practically smell the motor oil and taste the beer foam in the first ten seconds. Skynyrd’s rhythm section doesn’t miss — they roll like an 18-wheeler with fresh tires and no brakes. Bo Bice kicks it off vocally with a gritty Southern growl that’s halfway between backwoods preacher and arena rocker. He brings a raw urgency to the track, and the crowd eats it up. 3 Doors Down jumps in and gives the song a little modern rock crunch, without losing that Skynyrd stomp. And then there’s Hank Jr. — stomping in like a one-man stampede. His verse isn’t clean, and it ain’t polite, but dammit, it’s authentic. He’s not singing the song — he’s living it in real-time. This version of “Call Me the Breeze” feels less like a song and more like a Southern family reunion that turned into a jam session at midnight. Everyone takes a swing, no egos, just vibes. The solos stretch out like open highways, the drums keep it grounded, and the whole thing pulses with the kind of electricity that only happens when seasoned outlaws plug in and let go. Now, don’t get it twisted — this ain’t a reinvention. It’s a celebration. A moment where generations of Southern sound converge and nod to J.J. Cale’s original spirit while adding a few bourbon-soaked fingerprints of their own. The energy is undeniable. The crowd’s hootin’. The guitars are talkin’. And that groove? That groove could ride from Tallahassee to Tulsa and never run outta gas. Skynyrd’s “Call Me the Breeze (Live)” with this all-star cast ain’t trying to be slick. It’s trying to move you. And it does — all the way down to your outlaw bones.

Reckless Kelly – “What’s Left Of My Heart”

“What’s Left of My Heart” doesn’t ask for pity — it just lays it all out on the table, bruised and still beating. Reckless Kelly’s been grinding out their own brand of Texas-bred Americana for decades, and this track proves they still know exactly how to break you down gently while keeping a boot tapping under your barstool. It kicks off with a melancholy guitar riff — clean, a little dusty, a little sad — like something you’d hear rolling out of a roadside honky-tonk as you pass it by at midnight. Then in comes Willy Braun’s voice: low, worn, and absolutely believable. He doesn’t need to shout. He just means it. That’s always been the band’s secret weapon — authenticity without theatrics. The lyrics feel pulled from a half-finished letter, tucked away in a glovebox for years. “You can have what’s left of my heart / Just know it ain’t much” — that’s not just poetic. That’s lived-in. You can feel the weight of it. This isn’t first-love heartbreak. This is the kind that only comes after time, loss, and a few hard-learned lessons. Musically, it’s tight but tender. Fiddle weaves around the guitar like a second voice, adding just enough ache without turning it syrupy. The drums stay subtle, the bass hums underneath like a steady pulse, and the whole thing feels like it was played live, late at night, by people who knew when to shut up and let the moment speak. And the moment speaks plenty. “What’s Left of My Heart” isn’t flashy, and it’s not trying to reinvent anything. It’s doing what country music — real country music — is supposed to do: tell the truth, keep it simple, and bleed just enough to matter. There’s no redemption arc here. No false hope. Just a man offering what little he’s got left, knowing full well it might not be enough — but still offering it anyway. That’s outlaw, in its quietest and most human form. Reckless Kelly has never been the loudest band in the room, but they’ve always known how to hit you right where it hurts — and “What’s Left of My Heart” is a slow, steady swing you never see coming until it lands.

Lainey Wilson – “Somewhere Over Laredo”

Lainey Wilson doesn’t just sing a song — she embodies it. And with “Somewhere Over Laredo,” she steps into full-blown storyteller mode, spinning a Western tragedy that drips with dust, danger, and desire. It’s less a love song and more a goodbye letter scribbled in blood, wrapped in velvet harmony and soaked in outlaw sorrow. This track unfolds like a slow pan across a border town at dusk. The guitars are patient and full of space — twanging in just the right places without crowding the story. A soft snare shuffles underneath like distant hoofbeats, and a forlorn steel guitar weeps in the background like it’s trying to warn you about what’s coming. Lainey’s vocal is where it all lives. She doesn’t belt — she breathes this song out like a last confession. Her drawl is soft and measured, but it carries weight, every syllable dipped in regret and resignation. You can hear the character she’s singing as — a woman caught in something deep, doomed, and already written in the stars. Lyrically, it’s a damn short story disguised as a song. “He said he had to leave me for the money / Said he’d send for me after the job” — that’s all it takes to set the stakes. She’s left behind, watching her man ride off for something he thinks will fix everything. But there’s a shadow over it from the first verse, and by the time the song ends, you know that “somewhere over Laredo” ain’t where he found redemption — it’s where he disappeared. The chorus aches without begging. “Somewhere over Laredo, he’s lying in the sun / With a bullet in his back and a story left undone.” That’s pure outlaw country — poetry with dirt under its nails. Production-wise, the song keeps it sparse and tasteful. It gives Lainey’s voice room to paint the scene, and it never tries to overpower her. The atmosphere is the secret weapon — it doesn’t tell you how to feel. It just sets the stage and lets the story do the rest. “Somewhere Over Laredo” feels like something Willie might’ve sung in his prime, or a lost Emmylou Harris deep cut. It’s got classic bones with modern blood — a sad little masterpiece hiding in plain sight. This isn’t just a highlight on Whirlwind. It’s a masterclass in how to tell a heartbreaking story without screaming — just whispering it in the right direction.