New Country Music You Need To Hear This Week From Riley Green, Thomason, Ashley McBryde, Cody Johnson & More

Riley Green - My Way

Riley Green has built a career on knowing exactly where to place a story, somewhere between a backroad and a memory you’re not quite ready to revisit. With his latest offering, “My Way,” he leans fully into that instinct, delivering a song that feels less like a performance and more like a quiet confession you weren’t meant to overhear.

For an artist often celebrated for his rowdy, high-octane anthems, the kind that soundtrack late nights and cold beers, Green continues to prove he’s anything but predictable. “My Way” strips everything back, revealing the kind of emotional depth that doesn’t ask for attention, but earns it anyway. At its core, the song is built on longing, the kind that lingers in the spaces between what was and what could have been. Green’s delivery is unhurried, almost conversational, as if he’s sitting across from you, replaying a moment he wishes he could rewrite. His voice, warm and weathered, carries the weight of that regret without ever tipping into melodrama. “If I had it my way, I'd be watching your eyes / Turn from brown to hazel right now…” It’s a simple image, but Green makes it cinematic. You can see it, the porch swing, the fading light, the quiet magic of a Southern sunset. It’s not just nostalgia; it’s specificity, the kind that makes a memory feel real enough to touch. And that’s where Green thrives: in the details that turn a song into a lived-in moment. As the chorus circles back, “If I had it my way,” it doesn’t feel like a hook designed for radio. It feels like a thought that won’t let go. There’s no grand resolution here, no sweeping declaration of redemption. Instead, Green leans into the unresolved, allowing the ache to linger long after the final note fades. That restraint is what elevates “My Way” beyond a standard ballad. It’s not trying to be a classic, it just quietly becomes one. In an era where country music often splits itself between party-starting bravado and polished heartbreak, Riley Green continues to carve out a space that feels authentic to both. He can still bring the energy when he wants to, but songs like “My Way” are a reminder that his real strength lies in storytelling that feels honest, human, and deeply personal. And if he had it his way, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. But for listeners, it’s hard to imagine this song hitting any harder than it already does.

Cody Johsnon - I Want You

Cody Johnson has never been a one-note artist. For every arena-shaking anthem in his catalog, there’s a moment of stillness, a quiet, deliberate reminder that beneath the grit and swagger is a storyteller who understands the power of restraint. With “I Want You,” the latest release from his upcoming album Banks of the Trinity, Johnson doesn’t just lean into that softer side, he elevates it. Clocking in at a crisp 3:10, “I Want You” feels like a song that arrives with intention and leaves a lasting imprint. There’s no excess here, no overproduction or unnecessary flash. Instead, Johnson delivers a masterclass in emotional clarity, allowing the weight of the lyric and the warmth of his voice to do the heavy lifting. From the first note, the track settles into a gentle, almost reverent groove. It’s the kind of song that doesn’t demand your attention, it earns it. Johnson’s vocal performance is nothing short of captivating, rich with sincerity and lived-in emotion. He doesn’t oversell the sentiment; he simply inhabits it. And that’s what makes it land. “I Want You” is disarmingly straightforward, but therein lies its brilliance. In an era where complexity is often mistaken for depth, Johnson strips things back to the core truth of love: choosing someone, fully and without hesitation. It’s tender. It’s honest. And it feels real in a way that can’t be manufactured. What’s most striking, though, is how effortlessly Johnson moves between musical extremes. This is an artist who can command a stage with thunderous, boot-stomping energy, and then turn around and deliver something as intimate as this without missing a beat. “I Want You” is proof that his versatility isn’t just a strength; it’s his signature. And don’t be surprised if this one finds a life well beyond the charts. There’s a timeless quality woven into its DNA, the kind that lends itself to meaningful moments. First dances, quiet drives, late-night reflections, this is a song built for all of it. In fact, it might just be the first dance song of the year. With Banks of the Trinity on the horizon, “I Want You” feels like a statement of purpose. It signals a new chapter for Johnson, one rooted not in reinvention, but in refinement. He’s not chasing trends. He’s doubling down on what he does best: telling stories that feel as big as life and as close as a heartbeat. If this track is any indication, Cody Johnson isn’t just entering a new era, he’s defining it on his own terms.

Kip Moore - Faith In The Wind

Kip Moore has never been one to chase the easy road, and with “Faith In The Wind,” he doubles down on the kind of restless, soul-searching storytelling that has long set him apart in the country landscape. From its opening moments, the track doesn’t just play, it arrives, like the first line of a great American novel. There’s a sense that you’re being pulled into something bigger than a song, something lived-in and weathered. Moore leans into that feeling, crafting a sonic world that feels equal parts highway dust and late-night revelation. “Faith In The Wind” tips its hat to heartland rock in the most authentic way. There are unmistakable echoes of Bruce Springsteen woven throughout, the swelling organ, the layered guitars, the steady, driving percussion that feels like tires humming against an endless stretch of asphalt. Electric and acoustic guitars intertwine with subtle touches of synthesizer, creating a textured, expansive soundscape that mirrors the song’s emotional scope. “I don’t know where I’m going,” he admits in the chorus, a line that lands with disarming honesty. It’s repeated like a heartbeat, like something he’s trying to believe as much as he’s trying to say. And then comes the resolve: a willingness to surrender to something unseen, to trust that the wind, fate, faith, instinct, will carry him exactly where he’s meant to be. It’s an anthem for the drifters, the dreamers, the ones caught between chapters. Moore has always written for the outsiders, but here, he gives them something more than a voice, he gives them direction, even in the absence of a map. “Faith In The Wind” doesn’t try to have all the answers. Instead, it embraces the beauty of not knowing, of moving forward anyway. And in doing so, Kip Moore delivers a track that feels timeless, cinematic, and deeply human, a reminder that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is simply trust the road ahead.

Thomason - WHITE VAN EP

There’s a certain kind of country story that doesn’t need embellishment—the kind written in long nights, hard miles, and quiet reckonings. Trey Lewis, now stepping forward under his given last name Thomason, knows that story better than most. And on his new WHITE VAN EP, he doesn’t just tell it, he lives in it. The four-song collection marks more than a rebrand. It’s a reset. A reclamation. A man choosing to stand in his own name after nearly two decades of sobriety, reflection, and rebuilding. If country music has always been about truth, WHITE VAN EP feels like Thomason finally telling his without flinching. This is an artist who didn’t just arrive, he endured. From the opening notes, there’s a sense that these songs weren’t rushed into existence. They were earned. “Hill I’d Die On” and “Almost Kings” carry the weight of lived experience, co-written with Davis Corley and Matt McKinney, while “Family Name” digs even deeper, grappling with legacy, identity, and the quiet pressure of becoming someone worth remembering. Each track feels like a mile marker, not a destination. And then there’s the title track, “White Van,” the emotional centerpiece of the project and the thread that ties it all together. Because the white van isn’t just a symbol, it’s a full-circle moment.

Long before it hauled amps and guitars from gig to gig, it carried something far heavier: responsibility. In the early days of his sobriety, Thomason drove a white van for a treatment center in Alabama, transporting people to meetings. It was a season defined by service and humility, where staying on the right road meant everything. Years later, another white van would carry him across state lines, not to meetings, but to stages.

Same vehicle. Different destination. Same man, changed. That duality is the heartbeat of this EP. It’s not about perfection; Thomason isn’t interested in polishing the past or pretending he’s arrived. Instead, WHITE VAN EP leans into progress, the kind that comes slow, sometimes painful, but always honest. There’s a quiet confidence here, too. Not the loud, chest-thumping kind, but the steady assurance of someone who knows exactly what it took to get here. It’s the sound of an artist no longer chasing validation, but finally finding his voice. And make no mistake, he’s blooming. Not in a sudden, overnight burst, but in the way something grows after years beneath the surface. Patiently. Persistently. Inevitably. With WHITE VAN EP, Thomason invites listeners into the passenger seat of his journey. Not as spectators, but as witnesses. To the miles behind him. To the road ahead. To the space between who we were and who we’re still becoming. It’s country music at its most human, flawed, faithful, and fiercely alive.

Ashley McBryde - Lines In The Carpet

Ashley McBryde has never been one to decorate her songs with empty sentiment, and on “Lines In The Carpet,” she proves yet again that she’s far more interested in what’s buried beneath the surface than what’s neatly arranged on top of it. At first listen, the track feels deceptively light on its feet. There’s a sonic playfulness to it, a toe-tapping ease that almost invites you to settle in comfortably. But that comfort is a ruse. Because as McBryde has built a career on doing, she pulls the rug out from under you, quietly, deliberately, until you realize you’re standing in the middle of something far heavier than you expected. “Lines In The Carpet” is a masterclass in subtle storytelling. With a title that sounds almost mundane, McBryde crafts a metaphor that cuts deep: the quiet, overlooked imprints of a life lived in repetition. The vacuum marks, the routines, the roles we fall into, and sometimes feel trapped inside. It’s domestic imagery, sure, but in McBryde’s hands, it becomes something far more haunting. At the heart of the song is a woman who has everything she’s supposed to want, and yet, somehow, nothing she actually needs. McBryde paints her not as a caricature, but as a fully realized figure: a housewife whose world looks picture-perfect from the outside, but feels suffocating from within. Her husband is present, but distant in the ways that matter. He can’t read “between the lines in the carpet," a striking, almost poetic way of saying he can’t see the quiet desperation woven into her daily life. And then there’s that line, “Miss Mississippi” which lands with particular weight. It evokes a past life, a former identity, perhaps even a dream that once felt within reach. Now, it lingers like a ghost. The contrast is sharp: who she was versus who she’s become. It’s not just about longing for more, it’s about mourning what’s been left behind. What makes McBryde’s performance so compelling is her restraint. She doesn’t over-sing the pain or force the emotion. Instead, she lets it simmer. The delivery is conversational, almost offhand at times, which only makes the underlying ache feel more real. It’s the kind of vocal that doesn’t beg for your attention, it earns it. In a genre that often celebrates small-town simplicity and domestic bliss, “Lines In The Carpet” dares to complicate that narrative. It doesn’t reject it outright, but it asks the harder question: what happens when that life isn’t enough? Ashley McBryde doesn’t offer easy answers here. She rarely does. But in just a few verses and a deceptively simple hook, she holds up a mirror to the quiet corners of everyday life, the ones we don’t always talk about, and invites us to look a little closer. And once you do, those lines in the carpet don’t seem so ordinary anymore.

Cody Webb - Country Is

Cody Webb isn’t interested in defining country music for anyone else. On his new 10-track album Country Is, he’s doing something far more compelling, showing you exactly what it means to him, one story, one hook, and one hard-earned truth at a time.

In an era where the genre continues to stretch and splinter, Webb plants his flag not in nostalgia, but in authenticity. Country Is isn’t a manifesto, it’s a mirror. And what it reflects is an artist who understands that country music isn’t a sound you chase, it’s a life you live. From the very first track, Webb leans into that idea with conviction. There’s a lived-in quality to his delivery, the kind that can’t be manufactured in a writer’s room or polished in post-production. It’s gritty where it needs to be, warm when it counts, and always rooted in something real. Standout track “George Strait, Jesus, and Me” feels like the emotional cornerstone of the record. It’s equal parts reverent and relatable, a quiet nod to the pillars that shape so many small-town lives. Webb doesn’t overplay it; instead, he lets the simplicity speak volumes, threading faith, influence, and identity into something deeply personal yet widely understood. Then there’s the curveball: “Beer Fishy Fishy.” Playful, a little tongue-in-cheek, and undeniably catchy, it showcases Webb’s ability to not take himself too seriously. It’s the kind of track that sneaks up on you, equal parts back-porch humor and lake-day anthem, proving that “country” doesn’t have to be heavy to be honest. The title track, “Country Is,” ties it all together. It’s not a checklist of clichés, it’s a perspective. Webb sidesteps the tired tropes and instead paints a picture of what the genre feels like from the inside out. There’s a quiet confidence in the songwriting here, a sense that he knows exactly who he is, and isn’t interested in being anything else. That’s what makes Country Is resonate. It doesn’t ask for permission, and it doesn’t chase trends. It simply exists, fully formed and unapologetic. Cody Webb may not be shouting the loudest in a crowded field of rising voices, but he might be saying something that lasts longer. In a time when country music is constantly being debated, dissected, and redefined, Webb offers a simple proposition: maybe the answer isn’t universal. Maybe it’s personal. With Country Is, Cody Webb makes his case. The only question left is, are you willing to listen?

SJ McDonald - We Didn't Make It That Far

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak country music has always understood better than any other genre, the kind that doesn’t end in flames, but in a quiet, unfinished sentence. On “We Didn’t Make It That Far,” SJ McDonald leans into that space with striking precision, delivering a breakup ballad that feels less like a song and more like a memory you didn’t realize you were still carrying. Penned by McDonald alongside Mia Mantia and Trent Wayne, and brought to life under the careful production of Andy Sheridan, the track captures the disorienting moment when a relationship collapses before it ever fully blooms. There’s no dramatic crescendo of blame here, just the slow realization that something once full of promise never quite got the chance to become real. Built for dimly lit backroads and long, reflective drives, “We Didn’t Make It That Far” thrives in its restraint. Sheridan’s production leaves space for the story to breathe, allowing every lyric to land with quiet weight. And at the center of it all is McDonald’s voice, soaring when it needs to, but never losing the intimacy that makes the song feel like a confession rather than a performance. What makes the track especially compelling is its relatability. This isn’t a tale of a love that burned out after years, it’s about the ones that slip through your fingers too soon, the “what could’ve been” that lingers long after the goodbye. McDonald captures that emotional gray area with the kind of clarity that marks a true storyteller. In a genre built on truth-telling, SJ McDonald is quickly proving to be one of its most promising new voices. “We Didn’t Make It That Far” doesn’t just introduce a rising artist, it announces a perspective that feels fresh, honest, and deeply human. And if this is any indication, it’s a voice listeners won’t soon forget.

Brooke Lee - Desert Darling

Brooke Lee isn’t interested in polishing the past, she’s here to tell the truth about it. On her striking new Desert Darling EP, the emerging country artist leans into the beauty and bruises of growing up, delivering a collection that feels less like a debut and more like a lived-in confession. It’s dusty, reflective, a little reckless, and exactly the kind of storytelling today’s country landscape has been quietly craving. From the opening notes, Lee establishes herself as a narrator unafraid of the “messy," the in-between moments where identity is still forming and mistakes tend to linger longer than lessons. There’s a cinematic quality to her writing, as if each song is set against a wide-open desert backdrop, where nothing can hide for long. Among the project’s standout moments, “Burn To Black” cuts the deepest. It’s a slow-burning, emotionally charged track that captures the quiet devastation of watching something, or someone, slip away. Lee doesn’t overreach here; instead, she trusts the weight of her words, allowing the silence between lines to speak just as loudly. On the other end of the spectrum sits “Just Because,” a sharp, subtly rebellious anthem that showcases her ability to balance vulnerability with defiance. It’s the kind of track that feels personal yet universal, a reminder that sometimes the reasons we need don’t come neatly packaged, and that’s okay. And then there’s the title track, “Desert Darling,” which serves as the EP’s beating heart. It’s both a self-portrait and a mission statement, capturing the contradictions of youth, strength and uncertainty, independence and longing, with a clarity that feels well beyond her years. Lee doesn’t just sing the song; she inhabits it. What makes Desert Darling so compelling isn’t just the songwriting, it’s the perspective. Brooke Lee isn’t chasing trends or leaning on nostalgia. Instead, she’s carving out her own lane, one rooted in honesty, grit, and a willingness to sit with discomfort. In a genre that often wrestles with its identity, Lee arrives as a fierce, refreshing voice, one that doesn’t just reflect where country music is, but hints at where it could be headed next. With Desert Darling, Brooke Lee doesn’t just introduce herself. She makes it clear she’s here to stay.

Belles Featuring Dolly Parton - Son Of Jolene

“Son of Jolene” doesn’t try to outshine its predecessor, and that’s precisely why it works. Instead, it expands the universe, proving that great songs don’t end when the last note fades. They linger. They echo. And sometimes, if the right storyteller comes along, they begin again. With this release, Belles positions herself as more than just a promising voice, she becomes part of country music’s ongoing conversation. And standing beside her, Dolly Parton reminds us why she remains one of its most vital storytellers.

Because in country music, the best stories aren’t just told. They’re continued.

Read Our Full Review

ALL COUNTRY NEWS

Instagram | Facebook | Threads | X | TikTok | YouTube | Podcast | Newsletter | Spotify

Country Music News & Entertainment