Finding Direction

As his classic Southern gentleman's drawl honeys down the line, you feel Jason Isbell would be good conversational company perched on the next barstool over a few glasses. 

“Yeah, it could start like that,” he conditionally agrees. “Problem was I was a good hang for about 45 minutes to about an hour-and-a-half, but that's about when I'd had the too many to be charming anymore. And things could get really dark, really quick.” The inward chuckle that followed suggested some memories preferred forgotten.

Due to those now openly admitted human frailties hinted at there, the Alabama-born Isbell's career has seen some peaks and troughs. Some early notice as a songwriter saw him drafted into the well regarded Drive-By Truckers around the turn of the century, where his talent got squeezed by that band's founders Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley taking the lion's share of tunes on the three albums to which he contributed. Come 2007, he exited DBT – the official line being 'amicable parting', but later hints from both sides suggesting it more of 'Er, we think it'd be better if you go.'

There followed some country-rocky albums with his own band, The 400 Unit – taking its name from a local psychiatric ward – and solo tours with Justin Townes Earle and Ryan Adams adding to his reputation, both musical and otherwise.

But personally, things were pretty much going to hell. “I was always pretty self-aware, so I was maybe lucky enough to see the bottom before I actually hit it,” he candidly explains. “Kinda realised I could be heading for some major health problems, and knowing I maybe wasn't fulfilling my whole potential as a songwriter and a performer. And relationships were getting strained – basically, I just felt like shit all the time.”

So he stopped. “There wasn't any kind of intervention or anything. But a lot of people who helped – my wife, particularly.” Said wife is Amanda Shires, solo artist in her own right, her voice and violin now often musical foil for Isbell's songs. His realisation and ongoing recovery came to centre Southeastern, an album of sometimes cauterising honesty and emotion – and mostly just the man and his guitar. 

Was it always meant to be so raw, so honest, so therapeutic? “The question is probably what else would I have to talk about if I hadn't gone through getting sober? It still would have been as honest, but I'm not sure it might have been as interesting – if 'interesting' is the right word.” There's that pause and chuckle again.

But some rules haven't changed. “You still gotta do the work. For me to be really engaged in what I'm making, it's got to be really strong lyrically. I mean, I really love some good ol' bonehead rock'n'roll, but I just can't hold my own interest doing that stuff.

“Honesty is easier. There would have been ways to write around it, be not quite as straightforward, be not quite 'me' about it.  But if I give people enough of myself, they'll know they're getting something real.

“It just doesn't make sense for me to run anymore.” There's a surprising namedrop: “Like how David Letterman got in a little bit of, er, trouble with someone who worked on his show – he just came on and went 'Yeah, I did this. Sorry, I've hurt my wife, hurt other people.' Saying: 'Hell, yes I was a complete jackass,' before someone else says it.”

Isbell has found a kindred soul in the US Late Show host. “We went to Montana, and played at his Fourth of July party – yeah, it still is kinda funny saying he's a friend of mine. The being cool thing is still the hard part. I used to think the few drinks would make it easier to just talk to people like that – and you find it only made it more awkward.”

Part of Jason Isbell's new settledness is a home in Nashville, even if he doesn't strike as the classic country music capital type. But apparently the town has changed too. “There's lots of different folks here now. Fifteen or 20 years ago, there was pretty much a monopoly on the music that came out of here – but now there's people like The Black Keys, Jack White's here, more independent artists and songwriters.”

Isbell also sees the upside. “It's not just the guys in the big hats anymore. It occurred to some of us that a lot of the resources might trickle down to the likes of us. There's producers, engineers who worked in that world but tired of it, but now want to do something different. So now there's nice studios we have access to – that once we'd never get near. And we do kinda have to thank those people who make some of those terrible terrible songs you hear on pop-country radio.”