How to Survive a Night Out With Koe Wetzel

(Editor's Note: In an attempt to appropriately capture the subject of the article, the following includes language and situations some might find offensive. Reader discretion is advised.)

Tip 1: Stay hydrated 

The high-pitched ping of a text message wakes me up a little after 10 a.m. I’m not happy about it — I’ve been asleep for only two hours — but I also have to check out of my hotel room by 11 and prepare for a third and final interview with Koe Wetzel, the very guy with whom I was up all night drinking Casamigos and listening to old country hits very loudly. So, I accept the unplanned and unwanted alarm as a blessing in disguise.  

“Did you survive???” it reads. 

The text is from someone I met the night before, one of the many people who work with Koe — a rock star takes a village. It’s someone who’s in Koe’s circle, has Koe’s trust, and likely earned his stripes living through nights like the one I just experienced. In this world, the occasional dip into tequila and turpitude is a rite of passage. 

“Jury’s still out,” I respond, “but I think I’m gonna make it.” 

He slaps a heart on the text bubble. 

I realize I have two more unread messages, which my ears must’ve ignored in an act of self-preservation — I desperately needed sleep. 

“Mannnn, it got pretty wild there at the end, haha,” read the first text. 

The other is from Koe. 

“No interview today, brotha, I’ll catch ya back in Texas next week! Good f***** hangs, bruh, take care.” 

And for the first time in my career as a journalist, I’m relieved about an interview cancellation. Not because I don’t enjoy Koe’s company. Quite the opposite. He wasn’t lying about it being a good hang. I sincerely like the guy. And it’s not because I’m in desperate need of some ibuprofen and failed to pack any. Truth is, I’m happy about the cancellation because I’m not sure what more I would ask. A scheduled interview with one person asking questions and one person answering is already a stuffy circumstance. And when one adds the backdrop and recency of last night/this morning, it becomes downright stiff. Unbearable. 

Last night did the trick. While unpredictable, the concert, bars, shattering of half-full whiskey bottles capped off by a liquor-infused chat was also an education. After a night hanging with Koe, it’s not hard to understand why tens of thousands flock to his live shows with a rabidity that borders on mania. Or why so many embrace and feel empowered by his don’t-give-a-shit attitude and hillbilly bro disposition. 

I got everything I need, and I don’t wanna mess with it. 

Tip 2:  Lean in, embrace the moment, and don’t ask questions … even if you are a journalist 

“Could be me; maybe I’m just sober,” Koe says into the microphone to the live audio engineer. He’s having some issues with his vocals; they’re just not sounding right, and Koe half-jokingly — emphasis on the half — suggests his current unaltered state might be to blame. 

He and his band, the Konvicts, are doing soundcheck for a show. It’s a show being filmed for a new PBS live music series, “Recorded Live at Analog,” and I’m told Koe will be the finale of the first season, which will air this fall. Koe and his publicist sent me an invite to tag along — a previous attempt to see a concert of his in San Diego fell through thanks to thunderstorms over DFW Airport — and I accepted. 

Koe seems nervous. But this anxiety is not the result of the Public Broadcasting Channel; cameras; or his current, fleeting sobriety. No, he’s nervous because the venue seats roughly 200 people. Koe’s not used to a smaller room. He’s used to sell-out stadiums and amphitheaters complete with pyrotechnics and crowds of 10,000-plus. 

“You give me 10,000 people, I’ll show out,” Koe told me later that night. “You give me a hundred people, and I’m gonna be shy.” Yeah, the most rock star quote to include the word “shy” that I had ever seen. But it’s true, Koe is admittedly not big on small social gatherings and would rather “be at the house smoking a joint and watching a movie.” 

The band finishes soundcheck, and Koe grabs a drink, a tequila and soda, I think, and proceeds to shake hands and engage in chitchat with whomever he needs to greet. I don’t suspect making such rounds is easy on him. It was clear from the first time I met him, a week prior, he’s not one for pretenses. In fact, I’d say he’s the antithesis of affectation. 

Koe wears his East Texas roots on his sleeve. He unabashedly speaks with a heavy Texas twang unscathed by time spent in dense urban populations — he’s pure small-town. And his large stature, 6-foot-plus and built like a linebacker, will remind you that he was, indeed, once a linebacker at Tarleton State. He’s also in possession of long, thick brown hair, which on more than one occasion elicited words of envy from some women who were around. He speaks simply but poetically, something I can’t help but suspect has influenced others with whom he communicates. When I asked anyone to speak about Koe, they’d practically bust out into verse as though anxiously awaiting their turn at an open mic. Of course, Koe’s poetic statements come with their fair share of profanities. He manages to throw an expletive between most breaths, but it never feels forced or strained. He isn’t doing it for comedic effect. It’s simply ingrained in his vernacular. Interestingly, it’s also clear Koe grew up with manners. I could easily see him unironically throwing an f-bomb in a sentence that includes the word “sir” or “ma’am.” Of course, the comedy wouldn’t be lost on him. 

One of the most shocking things about him is his initial shyness, something that’s remedied by either a cocktail in his hand or a mass of people in front of him. You see, on stage — at least the ones in front of large crowds — is where Koe's pumping on all cylinders. It’s where the country charm, cowboy deviousness, and rock star charisma all collide. 

But this venue is just, well, different. The drummer, Jared Easterling, is talking about playing quieter, barely hitting his drums. And the whole band is concerned that their typically energetic live show won’t translate in a venue this size. 

The venue is in Nashville, by the way, the Tennessee town long crowned the Country Music Capital of the World. It’s the hub of twang and home to the industry’s well-oiled music machine that spits out Billboard topper after Billboard topper. And Koe’s no stranger to the city. He co-wrote and recorded a few songs off of his new album, 9 Lives, in the town’s iconic RCA Studio A — along with producer Gabe Simon. After all, for a country star, Nashville is unavoidable, with many an established and aspiring musician moving to the city to ensconce themselves in the industry’s epicenter.  

All country roads lead to Nashville.  

Of course, this is assuming Koe is country, a word he’d rather not use to describe his music.  

“We haven’t stuck to one genre,” he tells me. “It’s either country and rock, or country and alternative, or indie and country. All of it has a country vibe, but I don’t think it’s country, and nobody can figure out what the f*** it is. So how can you put a genre on it?” 

Koe’s voice, which is objectively phenomenal, while at times raspy and dark in its timbre, always possesses that quintessential twang and clarity that defines country music. Take that away, and Koe is right, the music fluctuates between rock, punk, and indie. In place of pedal steel, the band’s barrage of guitars (they have four of them) use a healthy dose of overdrive pedals and effects. And the clever melodies and hooks clearly embrace pop sensibilities. The more I listen to Koe’s complete repertoire, the less I think it is country. Listen to “Creeps” on his 2022 album, Hell Paso, and tell me that’s country. 

Despite plenty of evidence suggesting Koe rests outside the scope of the genre, he readily admits that growing up on ‘90s country, Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks, George Strait, has resulted in each of his tunes having a “country feel.” 

“I like to think of it as hillbilly punk rock,” Koe’s manager, Jeb Hurt, tells me. “Unfortunately, I can’t find that one on the dropdown menu when I’m looking to search for genres. But it is tough to box them into a genre. Koe is a country kid from rural East Texas who grew up with traditional family values in a traditional setting with a family that believes in what the country fanbase believes in. So, he is authentically country. And his music is authentically Koe Wetzel. Whether it’s country, alt country, or outlaw country, it’s Koe Wetzel.” 

Jeb went on to say, “While he doesn’t want to be necessarily labeled any certain way, it is a country audience. And country’s become such a multifaceted genre these days that I don’t know which is harder to say: what Koe is or what country is.” 

While I made the mistake many times calling Koe a country musician, something he would correct me on, I also just made the error of calling it “his music.” Something I noticed, whether intentional or not, Koe always uses the plural pronoun “we” when talking about music. “When we tour.” “Our music.” So, regardless of his music’s genre or lack thereof, he never takes sole credit. 

Then there’s the subject matter: drinking, drugs, incarcerations, and girls. Koe has few songs that don’t mention one of either whiskey, wine, or weed (or all three). When I mentioned he and his band had a song with a lyric about a certain illicit drug, Koe snapped back, “There are 40 songs [with a lyric about that substance].” 

Koe’s lyrics are explicit. Rated “R” if music were to have an MPAA system and no doubt marked with a “Parental Advisory” label if that's still a thing. Gary Dale Wetzel, Koe’s dad, jokingly said that, while mom and dad don’t disapprove, he can’t say the same for grandma and grandpa. 

But he’s found a niche, and for five albums, he’s leaned in and embraced the image of a lovelorn man wielding whiskey bottles who can’t seem to get out from under the thumb of Johnny Law. Again, there’s very little pretense to the man. So, how close is this to the truth?  

“For a while, I was just balls to the wall, not really having any remorse,” Koe says. “But growing up, that’s not how I was raised. I mean, I’m a redneck dude. I grew up in East Texas. I come from a low-income family and shit like that, but that’s not how I was raised. But I have a wild streak in me, dude. It kind of runs in the family, and you have to own it. But the way I was doing it was going about it the wrong way.” 

Koe was born Ropyr Madison Koe Wetzel in Pittsburg, a town of a little over 4,000 in East Texas in 1992, arriving nine months and three days after his parents, Gary and Julie, wed. His parents named him Ropyr Madison Koe when they couldn’t decide between the three names. Both his mother and his father were from the same area, or no more than a town away, and their respective families go back generations in East Texas. Gary Wetzel worked, and still works (Koe’s part owner of Gary’s current company), in construction and was, by his own admission, a strict disciplinarian and “hard on Koe.” “I tried to keep him on the straight and narrow as best I could, but he never gave me any problems at all. He was the sweetest kid.”  

Koe’s mother, Julie, worked as a bank teller before getting a job at the Pittsburg Independent School District, where she’s now the district’s business manager. Julie is also from whom Koe received his natural proclivity for music. “She would always sing at old opry houses back when that was a thing,” Koe says. “She’d sing old country songs.” 

The family resided in a double-wide — a common stereotype of low-income living — which now graces the cover of Koe’s new album, 9 Lives. And with both parents working, Koe would notch many childhood hours with his grandparents, who lived 200 yards away. 

“My grandparents didn’t raise me, but pretty much raised me,” Koe says. “I mean, I had a good childhood. I didn’t have everything I wanted in life, but I had everything I needed in life. My parents made sure of that.” 

But some people, while not troublemakers in the sense of doing harm to others, have a tendency to run contrary to laws and silly regulations. They’re natural rulebreakers. Tell them not to do something — like getting publicly intoxicated — and they’ll find a way to end up doing it. And if Koe’s arrest record is any indication, you can count him as an unabashed rulebreaker. 

So, yes, despite a solid if humble upbringing, it seems the outlaw in Koe is simply inherent. And, in one capacity or another, it’s a characteristic that will always stick with him. But it’s not so black-and-white, not so Jekyll and Hyde. Much like the difficulty in categorizing Koe’s music, the same can be said for him as a person.  

Tip 3: You never know when you'll need tape 

It’s 20 minutes before Koe and the Konvicts take the stage. The band, Koe, and a plethora of people who I can only assume are friends of the band are in the green room. There are about 12 half-drunk Miller High Lifes around the room, and Koe asks if he can get a spit cup on stage. I don’t recall if he ever got one. 

Cody Maldonado, who works with Koe’s management team, enters the green room wielding tape and points at the hat worn by guitarist Josh Serrato. The white baseball cap has a logo on it that needs to be covered up with white tape. PBS, as it turns out, has a strict policy against allowing any logos on any clothing appear on their television programing.  

There’s confusion as to what Josh should do. 

“That’s f****** stupid,” Koe says. “Don’t do that. That’s f****** stupid. Damn, I shoulda dressed as Mr. Rogers.  

“You know what you should do? Write PBS and draw their logo on the white tape.” 

He’s serious. Very serious. 

Koe wasn’t planning on wearing a hat that night. I remember him deciding he was going to go with a paisley-patterned bandana. But he quickly grabs his black Bass Pro Shops hat and is in need of some black tape and a white or gold marker. And Cody returned with all necessary materials a couple minutes later. 

After covering the logo, Koe starts writing PBS in what looks like a bold Comic Sans.  

“Anyone know what the PBS logo looks like?” he asks. I look it up on my phone and show him. “You good at drawing?” he asks. Nah, we’ll just go with the letters. That gets the point across. 

And what is the point, exactly? 

Well, some people never waste an opportunity to ironically flip something back in the faces of the powers that be. To give a proverbial middle finger to dumb rules. It’s also funny as hell. 

I’m not sure if he’s going to go through with it, if he’s actually going to wear the makeshift PBS hat. I left the green room 10 minutes before the band was to take the stage, so I’m absent from any subsequent debates about the hat. Sure, it’s a funny idea by Koe and got a lot of laughs, but, eventually, the reality of the situation sinks in, and one falls in line. I mean, Koe wouldn’t want to upset PBS, the station that’s about to give him a national audience, would he? The heads of the station could easily be thin-skinned and take offense to the antic.  

Turns out, I’m both overthinking and gutless. Koe took the stage in front of the cameras and the sell-out crowd donning the PBS logo to wild cheers from the young crowd. I’m not saying this act of defiance is akin to the Doors blowing off Ed Sullivan’s orders to change the lyrics of their song “Light My Fire” or Johnny Cash showing the literal middle finger to a camera, but I still categorize it as a rock star move. Now, I don’t know how much this did or didn’t upset PBS, but everyone in attendance who knows Koe, shrugged, smiled, and said, “That’s Koe.” 

Fred Barnett, Koe’s business partner and bar and venue owner, theorizes that moments like this, Koe’s unpredictable nature, is one of the main reasons he’s amassed such a large, cult following. “Nobody wants to miss what Koe is going to do next,” Barnett says. “They don’t want to miss the show where he does something and they have to hear about it from their friends. That fear of missing out drove people to the concerts, and they started following him wherever he went.” 

According to Barnett, who owned Thirsty Armadillo, where Koe first played in Fort Worth, Koe just has a way with audiences. Through his debauchery, antics, and foul-mouthed banter — all of which are good-natured — he’s able to connect with concertgoers. And some of his performances have become the stuff of legend.  

In 2019, Koe performed at The Great Texas Balloon Race, a family event that failed to properly vet Koe Wetzel. Following his performance, a routine gig with countless swear words and the guzzling of whiskey, the event released a statement apologizing for Koe’s performance and claiming they communicated to Koe the need to refrain from colorful language and that he “willfully decided to disregard their wishes.” I have zero doubts their statement is 100% accurate. And to add salt on the wound, Koe set a new attendance record at the event. 

Yes, it was Koe Wetzel being Koe Wetzel at a Koe Wetzel show. Family festival promoters beware.  

Koe is also known for having a large female fan base — not something one would assume of an artist who sings about throwing whiskey under car seats and lighting cigarettes so cops don’t smell weed. 

“He’s off limits,” Jeb Hurt says when explaining Koe’s appeal to women. “That’s what your parents would say, no?  

“And I think he’s the first person from this regional scene to come with an authentic, counterculture mentality that really has been a very attractive, charming piece of his whole brand from early on. He is unapologetically authentic. And the funny thing we’ve always said —in the interest of using family language — all the girls typically want to hang out with him, and all the guys want to be him.  

“And that dynamic just brings this cult-like energy to his fan base.” 

I won’t pretend to understand the psychology behind Koe’s general appeal, but having spent a little time with Koe, Barnett isn’t wrong. Wherever Koe is, something interesting has to be going down. And my curiosity, while perhaps unhealthy, would lead me to a Wetzel show as if it were a homing device. 

“When you say, ‘I’m going to a Koe Wetzel concert,’ you know that chances of you having a great time and partying your ass off are 99%,” Barnett says. “That is going to happen.” 

The show in Nashville, at least for the Wetzel veterans, is comparatively subdued. But Koe’s still sliding his Koe Wetzelisms in there — the PBS hat and occasional profanity (“Oh, shit, I wasn’t supposed to say shit”). But the band feels restrained, something I’m figuring might be Koe’s least favorite feeling in the world. Later that night, he vented a bit and shared his secret method to putting on a great live show. 

“We’re a garage band, man. We play music the way it should be played: f****** loud and f***** crazy.” 

Tip 4: If there are rules, break them … and the Glass bottles   

It’s post show, and the band’s hitting up a few bars. Plural.  

There’s a group of us — all of Koe’s people, each of whom I really like — and we travel in a motorcade: a van and a couple of black SUVs. Each bar we visit has an area roped off for Koe — a corner or upstairs area where we’re ushered — yeah, real rock star-type stuff. And I can’t deny feeling slightly more significant as a person just by extension. 

For this night, yes, I’m with Koe Wetzel.  

I later find it interesting that, despite Koe being a self-described red neck from modest beginnings in East Texas, I disagree with any notion that he’s an “ordinary guy.” My impressions of him are anything but ordinary. It’s admittedly strange to say someone “should” be famous, but I’d say Koe fits whatever criteria for famous there may exist. 

“Koe was a kid that I knew was going to do something good,” Gary, Koe’s dad, told me. “I don’t know how to say this, or if it’s even the right thing to say, but he was always talented in everything he did.” 

Koe would learn how to sing, refining his slight husk, while attending Southern Baptist services, where his grandmother led the choir. He tells me the first tunes he belted were “Heavenly Highway Hymns,” a classic hymnal once popular among rural Baptist congregations. When he was in eighth grade, his parents bought him his first guitar, which he taught himself how to play. “Every day after school, he’d come in, get his guitar, and he’d play until he’d go to bed.”  

He’d continue his musical ambitions in the most rural, downhome way one can imagine: the Future Farmers of America. For those unaware of the agricultural youth program, while it does indeed support and promote students interested in the vocation of farming, it also has a talent portion with regional and state competitions. In high school, Koe would compete, singing and playing the guitar, in these competitions. He would twice make it to the state championship, and videos of his 2011 performance, in which he sings Randy Rogers’ “Steal You Away,” are a simple Google search away. 

But it wasn’t all music and school, Koe was also working and doing other extracurriculars. Every summer between eighth grade year and sophomore year of college, Koe would work construction with his demanding-for-a-reason dad. “[While working with my dad], he was rough, but he did that so I would know that wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. He was hard on me for a reason, and I thank him for that to this day.” 

Gary actually wanted Koe to pursue baseball and envisioned him one day playing in the majors, saying Koe could “hit the ball a mile.” And Koe’s ambitions weren't too removed from his father’s. He also wanted to pursue athletics or, as it puts it, “professional ball of some kind.” He played both baseball and football for Pittsburg High School but elected to stick to the pigskin in college. He’d enter Tarleton State in Stephenville in 2011, but his college football career was short-lived when injuries piled up. He’d eventually drop out of college but stayed in Stephenville, where he’d work odd jobs at oil change shops and the like (none of them lasting more than five months) while picking up live music gigs. According to Koe, he wasn’t big on having a boss. 

In early 2013, he’d meet Mason Morris, his current bass player on the Konvicts. The first time they met, Morris remembers Koe having just socked two guys in the face right before he greeted him with a handshake. “He was on the Tarleton football team, and I guess they and the basketball team didn’t get along,” Morris explains. “I think the basketball players were being inappropriate to girls, and that’s something we don’t stand for. And he just two-pieces these dudes. And I was like, damn, that’s one hell of a man right there.” 

A couple months later, Koe would invite Morris to fill in on bass, and soon after, he’d become a full-time member. And the rest of the current lineup, Odis Parrish, Shyloh Powers, Jared Easterling, and Josh Serrato, each from different towns in Texas, would slowly join the lineup over the next few years. As Morris puts it, “We’re a band from everywhere, Texas.”  

The early iteration of the band would grind, playing bars, patios, and anywhere with a stage and an outlet to plug in an amp and turn it to 10. They’d slowly and steadily build a following in the Stephenville area and release a couple of independent records — an EP, Love and Lies, in 2012, and Out on Parole in 2015. The following year, they released Noise Complaint, an album whose introductory track announced it was made for one purpose, “to get chicks,” and featured the single “Something to Talk About.” Blastoff.  

With the release, Koe and the band would start selling out every venue they graced and gain a reputation as an unhinged (in the best way possible) live act full of unpredictability. Didn’t hurt that the songs were good, too. Six months later, they’d sign Jeb Hurt as their manager. 

In 2019, the band released their follow-up to Noise Complaint, Harold Saul High, named after an uncle and a childhood friend who Koe had lost in two separate motor vehicle accidents. The album would become Koe’s first Billboard-charting album, peaking at 20 on Billboard 200 and 10 on the country charts. The following year, Koe would sign his first major record deal with Columbia Records and release the aptly titled Sellout. 

“I remember whenever we announced that we had signed [with Columbia], it was, like, ‘There goes another one from Texas that’s going to Nashville.’ And Columbia’s out of New York. But it’s hard to explain that to the majority of people. So, I was, like, f*** it. We’re calling it sellout.” 

Jeb Hurt had similar sentiments, “Koe just felt like, oh, why don’t I just double down on what the one percenters are already saying about me?”  

He’d follow up Sellout with Hell Paso in 2022, which included the hit single, “Creeps,” along with six additional charting singles on the US Rock Charts. And, being a prolific artist, Koe is releasing yet another full-length on July 19, the aforementioned 9 Lives, which features an image of his childhood home on the cover. The album’s lead single, “Damn Near Normal,” tied “Creeps” for the singer’s highest charting song. 

What will ensue in the coming months is an onslaught of tour dates — his Damn Near Normal Tour, which will traverse the world, kicked off in April — promotional projects, and media obligations. The latter of which is precisely what brings me to Nashville. 

Here, in Nashville, at the last bar we’re visiting for the night, Koe’s smashing half-full liquor bottles — only the cheap stuff, I presume — on the watering hole's concrete ground. He’s chucked about a dozen of them, and a layer of glass now occupies the flooring behind the bar. He’s also pouring people drinks, shots of peach schnapps, and playing bartender. He snags a whiskey bottle from the top shelf, where the liquor goes from good to great, and calls out my name. His thick twang makes "Brian” monosyllabic, with zero detection of the letter “a,” a pronunciation that admittedly has its charm. He hands me the whiskey, an unopened and unspoiled bottle by a brand that now escapes my mind, and says it’s for me. A gift from Koe. I thank him and quickly and mindlessly ruin the possibility of taking the whiskey home by opening it and taking a swig from the bottle. It was impulsive, but that seems to be the theme of the night, anyway. 

Before one jumps to the conclusion that Koe is participating in destruction of property and liquor theft, and that I and the onlookers are aiding and abetting him, know that he’s part owner of the spot in Nashville where this assault on liquor bottles is occurring. The spot was recently occupied by a bar called Dogwood and, like all bars that change hands, there’s a whole lotta leftover liquor that needs to be consumed or destroyed. Koe Wetzel, in the company of friends, bandmates, business partners, and one journalist, chose both.  

All of this is in preparation for the former Dogwood to become the third location of Koe Wetzel’s Riot Room — the second, in Houston, was announced in early May. The first location happens to reside in Fort Worth, opening in January 2023 on Foch Street in the city’s West 7th district. In case you didn’t know, yes, Koe Wetzel, who’s lived in Weatherford for the last three years, has a namesake bar/club in our city. Packed to the brim almost every night, the thumping bar is a partnership between Koe, Fred Barnett, and Emil Ragdon of Funky Lime Hospitality Concepts. Despite the earlier genre debate, it’s a definitively country bar with loud music, a stuffed bovine, and a slew of Koe Wetzel-as-sex-symbol imagery in the women’s restroom (I was shown early in the morning when entirely empty). And the space has even gotten some recent celebrity attention, with Post Malone stopping by. But Barnett admits, the driving force behind the large crowds is Koe. 

“I think there's a large part of his fan base that comes [to Riot Room] hoping to see Koe,” Barnett says. “And Koe’s good about stopping in from time to time when he’s in town; he’ll just randomly show up [at Riot Room]. Again, there’s a lot of FOMO when it comes to Koe. You don’t want your friends telling you they saw Koe, and you weren’t there. It’s a driving force.” 

No one ever refers to Koe as “Fort Worth-area musician Koe Wetzel” … but maybe we should start. 

Tip 5: Just because you’re only halfway done with your drink, doesn’t mean you don’t need more Casamigos 

We’re in Koe’s hotel suite. There’s a small group of us hanging in there. The nocturnals, wringing as much out of the experience as we possibly can. I’ve been nursing the same glass of Casamigos for at least a couple hours, but the drink continues to grow as Koe occasionally pours me a helping as if the glass is empty. I never object. And, at some point, I pull a Koe, say “F*** it,” and down as much of it as I can. 

It’s 4:30 a.m. and Koe lights a cigarette inside the hotel room, and we start listening to his new album, 9 Lives, while continuing to chat about music, clout chasers, and people who suck at their jobs. The album’s supposed to signal a change for Koe, who partnered with Nashville producer Gabe Simon. Koe’s referred to the sessions with Simon as therapy. “[Simon] said, ‘Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.’ So, I started telling him stuff that I would never tell a stranger. And he’d write stuff down, and it helped create this record.” 

The bulk of the album was written and recorded in El Paso within a 48-hour span. “Koe makes a joke that it was his first time going to therapy when he worked with me,” Simon says. “All I want to do in this job is help uplift people. I want to make Koe the best version of himself. And the only way I know how to do that is by listening.” 

I don’t like using the word “mature,” but there’s certainly a level of growth with the album that’s apparent. While his songs have always been honest, there’s a vulnerability that wasn’t as prevalent on previous works. 

“I mean, he’s a genius,” Ben Maddahi, an executive at Columbia Records says about Koe. “That high caliber of music [on 9 Lives] is extremely rare. I’ve never seen it before. And that may speak to the fact that he was opening up through the music a bit more. He’s definitely had certain songs that were introspective on his prior projects for sure. But maybe he was saying things on this one that struck a different chord.” 

Koe’s taking me song by song, revealing the inspiration behind each one. My recorder is on, but the music is so loud, I won’t possibly make out anything we’re saying when I eventually play it back. One song that stood out, despite going hours using whiskey and tequila to cure any thirst I’ve had, was a tune called “Leigh.” The song, Koe told me, is about a coincidence: the fact that many girls with whom he’s been romantically involved have names ending in the suffix “Leigh.” It’s the only info I gathered concerning his love life. 

We listen to the whole album before turning to some old country gems that Koe calls his favorites, and our music conversation continues. I can honestly say I’ve never witnessed someone speak so passionately about the subject. And his wishes are simple: I want good music. And by whatever means necessary, make it. 

“I play music. I'm here to play music and that's it. Kurt Cobain, bro, that motherf*****, he just went out there and he played music, and he didn't give a f*** about anything else. He didn't know how to play guitar, just like me. I don't know how to f****** play half the songs we do, but I go out there and play the motherf******.” 

As night turns to morning, soliloquies from the three who remain awake — me, Koe, and his band’s guitarist Josh Serrato — become simultaneously more emotional and incomprehensible with slurs. We’re drinking straight from bottles, and concerning this, I jokingly say I don’t want to tell on him (in the article). “What is there to tell?” he asks. “Everything is on my albums. Listen to the f****** songs. Whatever I lack in telling you is going to be told on those songs. You’re not saying anything anyone doesn’t already know.” 

It’s rock star living, but it’s also fast living. Despite our meandering conversation, and the subject popping into my head from time to time, I never asked Koe about mortality — something that had strangely been on my mind and a paralyzing fear I admittedly possess. But Koe was gracious enough to return my call a couple of weeks after our Nashville hang. 

“Honestly, I've never feared death,” he tells me. “I honestly believe that whenever your time comes, that's what was written. I'm at peace. I know exactly where I'm going. I don't mean to get biblical or anything like that, but I know my place with God, so I feel like I know where I'm going. That might not show with the music I play, but everybody has to answer for the sins and everything they’ve done.” 

My personal translation: Be good, but live. Carpe f****** diem. I can learn a lot from Koe. 

Back in Nashville, as the sky turns lighter, Koe throws a joke my way. He points to a tattoo on his leg and tells me, “I’m making friends with the one motherf****** that I’m not supposed to make friends with.” The tattoo reads “Almost Famous,” a reference to the Cameron Crowe film about a music journalist who loses his neutrality when he befriends the band he’s covering. I think it’s a joke. I suspect it’s a joke. Maybe it’s not a joke.  

It’s 7 a.m., and I’m about to leave. My eyelids have gained an exponential amount of weight in the past 30 minutes, but I’m doubting Koe’s going to sleep anytime soon. We say our goodbyes, and I notice an orange glow as the sun peeks through the clouds. 

“The damage that we’ve done to ourselves, it will come out later on,” Fred Barnett told me one week after this night. “But, yeah, that night, we survived.” 

Tip 6: The next day, smile. You’re alive.