byChrisWhite – 2025

What do you get if you take sperm of the Grateful Dead, mix it with the fertile bluegrass eggs of Ricky Skaggs, artificially inject a fertilized dose into the womb of Pink Floyd’s psychedelia, then have Doc Watson, nine months later, deliver its denouement?

Billy Strings, by God.

Now, I’ll confess something shameful right off the bat. Despite having a sixty-year love affair with music, bluegrass, country, blues, rock, jazz, you name it, and being a musician myself, I had never heard of Billy Strings until about a year ago. And I am from Nashville, Tennessee, where even the baristas can flatpick better than most mortals.

So how did I get enlightened? Well, funny enough, it wasn’t the radio, nor a festival, nor even a YouTube rabbit hole at 2 a.m. Nope. It was my buddy Jeremy, who happens to be a world-class sawbone for vintage cars, who clued me in when one of Billy’s badass Chevelle’s happened to be parked in close proximity to our ‘63 Thunderbird in one of Jeremy’s famed Shelbyville garages.

Jeremy, knowing my musical blind spots and my deep appreciation for musicians who can shred, gave me that look. You know the one, the kind that says, You poor, ignorant bastard, how do you not know Billy Strings?

Enter my son, Jon. Turns out he’s been a Billy Strings fanboy for years, going to every show Billy ever played in Nashville. When he caught wind that I was now Billy-curious, he did what any good son would do, bought me and Emily concert tickets. And let me tell you, friends, I walked into that show one man, and came out another.

What Even Is a Billy Strings?

Good question. He ain’t just bluegrass. He ain’t just rock. He ain’t just jam-band psychedelia. It’s all of it at once, like if a musical Gumbo pot boiled over and ran wild through the Appalachian mountains. He’s his own thing, which is saying something in a town that practically invented genre snobbery.

The concert? Lord have mercy. A true phenomenon.

Picture this: 20,000 people, hippies, hipsters, honky-tonkers, bluegrass purists, metalheads, grandmas, accountants in skinny jeans, and at least three guys named Cletus, all moving as one flailing, writhing, monolithic serpent for three hours straight. Every note, every playfully stretched-out time signature, every lyric was hung on like a coonhound staring down a treed cat.

If you’re a clothing company looking for the perfect brand ambassador, you might as well slap a pair of Wranglers on Billy Strings and watch your profits explode. This guy is the human Venn diagram where every music lover meets in the middle.

Grass-a-delic: The Genre Billy Built

That’s right. I said it. Grass-a-delic. Because what Billy’s doing ain’t just bluegrass. It’s bluegrass that got in a van with Hendrix, Zeppelin, and The Dead, took the long way through the mountains, got lost, had a flat, and came back with a crate motor and four new Nascar slicks.

Every member of his band is a world-class musician, wielding traditional bluegrass instruments, guitar, mandolin, banjo, dobro, fiddle, and upright bass, but twisting them into something else entirely. Pedal effects, wah-wahs, harmonics, bending notes like they’re trying to summon the ghost of Earl Scruggs and Jimmy Page at the same damn time.

And don’t even get me started on that bass player. That man was cluckin’ and pluckin’ like an over-caffeinated rooster at a sunrise jam session, practically making love to that upright bass as he laid down grooves that made the crowd go crazy.

Then there’s Billy himself.

The Voice That Raises the Dead (Music, That Is)

I don’t even know the right word for what comes after a trifecta; superfecta maybe? Whatever it is, Billy’s got it.

His voice is pure, haunting, accurate. He doesn’t just sing bluegrass, he sings through it, reaching into its guts and pulling out something both ancient and electric; Billy breathes new life into every note.

And the writing? My God, the writing. It ain’t just pickin’ and grinnin’. It’s redneck poetry set to thirty-second notes, a storytelling session set on fire, backed by a band so tight they could stop on a dime and still leave change.

A Three-Hour Jam Session That Changed My Life

Tonight? A sold-out Bridgestone Arena of 20,000 people.

Tomorrow night, same story? Also sold out.

Sunday? A smaller, intimate show, yep, sold out too. When is the last time you saw a bluegrass picker sell out a stadium? Ughm, never?

And let me tell you, the people in his audience never stopped moving. Not once. For three hours, they danced, swayed, stomped, and hollered like they were possessed by the music itself, each of them pantomiming every lyric.

I’ve been to a lot of shows. Never seen anything like this. Never. And I’ve never been more entertained.

If You Don’t Know Billy Strings, Shame on You.

If you love music, I mean really love music, and you haven’t let Billy Strings knock you upside the head with a flatpick and a ferocious sense of musical adventure, then you’re missing out on something special.

So do yourself a favor. Find a show. Buy the ticket. Take the ride.

Billy Strings ain’t just pickin’.

He’s building a whole damn musical universe.

And trust me, you want to be in it.