For more than a decade, Kip Moore has carved out a unique lane in modern country music, blending heartland rock, blue-collar storytelling and restless emotional honesty into a catalogue that has consistently resisted easy categorisation. From the Springsteen-sized ambition of ‘Wild Ones' through the introspective sprawl of ‘Solitary Tracks,' Moore has built a reputation as one of the genre’s most uncompromising voices, an artist more interested in searching for meaning than chasing trends. Now, with his new album ‘Reason To Believe,' Moore appears to have distilled those themes into one of the most focused and emotionally resonant records of his career.
Written during a period marked by reflection, grief and personal change, including the loss of mentor and longtime champion Brett James, ‘Reason To Believe' finds Moore balancing resilience, loneliness, faith and survival against sweeping Americana and rock-driven sonics. Songs like ‘Levee,' ‘Faith In The Wind' and ‘Josephine' paint vivid portraits of people fighting to hold onto hope in difficult times, while the album’s leaner, more intentional structure gives its emotional core greater impact than ever before. The result is a record that feels both deeply personal and universally human: a soundtrack for people still searching for answers, but learning that sometimes the search itself is enough. We caught up with Kip recently to talk all about it.
Well, thank you again for making the time. You know I’ve been a big supporter of your music for a long time, but I have to say this new album has really blown me away. One of the things that struck me immediately is how much tighter and more focused it feels compared to ‘Solitary Tracks.' Was that a deliberate creative decision going in, or did the album naturally evolve that way as you were making it?
Yeah, I think it was definitely intentional. I went into this one with more of a mindset to keep things concise, especially sonically. I think ‘Solitary Tracks' could’ve had that same focus if I hadn’t just let it run as long as I did. I kind of got off the rails with that one and just kept going. (laughing)
With this record, there were a lot of deliberate choices. People keep bringing up ‘The Darkness,' for example, and that’s become one of the songs everybody’s gravitating toward. And when I was building that track, I was very intentional about how I wanted it to feel. I wanted to tackle these heavier concepts, songs like ‘Faith in the Wind,' ‘The Darkness' and really lean into that vulnerability we all carry.
I remember when ‘The Darkness' was forming, I’d been out on the road for three straight weeks, and I walked out onto my porch late one night. I’ve always been hard on myself, it’s just how I’m wired. Even back in sports, I’d shoot a 68 in a golf tournament and still be furious because I missed two putts. Basketball was the same, I wouldn’t leave the gym until I hit 50 straight shots. That mindset has carried into music too but music is different because you’re exposing who you are. And that darkness? It’s something I’ve really felt chasing me through my 30s into my 40s. It’s hard to shake sometimes. So when I wrote that chorus, I wanted the music to mirror that feeling. That droning tension at the start, then releasing it into something that still feels heavy but also freeing.
Even at the end of the song, I’m trying to create that sense of hope because even though I feel chased by darkness, I still have faith. And I think people are picking up on that. I’ve had so many people tell me they’re crying when they hear it, but it’s almost a hopeful kind of cry. That’s the music doing that.
Q: That emotional weight really comes through, and it’s impossible to separate it from what you were going through personally, especially the loss of Brett James. First of all, my condolences. How did losing Brett shape your mindset while finishing this album?
Yeah… thank you. I mean, it’s still hard to talk about in a lot of ways. When Brett passed, I was almost finished with the record, so it wasn’t like I went into the whole process carrying that, it kind of hit me right at the end, and it shifted things emotionally in a way I didn’t expect. We had actually been talking about getting together, going down to the Bahamas and listening to the record front to back, just the two of us, like we’d done in different ways over the years. So there was this sense of something unfinished there, you know?
Even though we hadn’t been seeing each other as much in the last couple of years, just life pulling us in different directions, he was never gone from my mind. He was always there. I missed him constantly. I missed his presence, his perspective, the way he could just walk into a room and change the entire energy of it. He had that kind of spirit, really rare, really contagious, and there was always a sense with him that things were going to be okay, even when they weren’t.
His passing didn’t necessarily make me go back and overhaul the whole record, but it absolutely seeped into certain songs in a deeper way. ‘Headlights' is probably the clearest example of that. I was already writing it, already had pieces of it, but after he was gone, I went back and added lines that were directly tied to how I was feeling about losing him. So the song became this blend of two things: it’s partly about an old relationship, but it’s also very much about grief, about losing someone you love and not being able to get that time back.
There are lines in there that, for me, are completely about Brett, those quiet, reflective moments, sitting there watching the day fade, thinking about how memory works and how it starts to shift over time. And now, when I sing that song or even just hear it back, I’m not thinking about the relationship at all anymore. I’m thinking about him. I’m thinking about the fact that I’ll never get to pull up to his place again, never get to sit down with him, have a drink, talk about songs, talk about life, argue about things, laugh about things… all of that’s gone.
So in that sense, his passing didn’t just affect my mindset, it changed the emotional weight of parts of the record. It gave certain songs a different gravity, a different meaning than they had when I first wrote them. And I think that’s the thing about loss: it doesn’t always rewrite everything, but it deepens what’s already there in a way you can’t ignore.
Q: When you reflect on your relationship with Brett now, what would you say is the biggest lesson he left you with: either creatively or personally?
Man… there’s a lot. It’s hard to narrow it down to just one thing because he impacted me in so many different ways, both as a writer and just as a human being. But if I had to pick something that’s really stayed with me, something that I carry every single day, it’s something he said to me during a really heavy time in his life. He looked at me and said, “Kip, the only thing that matters is peace inside of you. That’s it. That’s all that matters.” And the way he said it, it wasn’t casual, it landed. It stuck. Because when you really think about it, that idea touches everything. It’s not just about your career or your relationships, it’s about how you move through the world.
If you’re struggling with a decision, whether it’s leaving a job, ending a relationship, writing a song, navigating your career, whatever it is, you can get pulled in a hundred different directions by outside noise. Expectations, pressure, fear, ego… all of it. But what he was telling me was, if you can get quiet enough to actually listen to yourself, to what gives you peace internally, that’s your compass. That’s what you follow.
And I think he lived that. That’s the thing. He wasn’t just saying it, he embodied it. He had this ability to cut through all the chaos and get right to what actually mattered.
There was another moment that’s always stuck with me too. I was going through a tough time, something hadn’t gone the way I wanted musically, and I was really beating myself up over it. That’s always been my nature, I’ve always been hard on myself, always pushing, always feeling like I’ve got more to prove. And he got right in my face, he could be intense like that, and he said, “You’ve got all the goods. You’ve had it from day one. I’ve seen it in you. You just have to see it.”
And that meant a lot coming from him, because he wasn’t someone who just threw around empty encouragement. He saw people clearly. So for him to say that, it stuck with me in a way that still affects how I approach things now. So yeah, if I had to sum it up, it’s those two things: trust the peace inside you, and believe in what you have. Don’t let doubt or outside voices drown that out. He gave me that, and I carry it with me every day.
Q: One of the things I love about this album is the sequencing. It really feels like a journey: ‘Headlights' into ‘You & Me,' for example, is such a smart emotional shift. In an era where people often consume music one track at a time, how much thought do you put into the flow of an album as a complete piece of work?
Yeah, I mean, I put a ton of time and thought into that. Probably more than most people would even realise. I literally sat in a coffee shop for three straight days working on the sequence of this record. I’d go in first thing in the morning, put my headphones on, listen to the album top to bottom, make notes, shift things around, then go home at night and listen again in a completely different headspace. Then I’d come back the next day and do it all over again. It was a bit obsessive, honestly, but that’s how I am with this stuff.
For me, sequencing isn’t just about putting songs in an order, it’s about creating a journey. I’m always thinking about how something feels from one moment to the next. Where does the listener need a release? Where do they need to sit in something a little longer? Where do you push the energy forward, and where do you pull it back just enough so that when you build again, it hits even harder?
A lot of that instinct comes from playing live. I’ve spent years figuring out how to read a room, how to feel when a crowd is right here and needs a lift, or when they’re ready to be pulled into something more introspective. So when I’m sequencing a record, I’m thinking about it almost like I’m mapping out a live show. You can’t just stay in one gear the whole time. You’ve gotta weave it. You’ve gotta take people somewhere.
And I know we’re in a time where a lot of people consume music one song at a time, playlists and all that, but I’ve never really approached making records that way. I don’t see myself as that kind of artist. I still believe there are people out there, my fans especially, who are gonna put this record on, get in the car, and let it play from start to finish. So I owe it to them to make sure that experience actually means something, that it flows, that it tells a story emotionally and sonically.
So yeah, it’s very deliberate. Every transition, every rise and fall, every moment of intensity or quiet: it’s all thought through. Because at the end of the day, I’m trying to make a record the way I would want to hear one. Something that holds together as a full piece, not just a collection of songs.
Q: You’ve always had a knack for closing tracks: songs like ‘Guitar Man' or ‘Mickey’s Bar.' This time it’s ‘Josephine,' which has this almost Rolling Stones-esque ‘Wild Horses'-style feel. Why was that the right song to close ‘Reason to Believe?'
‘Josephine' felt like a natural closer pretty early on, to be honest. It was one of those songs that just stuck to me in a different way than the others. You know how sometimes you write something and you like it, you believe in it, but then there are certain songs that just kind of live with you? That was ‘Josephine.' I’d find myself picking up a guitar at home, not even thinking about it, and just drifting into that melody. Over and over again. It became almost like a companion piece while I was figuring out what this record was.
There’s also a deeper emotional thread tied to it. Around that time, I had written another song that kind of sits in the same world as ‘Josephine,' and both of them came out of watching someone in my life really struggle, someone who just couldn’t quite get over the hump, couldn’t move forward. And when you’re close to that, you start trying to make sense of it. You start asking yourself, how did they get here? Why are they stuck? And in doing that, you inevitably start turning the lens back on yourself too, because I’ve felt that same kind of stuckness in my own life at different points.
So ‘Josephine' carries that weight. It sits alongside songs like ‘The Darkness' and ‘Faith in the Wind' in terms of that internal wrestling, that searching. But sonically and emotionally, it just felt like the right place to leave the listener.
I’ve always been really intentional about how I close records. Usually, I tend to put the heaviest song at the end, the one that leaves you sitting in something. And there was a version of this where ‘The Darkness' could’ve been that closer, because it’s obviously a massive emotional statement. But that song needed to come earlier in the record to set the tone, to open up the space I wanted the album to live in.
‘Josephine,' on the other hand, is more like… it’s like the last drink at the end of a long night. It’s quieter, more reflective. It doesn’t demand your attention in the same explosive way, it just kind of lingers. I always think of it as a whiskey neat, cigarette in hand, sitting there processing everything you’ve just been through. That’s what I wanted for the ending. Not something that hits you over the head, but something that stays with you. Something you sit with. Because by the time you get there, you’ve already gone through the emotional arc of the record, so now it’s about letting it all settle. And ‘Josephine' just naturally became that moment.
Q: I have to ask about ‘Lonely Tonight,' because for me it’s a standout. It’s got this huge, dramatic, almost Jim Steinman-meets-Springsteen energy that puts me in mind of tracks like ‘Midnight Slow Dance' and ‘Tough Enough.' How excited are you to bring that one into the live show?
Man, I love that you picked ‘Lonely Tonight.' I really do. That one means a lot to me, and it’s cool when somebody locks in on a song like that because it’s a little different from some of the other moments on the record.
What you’re picking up on with the drama, that’s exactly what we were chasing. It’s got that big, sweeping, almost rock opera kind of feel to it. There’s a theatrical element in the way it builds, the way it moves dynamically from those quieter, more intimate moments into something much bigger and more explosive. It’s not just a straight line song, it’s got peaks and valleys, tension and release, and I love living in that space as a writer and as a performer.
And yeah, I get the comparison you’re making to some of those older influences, that ‘70s, almost cinematic kind of rock storytelling. That’s always been in me. But with ‘Lonely Tonight,' I feel like it’s even more pronounced, it leans all the way into that drama. It’s not trying to hold back or be subtle in that sense. It just goes there.
Compared to songs like ‘Midnight Slow Dance' or ‘Tough Enough,' which have their own kind of intensity, this one feels like a different beast to me. It’s more dynamic, more layered emotionally. It’s not just about the weight of the lyric or the groove, it’s about the whole experience of the song, how it unfolds and pulls you in.
From a live standpoint, we’re really excited about it. We’ve been working it up in soundchecks, kind of feeling out how it’s gonna translate on stage, and it’s already starting to take on a life of its own. That’s usually how I know a song’s got something special: when the band starts reacting to it, when it feels bigger every time we play it. I think it’s gonna be one of those moments in the set where everything just opens up. Where you can really stretch out musically, let it breathe, let the audience get pulled into it. So yeah, I’m chomping at the bit to get that one out there properly, because I think it’s gonna connect in a big way.
Q: With a catalogue as deep as yours now, how difficult is it putting together a setlist? Are there songs you already know you’ll have to leave behind, or is that still something you’re figuring out?
Yeah, that’s one of the hardest parts at this stage, no question. When you’ve got a catalogue that’s built up over a number of records, every time you go out on the road you’re making decisions about what doesn’t get played just as much as what does. And there’s no easy answer to that. I don’t ever really sit down ahead of time and go, “This is the set, locked in.” It just doesn’t work that way for me.
A lot of the time, you don’t actually know what the show is supposed to be until you’ve played a few nights. You’ve got to get out there, feel it, see how the songs are landing, see how the crowd is reacting, not just to the big songs, but to the deeper cuts, the new material, the quieter moments. That’s when you start to understand what the set wants to be.
And that’s exactly why I’ve always been so committed to being a true live band. We’re not running everything off a computer, we’re not locked into a rigid structure where every cue is pre-programmed months in advance. Because the second you do that, you lose the ability to respond in real time. You lose that connection. For me, a show should be a living, breathing thing. It should change night to night. If I feel something in the room, if the crowd is leaning in a certain way, if there’s a certain kind of energy, I want the freedom to pivot. Maybe that means extending a section, maybe it means dropping a song in or pulling one out, maybe it means shifting the pace entirely. You’ve got to be able to read that electricity, that kinetic energy coming off the audience, and meet it.
There’s a lot of artists now who can’t do that because everything is so tied to tracks and production elements that don’t allow for flexibility. And I just don’t believe in doing music that way. I think it strips away something really important: the spontaneity, the risk, the human element of it. So yeah, when it comes to setlists, it’s always evolving. It’s always a bit of a puzzle. And honestly, that’s part of what keeps it exciting for me. It means every night has the potential to be different, and that’s what live music is supposed to be.
Q: Finally, I wanted to touch on “Levee,” which opens the album. It feels like classic ‘70s heartland rock, but lyrically there’s a real sense of personal and societal frustration underneath it. Was that song driven more by what you’re seeing in the world right now, or by your own internal struggles?
Man, first off, I really appreciate that question, and the way you framed it, because that’s exactly what’s going on in that song. It’s not just one thing, it’s not just personal or just societal… it’s all of it tangled together. Above all……. I am just so annoyed with humanity as a whole right now. We can all be such sheep and our leaders, on both the left and the right, know how to get us riled up
‘Levee' came from a place of real frustration for me. And not just surface-level frustration, but something deeper that’s been building over time. I’ve always tried to pay attention to the world around me, to people, to how we interact with each other, and I think over the last few years especially, I’ve just found myself more and more disillusioned with the way we behave as a society. It feels like we’ve lost the ability to sit in the middle of things. Everything has become so polarised, everybody’s planting their flag in the ground and saying, “This is my side, and that’s the enemy.” And what bothers me is that both sides often think they’re completely righteous, completely justified, without ever stepping back and asking bigger questions.
I’ve never really been wired that way. I’ve always seen nuance. I’ve always believed that you can agree with someone on one thing and disagree with them on another, and that doesn’t make either of you entirely right or entirely wrong. But that way of thinking feels like it’s disappearing. There’s this constant noise, especially with social media now, where people are being fed outrage, and they just take the bait over and over again.
And I think what frustrates me the most is how easily we fall into that. How easily we get manipulated into turning on each other instead of actually looking at the bigger picture. It feels like a game that’s been played forever, but it’s louder now, more aggressive, more in-your-face than it’s ever been. So ‘Levee' is definitely rooted in that: this sense of watching the world around me and feeling annoyed, even angry at times, about how we’re handling things as human beings. But at the same time, it’s also internal. Because when you’re feeling that kind of frustration outwardly, it reflects something inward too. There’s a personal unrest that comes with that, trying to figure out where you stand, how you process it, how you don’t get pulled into that same cycle yourself.
So it’s both. It’s me looking out at the world and going, “Man, this is exhausting, this is broken in a lot of ways,” but also looking inward and trying to make sense of my own reactions to it. And I think that’s why the song has that underlying tension to it, it’s not just commentary, it’s emotional. At the end of the day, I just wish people would slow down a little bit. Listen a little more. Try to understand instead of immediately reacting. Because I really do believe we’d be in a better place if we could find that middle ground again, not a little bit, but a lot more than we are right now.
Read our review of Kip Moore's new album ‘Reason to Believe' right here.
