When you listen to Jesse Welles, you can practically hear the veil between lie and truth being lifted.
The Ozark, AR singer, songwriter, and guitarist addresses life in the 21st century without pandering to one side or the other, sugarcoating an agenda, or forcing beliefs on anyone. He doesn’t mince words; his plainspoken lyrics are straightforward enough to cut right through the bullshit and get to the point. It’s not just about politics. More than anything, he traffics in emotion, appealing to anybody who’s felt the pressure of an unforgiving society, yet holds out hope for the future in spite. Tapping into traditions of folk and Americana spiked with rock ‘n’ roll attitude, his music is the sound of a hammer breaking down the walls between us and letting some light back in. Along the way, he’s unassumingly resonated with listeners, receiving four GRAMMY® Award nominations, playing on late-night television, and selling out entire tours nationwide. As always, there’s no filter, but a lot of fire on his 2026 album, Masks Off.
“These songs were highlights of the past year, and they sort of speak to the moment we’re at,” he states. “I’m not trying to tell folks how to think or get a reaction. All I do is write my lyrics, make my records, and cross my fingers.”
This troubadour went from slinging homemade CDs in high school to professionally fronting bands throughout his early twenties. During 2024, he struck a chord by self-filming performances beneath powerlines deep in the Arkansas woods. Beamed out to the world from a standard smartphone camera, the naked intensity of his songwriting brought weight to viral anthems like “War Isn’t Murder,” “The Poor,” “That Can’t Be Right,” “United Health,” and “Ozempic,” to name a few. He quietly attracted millions of followers and generated nearly one billion total views and streams. Operating at a breathless pace, he shared eight full-length albums and dozens of songs within the span of two years. He delivered a powerhouse set at Farm Aid 40 and has found his place alongside kindred spirits, collaborating with everyone from Joan Baez and Billy Strings to Mt. Joy, Margo Price, and Sierra Ferrell. The mainstream couldn’t ignore his grassroots breakthrough. He performed on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert and incited the applause of Vulture, Rolling Stone, NPR, Billboard, and CBS News who urged, “If you’re wondering whether folk music is still relevant today, take a listen to Jesse Welles.” Moreover, he garnered 2026 GRAMMY® Award nominations in the categories of “Best Folk Album” for Under The Powerlines (April 24 – September 24), “Best Americana Album” for Middle, “Best American Roots Song” for “Middle,” and “Best Americana Performance” for “Horses.”
Seemingly unaffected by success, Jesse continues to evolve with new album Masks Off.
“In my room, there are only a couple of acoustic guitars on the floor,” he sets the scene. “There’s a shelf full of books and a laptop to type lyrics on. The words are at the forefront for me.”
In the midst of touring, he cut this body of work in three sessions with producer and trusted collaborator Eddie Spear [Zach Bryan, Sam Barber]. “Eddie and I communicate well,” Jesse goes on. “A lot of the session isn’t even verbal. He knows what I’m looking for. He’s also never asked me to change a line—which is important.”
Jesse introduces the record with the single and opener “Masks Off.” Its anxiously plucked acoustic guitar curls around a simmering beat and underlines his manic cadence as he muses on the brazenness of our ruling class. Distortion fuels a hard-hitting hook, and he laments, “All the masks are off, and they’re getting lazy. They think you’re so damn stupid. They think you’re so damn crazy.” He tops off the track with a searing solo executed with the same rawness. He warns, “If you want to know the future, simply look into the past.”
“It’s the culmination of the I.C.E. surge in Minnesota, the abduction of Venezuela’s leader, and the post-D.O.G.E. world where we’re realizing the masks are off and they’re doing things in broad daylight without caring,” he states. “Hate is out in the open, it’s permissible, and it’s encouraged. When we recorded it, I had gotten at new guitar at Carter’s in Nashville. I told Eddie, ‘Let’s get a Marshall stack and fucking blow this up with electric guitar’.”
The wistful heartland rocker “Won’t You Come Out Tonight” evokes a rush of autumn nostalgia. Boosted by cinematic piano, listless power chords, and wailing harmonica, his high register brings vibrancy to the refrain, “Won’t you come out tonight? I don’t know how long I’ll stay.”
“‘Won’t You Come Out Tonight’ started as a poem in Colorado,” he remembers. “It’s been good to get out and travel, because touring has inspired new songs. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been in Estes Park on Halloween. All of these trick-or-treaters were out, the shops were closed, and there was a big parade down the main street. It reminded me of being a kid back in my mountain town. I essentially wanted to capture what it was like to grow up in a small U.S. mountain town with a tune.”
Staples like “The Ballad of Big Balls” and “Join I.C.E.” chronicle current events in real-time with cold-hard truth and a biting sense of humor. “Technopagans” stares down the false idols behind our algorithms soundtracked by a breezy chord progression as he sneers, “The benevolence of predators will always blow my mind.”
“It gets at the sudden surge in religiosity amongst Silicon Valley types,” he elaborates. “They’ll declare anyone with environmentalist propensities to be an antichrist. By allowing technology to grow at a rate faster than our own cognizance, we’re speeding towards danger.”
Then, there’s “Siddartha.” Lush finger-picking complements his gentle delivery, and he asks, “Do you want to know the truth? The river is laughing, and we’re only passing through.” He reveals, “Eddie gave me the book Siddartha as a gift. This is my book report. In life, we experience some form of the steps Siddartha goes through to become enlightened, and it’s never what you think it is.”
“This and Not Some Other Way” offers a fragile finale brought to life by sparse instrumentation and tender vocals. He confesses, “At first I was afraid to die, now I’m scared that I might live.”
He notes, “When I was ready to record, I pulled my van over to the side of the dirt road in Siloam Springs between two cow pastures, took my tripod out, and played it on the bumper of my van. Lyrically, it covers a lot of ground. I guess it’s a song about being me.”
Jesse is still sharing truth—and he always will.
“I’m still living where I was living, I’m still doing what I was doing, and I’m still wearing the same jeans that I was two years ago,” he smiles. “I’m still putting out music as fast as I can write it. I haven’t changed.”
