Houston's Weekend Planning Guide

Gold Chain Cowboy expands on that outcast drifter ethos with a collection of songs that are riddled with fuck-ups, disappointments, lost nights, real life snarls and the hunger that drives people on. Reckless, willing to reckon with the wreckage and shattered pieces of what was, McCollum’s major label debut isn’t a dead-end road, but more a cul-de-sac that too many people go ‘round and ‘round on.

“I was pretty lonely,” he offers, certifying his songs’ angst. “I was pretty young when I started selling out these places, you know? I was a rock star. But I wasn’t a rock star when I woke up, that was last night.

“There was no shortage of women. There were plenty around, random girls, but people you don’t care about – and they don’t care about you. It was a lot of whiskey and smoking cigarettes to fill up the space. But I started thinking, ‘What am I gonna do when I get a little further along?’”

Figure McCollum, who admits a taste for flashy things, was raised a car dealer’s son. His mother’s family – “they’re a little rougher, they come from the land” – were dealing with cattle, ranching, the rodeo world. In many ways a classic Texas upbringing, even his music obsession started with his brother giving him The Traveling Wilburys, Volume 1 for his 11th birthday.

Working his Grandfather’s ranch with his older brother and a couple cousins one summer, he heard Ryan Bingham’s “Southside of Heaven” for the first time. It changed everything. “It was so simple – and stayed so simple. My sophomore and junior years, he put out two of the best records I’ve ever heard. It showed me what standards are, and that it could be done.”

Still, unhindered and young – wild living ensued. But that lust for life never got in the way of him writing songs, seeking to make the music better. Around Texas, he turned into a veritable Justin Bieber scream-inducing proposition. He didn’t care.

“I look back and think, ‘How did I go onstage like that?’” he marvels. “It makes me sick to think about it. I can’t believe I lived like that; but I liked all those things way too much. I didn’t want anything to step on my songwriting. It pays to be as real as it gets, so all that just goes into the bank for writing, I guess.”

There’s a picture frame hanging a little
to the side Some drugs on the counter in the kitchen by the wine And I’m shaking like winter, but I just can’t eat

Four studios. Thirty musicians. Countless songs. Lots of ruminating. “I finally had my first big record deal, and the country closed down. I had to think about how did I want this record to go, trying to figure out who I am and where I am again. Just as I thought I’d done it, I had another chance to think about it.”

From the George Strait pluck of “Never Loved You At All” to the plaintive lonesome “Dallas,” the surging dumped by phone “Why Indiana” to the guitars forward tumbling pledge of always “Wait Outside,” McCollum changes gaits and gears through working class heartbreak and country. Gold Chain Cowboy offers a different take on being a good ole boy: dignity instead of pain, aching instead of numb.