From Backroads to Big Stages: The Red Clay Strays Story
Testimony in Every Note
Some sounds don’t just carry — they testify. You know it when you hear it: a voice so full of Southern soil and Sunday morning gospel you half expect the roof to lift clean off, even if you’re standing under an open sky.
That’s what most folks hear when Brandon Coleman steps to the mic — hair brushed back like he’s hanging out in a Sun Records recording booth, black shirt and pants crisp as a promise, that pompadour catching the spotlight the way Cash’s once did.
If you squint, you can almost see Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis nodding from the next booth over, raising a glass to the kid who’s brave enough to bring it all forward, even the fashion.
Brandon Coleman of the Red Clay Strays lets it rip, turning a guitar break into a full-body Southern sermon.
Photos throughout by Matthew Coleman (📸 @mccoleman98) unless otherwise noted.
But here’s the thing about the Red Clay Strays: they don’t sit still in a recording booth, and they sure don’t stay penned up in one genre. They’ll tell you straight — they’re not really country, even if they’ve got an Academy of Country Music (ACM) award on the shelf. They’re not strictly rock or blues, either. They’re what happens when Mobile, AL, gospel crashes head-on into swampy Southern rock… and a voice cuts the air like a backwoods preacher tangled up with a juke joint sinner.
Hold onto your boots—those Red Clay Strays didn’t just tip-toe into the scene; they strutted right onto the grand stage, plucking up the ACM New Duo or Group of the Year crown in 2025, after having snagged the Emerging Act of the Year honor at the 2024 Americana Music Association Awards ceremony.
And while the trophies look mighty fine on the shelf, it’s what’s under the hood that keeps this engine running — a deep well of faith and musical roots stretching from humble clapboard sanctuaries to neon-lit honky-tonks.
The band’s spiritual backbone comes honest — Brandon cut his teeth behind a drum kit in a little Pentecostal church, learning rhythm from sermons that left the walls sweating, and he’d slide over to the piano bench when needed. In high school, a beat-up music book with an instructional CD taught him how to play — and tune — a guitar, setting him on the road from the sanctuary to the stage.
John Hall’s first time behind a kit was at Travis Road Baptist Church when he was just six, playing “I’ll Fly Away” at his dad’s urging — his father led the church band. He got through it just fine, though the drums seemed just as eager to take off as the song’s title promised, sliding away from the little drummer the whole time.
Andy Bishop grew up Catholic.
Drew Nix didn’t grow up playing in church, but he does now, holding down guitar in his congregation’s band. Years ago, at a time when he was searching for answers, he caught an episode of the TV drama House that landed with unexpected force. Something in him clicked — later he realized he was meant to write and sing songs, a revelation that surprised him, since he’d once dreamed of being a football player and coach. Raised on a steady diet of Skynyrd, Prine, and Isbell, he brings those influences into every harmony he sings — like he’s got ghosts backing him up.
Brandon puts it this way: “We’ve all wondered why we’re here, and it seems we’ve found our answer.” For the Strays, that answer is about following a calling, sticking together through hard climbs, and letting the road’s rough spots strengthen their bond.
The Red Clay Strays with their real headliner — a sea of fans who turned their songs into anthems: Zach, Andy, John, Brandon, Drew, Sevans.
And when they hit the stage, those roots come roaring to life — no posing, no pretense, just a righteous kind of movement that rides the groove straight to the rafters. John Hall sits behind the kit like it’s a pulpit, thundering and whispering in turns, his whole frame swaying until you swear the beat’s got a heartbeat of its own. Brandon lets the Spirit carry him clear across the stage, guitar ridin’ high, eyes closed like he’s deep in prayer. Andy locks into the pocket on bass, steady as bedrock but with a sway, and sometimes snappy steps, that keeps the whole thing pulsing. Drew will leap when the moment hits, hair flying, wringing every ounce out of his guitar. Zach Rishel prowls the fretboard with a quiet intensity, sending out licks that cut through like lightning. And Sevans Henderson, cool behind the keys, slips gospel flourishes in between the cracks, filling the room with that Sunday-morning warmth. By the time they’re done, you’re half convinced you just got saved — or at least converted to whatever gospel they’re preachin’.
Those spirited roots stretch wide — gospel, country, outlaw, blues, soul — but they all dig into the same dirt. So if you absolutely must label it, it’s Southern rock.
The Strays wear their Southern Rock like a second skin — like the South itself stitched to the hem of their dungarees. They’re part gospel tent revival, part roadhouse riot, and their sound reminds us quick that state lines on a map don’t mean a thing when the roots of Roots Music run wild.
The guys proudly call themselves country boys—Turnerville, Alabama, and its environs are where some of them were born and raised. “I’m the yankee of the bunch,” Drew says, “I’m from Birmingham.”
That unincorporated pocket of Mobile County, barely a whisper beyond Mobile’s northern city line, was their first stage and playground. Brandon Coleman grew up on Coleman Hill, the old family compound of nearly 40 acres that his grandfather settled and where his father Ralph Coleman still resides in the very house he grew up in. Brandon’s wife, Macie, was practically a neighbor—her childhood home just around the corner from the Coleman property—so their lives were woven together from the start, even if they didn’t know each other way back then.
Turnerville, AL, and Macon, GA — same dirt, same people, same stories passed down through songs that know how to shout on Saturday night and kneel down on Sunday morning. When you grow up here, the real borders are rivers and railroads and piney woods — not some sign nailed to a post at the state line.
Stick a pin in Mobile/Turnerville, AL, and Macon, GA, and then wrap a string from one to the other. Then stick a pin in Jacksonville, FL, and string it up, too. In this triangle, as is tradition for southern rockers like Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers Band, the Strays love to jam. And we all know the best way to experience jamming is in person, feeling what they’re putting out.
Southern Roots, Rock Revival
And that’s why this fall, when the Strays roll into Macon’s Atrium Health Amphitheater for a one-night gig — under our October stars, families sprawled out on blankets, kids dancing barefoot in the grass — it’s not just another show. It’s an experience.
A revival.
Because this city has always known how to hold the door open for the bluesy gospel sound: Little Richard’s wail echoing down Broadway, Otis’s heart cracked wide open at the Douglass Theatre, Duane Allman’s guitar… making a generation believe that maybe the Holy Spirit could live inside a Marshall amp.
When Brandon roars “If you’re looking for a prophet, I’ll tell ya I ain’t…” — well, we know better around here. We know that sometimes the best prophets are the ones humble enough to say they ain’t one. And maybe that’s why the gospel’s still loud, still swampy, still rolling up I-75 from Mobile to find a place on the Southern Circuit like Macon, where our good soil and our good people are always waiting for the next song to take hold.
Sounds Like Home
Describing a band’s sound can be tricky. Much easier is describing the feeling their sound stirs up.
I can’t listen to the Strays without feeling the Ocmulgee River pullin’ at my ankles — wide and muddy, running through Macon and past my Granny’s house in Lumber City, GA. Nights at her place moved to a rhythm all their own: frogs hollerin’ from the banks, crickets chirpin’ backup, and the gospel choir from that little Black church back in the pines, windows flung open, spirit spilling out into the trees. That sound rode the river, slipped through our screens, and landed on our pillows like a blessing.
We were listening to all of it.
That’s what the Strays do to me. They pull me back to being a kid in south Georgia — not just to the place I stand now, but to the rowdy, holy, half-wild past and half-wild people who raised me. Their music is bootlegging and baptism, sin and salvation.
Heck, my Granny, a founding member of Lumber City Baptist, bootlegged whiskey from her china hutch while Pappy snuck swigs when she wasn’t looking.
Good people doing bad things and bad people doing good things. It could be confusing but it was The Way back then, and sometimes still is in a Strays song.
The sounds the Strays carry aren’t borrowed — they’re inherited. Like a good pocketknife or a battered hymnbook, these songs pass down from hand to hand, from one Saturday night sinner to the next Sunday morning choirboy. That’s the Strays’ secret that’s not-so-secret… once you listen: they don’t play at Southern tradition, they live in it. Their melodies carry whiffs of Delta blues and echoes of rockabilly jubilees. And every fan can feel their authenticity.
So don’t tell me these boys don’t carry a little sacred and a little profane in every song.
Their Southern gospel roots keep them grounded — that faith, the “blessing from God” line, the “do the work, dig the hole” work ethic. That doesn’t mean they’re immune to the temptations that come with that road life, though. It just means they’re carrying an extra shield, and they know the danger is there. They’re choosing to do things differently than the bands before them — the ones who met the road’s demands with a bottle or a pill to soften the ride.
“It’s not the ’70s anymore,” Andy says to Theo Von. “The whole sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll thing is a stereotype. We all recognize that we’re doing something bigger than us.”
Self-less, not self-ish, they’ll say, because they feel something more powerful moving through them. It’s what holds them steady and keeps them in harmony, on and off the stage.
Faith doesn’t cancel flash, though, not when the spotlight hits and the spirit moves.
Brandon’s voice, like his stage presence, is part inheritance and part improvisation. He grew up mimicking artists he admired—Tracy Byrd, Waylon Jennings, Jay Roddy Walston, and Brittany Howard of Alabama Shakes.
In fact, the first song Brandon ever sang was Tracy Byrd’s “We’re from the country and we like it that way.” He was four or five, toting around a Toy Story cassette player like he was listening to the Grand Ole Opry. Years later he’d start practicing his vibrato, one element of his singing that grabs most folks’ attention, and then they’ll give his vibrato a slow nod of solid appreciation.
“I get that Holy Spirit on stage,” Brandon says. “It depends on who I’ve been listening to.”
The Stray’s sound rolls like a river rumbling, hums like a highway at dusk, and whistles like a train calling you back home — down South, whether you were ever there or not.
As for looks, not just sound, Brandon might shrug off the comparisons to Cash or Elvis, but come on — when he starts shakin’ that leg, guitar cocked just so, I half expect the ghost of Tupelo’s favorite son to wink from the wings. It’s not copycat — it’s heritage. These boys aren’t borrowing old sounds. They’re carrying ’em forward like heirlooms in a guitar case.
The Strays don’t hide their faith — not from the crowd or stage lights or songs. Their aura is blues-soaked and rockabilly-sweet — asking big questions of themselves, of God, and of everyone in the crowd.
“I’ll never shy away from mentioning God,” Brandon has said, “but I respect how other people see Him, too.”
There’s no conversion agenda at a Strays show — just gratitude, humility, and a whole lotta grace. You can feel it in the music. Not the push of dogma, but the pull of something bigger, and sacred.
Back Roads to Ballroom
Long before the sellout crowds and festival slots, before they grew up together into men, they went by the Coleman Mason Band — a cover band so rough in the early days they don’t even like to talk about it, and often joke how they could clear a room faster than last call.
The Strays started out in 2015, also playing covers in little joints where the crowd might be five folks and a bartender.
Legend has it — and Brandon tells it as one of those things they can laugh at now — that a low point came at the Purple Buffalo in North Charleston. They had no clue they had been booked to play after three punk bands, and when “our country bumpkin butts got up there,” as Brandon puts it, the punk crowd made a fast exit. The room emptied out.
So what did they do? Brandon sat down at a table in the empty room and sang to the band like they were the only souls that mattered — and maybe they were. The bartender kept pouring them drinks, which seemed like a silver lining, until the end of the night… when he slapped them with a tab they couldn’t afford. No payout, no cash, and they were then scrounging for change under seats and in gear bags to settle up the tab before limping back to the van.
They didn’t make money that night — but they earned something else: insight, humility, and one hell of a story to tell now that they’re packing arenas.
The Strays have climbed the ladder the slow way — from barrooms to ballrooms, nightclubs to festivals, and now arenas with fans hollering back at them. When Brandon sings to a crowd, it’s ten-thousand-strong — not his own bandmates and a bartender with a bill.
Back when it was just five against the world — the Red Clay Strays and their trusty tour mule, The Breeze, ready to roll wherever the music called.
In those early days, they didn’t have a fancy rig — just an old Ford van they called The Breeze. She was a rattly, beloved beast with six bunks that hauled their gear, their dreams, and their exhausted bodies from one dive bar to the next. They still laugh about the miles they logged in that van; the breakdowns, the fast food, and the sleep-deprived delirium that only a band on the come-up understands.
“We’re practically diesel mechanics,” Andy jokes to Theo Von, alluding to those days when there was no safety net; no one to call to rescue them on the road.
And yet, they’ve mostly blazed their own trail — Elle King is the only artist they’ve toured behind. Otherwise? It’s been their name on the marquee, earning every crowd from the ground up.
These days, they’ve graduated to transfer trucks and a luxury Prevost motorhome — well-earned comfort after years of trudging — but The Breeze still holds a sacred place in their story. She was more than a tour van.
She was proof that movement itself was holy.
From The Breeze to the big rigs — the Strays roll in style these days, with a custom Kenworth and a Prevost motorhome carrying their gospel of swampy Southern rock far and wide.
The Strays’ songs hit different because they’ve lived every mile between broke and breaking through. In those early days, they played for tips — just enough for gas money and maybe one hotel room to split five ways.
The guys will tell you, although the road might be hell, you can’t skip road-dogging it and playing empty rooms. You’ve gotta earn that experience. It taught them how to work a crowd, how to make it all come together. How to write songs, and perform them.
These days, Brandon, Drew, and Brandon’s brother Matthew Coleman try to spend a week each January tucked away in Nashville, writing songs — a tradition they’d like to do more often. Yet, Brandon doesn’t claim the label of songwriter, saying he only contributes a line or two here and there. “That’s what a songwriter does!” Drew will say right quick.
The real testing ground for new songs is on the stage.
The band tries out new material live, watching the crowd like a mirror and making changes based on what they see reflected back. Or what they read in social media comments.
Matthew is the band’s c0-songwriter, videographer, and social media guru who put “Wondering Why” on TikTok in 2023 and created a firestorm. That’s when the Strays blew up.
And now they’ve got the hardware to show for all that hard work — their soul-stirring single “I Just Wanna Be Loved” went platinum this summer. That milestone isn’t just a streaming stat — it’s a sign that their blend of vulnerability and swagger is cutting across age, genre, and geography.
Even sweeter? “I Just Wanna Be Loved” was co-written by Matthew and Dakoda Coleman, the youngest of the three Coleman brothers tied to the band. Brandon fronts it, Matthew documents it, and Dakoda now steers their merchandising… and hopefully he’ll write more songs. In other words, “I Just Wanna Be Loved” is more than a hit — it’s a band, and a family, victory.
Brandon, Matthew, and Dakoda Coleman — kinfolk, co-writers, and the reason “I Just Wanna Be Loved” went platinum.
Platinum and proud — The Red Clay Strays hold the proof that Matthew and Dakoda Coleman’s “I Just Wanna Be Loved” hit big.
And just when you think their accolades couldn’t stack up any higher, along comes Billy Bob Thornton — Academy Award winner, front man of the Boxmasters, road-tested and no stranger to Southern Rock (he’s a huge fan of the Allman Brothers Band). So, when Billy Bob decides to drop not one, not two, but a whole mess of Stray songs into his new Paramount+ series Landman, well… that’s what you call a Southern Seal of Approval.
In Episodes 6 and 7 of Landman, you’ll hear the Strays slipping into the story like they’ve always belonged there: “Sunshine (Western AF Version)” closing episode 6, and a triple hit of “She’s No Good,” “Wondering Why,” and “Moment of Truth” in episode 7, sandwiched with the likes of Lainey Wilson, Ian Noe, Zach Bryan, Whiskey Meyers, and Turnpike Troubadours.
The Strays on Landman ain’t just background music — it’s a handshake from Billy Bob himself, saying, Boys, welcome to the big leagues.
It’s no accident, either. Landman’s music supervisor Andrea von Foerster — the same tastemaker behind Yellowstone’s knack for spotlighting radio-overlooked artists — has promised even more songs per episode, keeping the focus on heart and voices worth discovering. The series streams on Paramount+, if you want to hear for yourself how the Strays sound when Hollywood tips its hat.
And as for the Strays’ fan base, it’s not just growing — it’s spreading faster than kudzu in July. Facebook and Instagram fan groups have tens of thousands of members who post daily, flooding timelines with concert clips, front-of-stage selfies, and enough praise to make a Baptist preacher blush. Alongside the music talk, those same pages have become a place where fans lift each other up through hard losses, share in wedding-day joy, and lean on each other and their favorite Stray songs to help them grieve or celebrate. It’s a reminder of how deeply music can reach into people’s lives.
Matthew runs the official Strays accounts on both platforms, so those pages are ground zero for band news — birthdays, new tour dates, big announcements — and they rack up thousands of comments in no time. Which makes sense because the Instagram official band account has more than a million followers. Those accounts also contain Matthew’s spectacular videos and photos (seen throughout this article), so follow the Strays on Instagram and Facebook to see where they are and what they’re up to.
John Hall, driving the Red Clay Strays like a runaway train.
That kind of fan engagement via social media has to be a little overwhelming for the guys, but there’s no mistaking what it means: the band is on the cusp of blowing up even more. Possibly tumblin’ past that tippin’ point into mega-stardom. If they keep up this pace, they might just hit Elvis-level devotion — which is saying something, considering how crowded the digital stage is these days.
But the Strays aren’t chasing fame — they’re chasing truth, and that’s something you can feel in every note. And see in every award.
They may be young and wired into the digital age, but they’ve got old souls.
Their debut album Moment of Truth was crowd-funded — modern as can be — but they cut the tracks the old way, self-produced on analog gear that hums with warmth, static, and spirit. Not the kind of spirit that sells slogans, but the kind that hangs in the air like it’s got weight.
Still, don’t mistake the Strays for complete throwbacks — they have their own app, giving fans instant access to tour news, merch drops, and community convos. That’s the balance they’ve struck: old-school sound, new-school savvy.
But it’ll always be the analog heart that drives the Strays’ digital bus.
More Than the Sum of Their Parts
Here’s the truth: each Stray is a talent in his own right, but together? They’re something bigger than the sum of their parts. It’s not math — it’s magic. They feel it, too, even if they sometimes scratch their heads and wonder what all the fuss is about. To them, they’re just doing their thing, and doing it the best they can.
What makes it tender — and a little tricky — is that every one of them is still 30 or younger, with most having played for audiences nearly half their lives, or most of the life… like John. That’s a long time to live under stage lights. Fame can be a funny beast — it lifts you high but can press in close, sometimes too close. Maybe the best gift we can give these guys — and the women and families in their corner — is space. Space to soar and space to stumble. Space to chase the songs and still feel their feet on the ground. The music’s the magic, but the people making it are the heart.
While Brandon’s voice may lead the charge, the band’s heartbeat is a group effort. And since we can’t talk about the magic without naming the magicians, here’s a roll call — the flesh-and-blood, boots-on-the-ground bunch who make the group what they are.
The lineup - Tight and sharp as barbed wire on a fence line
Brandon Coleman - Front man, rhythm slinger, and the voice that can lay a crowd flat or lift it clean off the ground. Onstage, he’s equal parts preacher and troublemaker, with a leg shake that ought to come with a warning label. Offstage, he’s the same humble, big-hearted Alabama boy who’ll hold the door, ask about your Mama, and mean it.
Andy Bishop – Bass that rumbles like an Alabama storm. Smart and quick with a wry grin, Andy loves to fish, owns a boat, and lives near the water in Daphne, AL, with his wife Taylor. If you’ve heard him on the Theo Von podcast with Brandon, you know he’s got wit for days.
John Hall – Firestarter behind the kit, known for cussing up a storm. Animated, John endears himself to crowds with his storytelling, earnest playing, and joyful gestures — arms raised high, sometimes standing on his kick drum like he’s testifying. Folks who’ve met him say what you see onstage is exactly who he is offstage.
Drew Nix – Guitarist, harmonica player, harmony singer, songwriter. Drew’s penned or co-penned some of the band’s most beloved tracks, including “Wondering Why” (written for his wife Laurie Anne, who’s also a songwriter) and “Good Godly Woman,” which found its way into the 2019 film Dr. Sleep. A Mobile transplant from Hoover, AL, he’s written more than 100 songs since 2017, played everywhere from Red Rocks to the Ryman, and picked up an Artys Award from the Mobile Arts Council along the way.
Zach Rishel – Electric guitar, shredding with a style that sneaks up on you. Zach has just the right touch with his notes, not too many, not too few, just freakin’ soulfully right, coming from his hard rock roots. He’s private by nature, known for his playing more than his press, and happily so.
Sevans Henderson – Keyboards that haunt, holler, and hold it all together. Sevans met the band while they were touring with Elle King, blew them away with his keyboard feats, and the chemistry was instant. He’s the newest member and now a fixture, splitting time between Nashville and the road.
Matthew Coleman – non-band-member, songwriter, videographer, social media mind, and documentarian. He’s usually the one catching lightning in a frame — at shows, in posts, and during backstage moments. This blurry beauty (photographer unknown) is what happens when Matthew isn’t behind the lens. (wink, wink)
Roots & Routes
Ask the Strays about their influences, and you’ll hear a jukebox that skips from honky tonk to hip hop, blues to hard rock, and back again. Brandon grins when folks compare him to Elvis or Johnny Cash — he leans into the joke, even if his voice and style have been shaped more by persistence than impersonation. Andy grew up with B.B. King, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Albert King spinning on his dad’s stereo, bringing that blues backbone into the band’s songwriting.
Zach and John share a harder rock streak, built on ’70s riffs and alt-rock bite. John’s honky tonk pedigree runs deep — his grandmother, his father, and now him, all playing in bars where George Jones is gospel and Billy Joe Shaver is scripture. Drew’s musical diet started with Country Music Television in the mornings, took a sharp turn into hip hop (Kendrick Lamar lit the songwriting spark), and circled back through the outlaw country storytelling of Skynyrd, John Prine, and Merle Haggard.
And then there’s Sevans Henderson whose style nods to those country-rock forebears — he even modeled his stage look on Gram Parsons’s Nudie suit — bringing a classic flair that colors their sound. No wonder the Strays resist any single genre — they’re built from too many good ones.
Put it all together, and you get a sound that’s as layered as the lives behind it — and a group of musicians who wear those roots in how they live, not just how they play.
Calling the Strays “salt of the earth” doesn’t even begin to cover the band and their team. These are ordinary Southerners with extraordinary gifts — polite enough to say “yes, ma’am,” and “no, ma’am,” grounded enough to know where they came from, and determined not to let success make them doubt people.
From the Ground Up
Covid knocked the wind out of their sails for a spell, but they came back swinging. Giving folks from every walk of life something bigger than themselves to believe in.
In the quiet stretch when live music disappeared, Brandon sold roofs along the Gulf Coast. After a string of hurricanes, Brandon can look back and now admit, with a half-grin, “I’m not a good salesman.”
Meanwhile, Andy picked up work with an insurance adjuster, trying to help people pick up the pieces.
They did what they had to do, trading guitars for clipboards — not for glory, just to get by. That working-class backbone still shows in every chord they play.
When the lock-down lifted, the Strays set out to be the hardest working band in America — and in 2023 alone, they played 150 shows to prove it.
Drew started out as the booking agent for the original trio — Brandon, Andy, and John Hall (who was there for only the last two months of that lineup’s run) — and couldn’t even play guitar when they asked him to jump onstage for backup vocals. So Drew fake-strummed his way through those first gigs… then actually learned. And boy, did he learn.
Along the way, they built a discography that charts their rise — from indie beginnings to major-label firepower to a live show so good it had to be recorded. Brandon will tell you he prefers live recording in a good-sounding room with a simple microphone, where the energy is captured, rather than the overly complicated recording process of soundproof rooms, individual tracks, and effects and reverb later added through a computer.
“I think that’s why people enjoy seeing us live,” Brandon says, “seeing the chemistry as we perform with each other, and that energy has to be captured on recordings as well.”
Let it be… comfortable.
Discography
Moment of Truth (2022, indie) – Self-produced, crowd-funded (Kickstarter goal of $20K, raised $57K in the first week). “This record was five years in the making — us touring, playing shows, writing, working, and finally getting it recorded,” Brandon told the Real Life Real Music podcast.
Made by These Moments (2024, RCA) – Produced by Dave Cobb; the band’s first major-label release.
Live at the Ryman (2024, RCA) – Produced by Dave Cobb; recorded during their debut performance at the iconic Nashville venue.
They’ve gone from playing for tips to opening for the Rolling Stones in May 2024 (just after performing on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon) — a leap that didn’t happen overnight, but sure as hell happened.
And no band just stumbles into the Ryman Auditorium. You get there by earning it — by road-dogging it, learning to read a room, build a moment, and hold a crowd. Learning how to turn a restless room into a roaring one. And when the Strays walked out on that Grand-Ole-Opry-haunted stage, the audience could feel every mile they’d traveled to get there.
If you listen closely to their Live at the Ryman album, you’ll hear the voice of fellow Alabama artist Taylor Honeycutt — a longtime friend who came up alongside them and joined them on that sacred stage. They love inviting kindred spirits to sing onstage.
And then, in early August 2025, they found themselves opening for Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan — two troubadours who’ve walked a thousand roads, sung a million truths, and stood up for the everyman/woman along the way. They shared the stage with Willie — the Red Headed Stranger whose voice can still carry a heartache across the plains, who’s raised millions for farmers through Farm Aid and never stopped singing for the working folks.
Matthew says folks ask all the time when the Strays’ll know they’ve “made it.” In an Instagram post, he said that moment became clear — standing onstage with Willie.
Being onstage with Willie, and on the bill with Dylan, is the kind of moment that cements a band’s place in the story of American music, and in the stories they grew up hearing — stories built by legends, carried from porch to porch by kinfolk, and kept alive in the telling. And make no mistake — with the Strays, “kin” isn’t just a figure of speech.
Opening for Willie Nelson — the outlaw poet whose songs have carried America’s stories for more than sixty years — and the ever-elusive Bob Dylan is more than a milestone. For the Strays, it’s a thread woven into the fabric of music history.
As with most Southern families, kin runs deep in the Strays’ world — the kind of deep where you know who your people are and you show up for ’em, no matter what.
Step inside Ralph Coleman’s place, father to the Coleman brothers, and you’ll see his devotion on full display — concert posters covering the walls, frame by frame, each one a mile marker in the band’s journey. He’ll run out of wall space one day, but don’t worry — the ceiling’s next, and he’ll use it. Proud father of five grown kids and a loyal fan of the Strays, Ralph shows up to see them play as often as he can.
And if those posters are mile markers, then the road ahead is wide open — carrying the Strays from Turnerville’s red clay to the biggest stages in the country and beyond our borders, proof that no matter how far they travel, they’re still made of the same dirt and raised by the same kind of people who’ll always save them a seat at the table.
“We weren’t rich,” Ralph says of raising his children, “but we had a roof and food.” And they had each other. Still do.
Matthew isn’t the only Coleman shaping the Strays’ look—Macie, Brandon’s wife, is Macie B Photography, and she shot the Moment of Truth cover and handled photography/design on Made By These Moments; she’s also credited as creative director on the ‘Wanna Be Loved’ video.
Brandon adds another layer to the family story. He says his great-great-grandmother was “straight-up Cherokee,” a thread in the tapestry passed down — not written down, but remembered. And like most stories in the South, it’s not about paperwork. It’s about what lives in the heart, in the bone, and in the telling.
In Turnerville, those stories run through the red clay like a hidden spring — quiet, steady, and part of what keeps everything alive.
So when young musicians ask Brandon for advice, he doesn’t talk about chasing record deals or viral fame. (Though having a social media guru like Matthew can’t hurt one bit.)
All you need is a manager and a booking agent,” Brandon says. “We only signed with RCA so we could play Europe — and they came to us.” Before that, they’d spent years waiting on a different record company that never delivered — an experience that lit a fire under them, made them glad to cut loose, so they could get moving, and also sparked the song “Wasting Time.”
Their confidence is rooted in more than just business sense. They’re not a church-going bunch, but as we’ve already seen, they are spiritual to the bone — each member carrying echoes of the pews they grew up in, whether Southern Baptist, Catholic, Pentecostal, or nondenominational.
“God gives you talent and drive,” Brandon says, “and then gives you a platform—and you raise Him up.”
That reverence, along with a dose of humility, is what keeps them grounded and close, even when the road gets long. They might not pass the plate, but they don’t forget who gave them the stage.
You can feel their spirit — that hidden spring, ancient, still running under their boots and their chords, feeding their camaraderie and their sound. Always the sound.
Brandon Coleman reaching & preaching the gospel of high-octane, heart-on-sleeve Southern Rock.
Full Circle at the Wharf
The Strays kicked off their Get Right 2025 Tour over Fourth of July weekend at The Wharf Amphitheater in Mobile, AL — practically their hometown, at least their stomping grounds, and one of the few places that still earns a rare three-day run. Fireworks overhead, family in the crowd and backstage, and longtime fans singing every word. They’ve learned to pace themselves on the road — no more back-to-back-to-back shows — but coming home? That was worth the three-gig stretch.
Fireworks weren’t the only thing making folks misty-eyed at The Wharf that July night in Mobile. Brandon stepped up to the mic and told a story that could hush a crowd. Back in 2017 or maybe 2018, they’d just played down the road at The Intercoastal when they heard Chris Stapleton was headlining The Wharf. Trouble was, they didn’t have two nickels to rub together for tickets.
So they did what any music-starved, broke-as-a-busted-guitar-string band would do — they moved to the closest outer-limit they could find, just outside the fence, and listened hard. Couldn’t see much, but they sure could hear, and that was enough to light a little fire they’ve carried with them ever since.
“And now this,” Brandon said, standing on The Wharf stage, looking out at the vast field of faces — their vast field of faces — packed into that gulf-side amphitheater, the very place they couldn’t afford to get into just a few years back. Maybe there were even some up-and-coming musicians in the outer limits, behind the fence that night, listening hard to the Strays and taking in lessons for their own climb.
“Now this,” Brandon said, marveling at the thousands of faces turned toward him.
Makes a gal wanna’ cry for their success and those struggles that got ‘em here… and for having just played with no less than Willie Nelson to boot!
That’s the kind of full-circle moment the Strays don’t shrug off. They keep those lean years tucked in their back pockets like lucky rabbit’s feet, never letting the shine of the stage blind them to the shadows they came from. Maybe that’s why folks love ’em so much — the Strays remember what it felt like to be shut out, and they play every show like they’re throwing the doors wide open for the rest of us.
“Now this,” Brandon might say at every gig these days.
Come October 9, when the band hits The Amp stage under our Macon stars, don’t think too hard about what to call it. It’s something older than any label, something born of backroads and hard work, dancehalls and good intentions. It’s that old Southern Circuit sound, still alive and well, priming the next generation and the next.
If we know what’s good for us, Macon’ll open the doors for the Strays at historic Grant’s Lounge, show them into Studio A at Capricorn, and claim them as honorary Macon sons while we still can. I mean, one might swear with all earnestness that the band sprouted up from the muddy bank of Macon’s own Ocmulgee River.
So bring your neighbor, your Mama, and your babies. Bring your heart wide open, too. Because some sounds don’t just carry — they testify.
And the Red Clay Strays are about to raise up a little righteous revival right here in Macon, GA, Where Soul Lives.
Red Clay Strays Starter Pack
“I Just Wanna Be Loved” – Their platinum-certified heartbreaker
“Wondering Why” – The TikTok firestarter
Moment of Truth – Their raw, analog-cut debut
Made by These Moments – Lightning, caught twice
Live at The Ryman – Their live, rootsy altar call
Want more? Dive into their official site, download their app, or hit play on any track—but brace yourself…
…You’re gonna’ feel it.
Bonus Videos:
Check out the Red Clay Strays at the Ryman Auditorium singing I’m Still Fine.
Listen to Wondering Why, the song that ticked up on TikTok and started the group’s fast ascent.
🎟️ Want to catch them in Macon? They’ll be at The Amp on October 9 with Wilder Woods. Get tickets here.
Sources & Thanks:
Big thanks to This Past Weekend with Theo Von and Real Life Real Music for the porch-swing kind of conversations that gave us some of our favorite stories here. Other tidbits came from the band’s own social posts, press pieces, live videos, and the usual rabbit holes a writer can’t help but wander down. All photos by Matthew Coleman (📸 @mccoleman98) unless otherwise noted.
About the Author
Cindi Brown is a Georgia-born writer, porch-sitter, and teller of truths — even the ones her Mama once pinched her for saying out loud. She runs Porchlight Press from her 1895 house with creaking floorboards and an open door for stories with soul. When she’s not scribbling about Southern music, small towns, stray cats, places she loves, and the wild gospel that hums in red clay soil, you’ll find her out listening for the next thing worth saying.
