NASHVILLE SPECIAL 2024: NATE SMITH'S WORLD IS ON FIRE

Like John Prine, who wrote “Paradise” to capture the devastation to his grandparents’ hometown in Muhlenberg County, Kentucky, breakout sensation Nate Smith has lodged a historic run at the top of the Country radio charts with “World on Fire,” a metaphor for a relationship’s end that draws from the catastrophic fires that leveled his own hometown of Paradise, California.

But for the bearded power singer, who’d moved from worship leader with a penchant for the occasional toke to feeling less hypocritical as a critical-care-nurse-in-training, the blaze set a different kind of fire in his heart. Regardless of being in his mid-30s, husky and more pounding, emo-power-leaning a la Nirvana than Bro-co beer-bonging, he believed his life had been spared for something. Recognizing how potent a force of comfort, change and celebration music can be, Smith headed to Nashville with his last $14 to stake his claim.

More than merely staking a claim, he’s become the talk of country music as he matches chart feats by Kenny Chesney (twice), Tim McGraw and Luke Combs with a seven-week stretch at #1 on Country radio with “World.” Indeed, if “Whiskey On You” was the first hit, a breakup song where straight-talk healing trumps wallowing in it, his latest smash digs deep into how awful it can feel.

Some journey!

When I turned 30, I wanted to live as authentically as possible, which means learning to self-accept. Country music embraces authenticity and is a place where I can 100 percent tell my story, exactly as it happened. Come as I am, instead of how people tell me I should be.

“Whiskey On You” came straight out of a breakup. We were always having fights about alcohol: “Do you have to have another drink?” I was pissed off, and that song got me through it. We’d broken up, and she’d moved on to someone new. I didn’t know beyond what I was feeling, and it hit a nerve.

Did she know it was about her?

We reconnected eight months ago, and I thought she was gonna be pissed. But she said, “Every time I hear it, I turn it up. I’m so proud of you.”

Authenticity works. You had a deal with [Christian label] Word. You walked away from it.

When I quit being a worship leader in Folsom, California, I kept helping my brother, who was a youth pastor. But I wanted to be a stupid kid who has sex for the first time as a teenager, drink alcohol out of my parents’ liquor cabinet—and fill it up with water. You know, eight shots of José Cuervo, then tell them it was stomach flu. I’d always had a heart to serve people, but being a CMA [certified medical assistant] gave me space to not fear my true authentic self, or saying what I really wanted to. So it felt like that was a better way to live.

And then the fire...

There was a fire map that showed you where the fire was going to be, how it was moving. I shouldn’t be here, because I worked overnight shifts—and I would’ve been home asleep after work when the fire burned down where I lived. It was a miracle.

Your grandparents really loved country music.

They loved Patsy Cline so much. Gene Autry too. Elvis, Garth.

And you?

I had a Talkboy from Home Alone. I sang along to Hootie & the Blowfish. Then Bush was next, then Nirvana. Nirvana is still my favorite. Bush, too, really felt heavy to me. First time I heard “Machinehead,” it really hit me. Creed, blink-182, back in the day.

That’s definitely your undertow.

It’s crazy right now, where you can come from. Megan Moroney has this raspy, almost Alanis Morissette thing to her. To me, there are three kinds of country: neo-traditional, that’s happening in Texas; the Zach Bryan thing, which is stripped back; and the pop-country radio stuff. The Texas thinking’s that that’s the only kind of country, but I think we can all exist together and should

And what are you?

I make songs for the broken. I’m broken in a lot of ways, and I’m still broken. I have a lot of damage from my childhood, other stuff. So these songs are really just that—real life, my life, my way. I get the relatability of trucks and hunting and those things for some people. But I’m into the relatability of the broken stuff, people who’re hurting. Being a CMA, there’s a lot of blood, doing chest compressions in front of the family, thinking, “Man, I hope this works out.” Instead of becoming desensitized, it made me more compassionate. I think it’s maybe my faith, but I just love people so much. I want my music to tell them they’re seen.

Sonically?

You need to have a clear vision of yourself as an artist, and that’s even sonically. I get it. I’ll be in there going “No, no, we need doubles on that, and no delay.” I want the records to have force, to really come through you and release what’s inside.

How crazy was the decision to move to Nashville?

Look, I’m not the most handsome dude. I’m a chubby guy who’s not even the best singer. Right? But I believe that God loves to take the unqualified—and qualify them.

He sure does. Even your journey to Nashville.

I got in my Honda Civic that wasn’t in the greatest operating shape, with the busted front bumper. I was going to drive across America. I’d paid my first month’s rent. I was down to my last $14, and my dad gave me another $500. When I was driving, I stopped in Frisco, Colorado, and set my tent up. I’d called home. My dad asked, “What kind of sleeping bag have you got?” Then he said, “I’m gonna get in the car, come out and get you a better sleeping bag.” At my core, I wanted to make my dad proud—and now, well, all of it. I was able recently to fly across the country with a Rolex watch and give it to him instead of being worried about my car payment or needing $100.

Awesome.

My team’s on salary now, band and crew. One’s buying a house. That means the world to me.

And the fans?

They’re coming to the shows to hear me tell the stories. They wanna look me in the eye and see that I really mean these songs that they’re seeing their lives in; that I am as close as they think I am to being real. That matters—to them and to me. I look forward to hugging every single person who found some strength or some hope. And I want people to know it’s never too late. You don’t have to stay in the victim mentality. Something, anything can happen—even something bad like the fire that destroyed where I lived—and you can find a miracle. But you have to seek it, then act on it with real commitment.