For the rock journalist, there is no greater joy than a musician living up to their mythology. As the Zoom call connects, the Marty Stuart of our mind’s eye is suddenly sat opposite us in a Memphis dressing room. Soundcheck might be an hour away, but the famously dapper country star already looks the part. Black scarf. Black jacket. Black hat. Black everything, in fact, except the stray silver hair that speaks of his 64 trips around the sun. A slightly evaluating look on his face, perhaps, while he waits a moment to establish if we’re an idiot or not. But then a palpable thaw, as Stuart relaxes into his witty and generous interview manner, never far from an anecdote or rumbling chuckle.
And what anecdotes he has at his disposal. Stuart is fascinating company for his solo career alone, which got motoring in the late 80s when he signed to MCA and reignites this year after a half-decade silence with the excellent . But it’s worth reminding yourself, too, that this man cut his teeth with bluegrass giant Lester Flatt, held his own in Johnny Cash’s road band, recently toured with the remnants of The Byrds and still owns the heavily modded Telecaster first owned by that band’s fallen legend,
