Lucinda Williams strides into the room with the quiet confidence of someone who’s seen it all and written it down, only to see it all again. With a career spanning 40 years and more accolades than she'd ever care to tally, Williams is still here, still writing, and still redefining what Americana even means. Whether it’s the jagged beauty of Car Wheels on a Gravel Road—which turns 20 this year—or her recent jazz collaboration with Charles Lloyd, she’s not content to let her music or her legacy sit still.
Talking to Lucinda Williams is like trying to pin down a wildfire: it’s chaotic, deeply insightful, and burns with a rare intensity. As she celebrates a landmark year, she opened up about the evolution of her music, her unexpected foray into jazz, and how Car Wheels nearly didn’t make it to the finish line.
Two decades later, Car Wheels on a Gravel Road still feels like a gut punch. It’s an album that doesn’t age, thanks in part to the stories etched into its grooves. But the road to get there? Fraught with detours. The album was famously recorded and re-recorded, scrapped, and salvaged, resulting in years of tension and creative friction.
"I’ve told this story a million times," she says, half-exasperated, half-laughing. "But the truth is, I didn’t want to make another Sweet Old World. I wanted something bigger, bolder, and... better. And yeah, that took a few tries."
At one point, it was Steve Earle who helped guide her forward. After inviting her to sing on his track "You’re Still Standing There," he became a catalyst for the album’s eventual direction. "He handed me the rough mixes for El Corazón, and I compared them to what I had at the time. It was like a slap in the face—his stuff sounded alive, and mine didn’t. That’s when I knew I needed to shake things up."
One of Car Wheels’ standout tracks, "Drunken Angel," feels more poignant than ever, especially with Ethan Hawke’s biopic on Blaze Foley rekindling interest in the late songwriter. But Williams didn’t set out to mythologize Foley—or anyone, for that matter.
"I didn’t know Blaze well. Honestly, half the time he was so messed up you couldn’t really get to know him," she admits. "There’s all this mythology about Blaze and Townes [Van Zandt], but it was a boys’ club. I was just this girl on the outside, watching these guys self-destruct."
Still, the song transcends specifics, capturing something universal about talent, tragedy, and self-sabotage. "I get pissed off when people waste their gifts like that," she says bluntly. "But that’s what makes the story—and the song—so compelling, isn’t it?"
If Car Wheels is the gold standard of Americana, Williams’ latest project, Vanished Gardens, is a sharp left turn. A collaboration with jazz legend Charles Lloyd, the album finds her navigating unfamiliar terrain with the same ease as her road-worn folk-rock.
"It just felt... natural," she says of the project. "Charles isn’t your typical jazz cat—he’s played with everyone from the Beach Boys to Howlin’ Wolf. So when we first performed together, it just clicked. It didn’t feel like stepping out of my comfort zone; it felt like expanding it."
Tracks like "Dust" showcase this seamless blend, with Williams’ gravelly vocals weaving through Lloyd’s freeform arrangements. "The biggest challenge was knowing when to jump back in," she laughs. "Charles would go off on these solos, and I’d just sit there, thinking, ‘Is it my turn yet?’ But that’s what makes it fun—every show, every song, feels like its own adventure."
With her memoirs on the horizon and new songs in the works, Williams shows no signs of slowing down. "People keep asking if I’m going to retire," she says, rolling her eyes. "What else am I supposed to do? Sit around and knit? As long as people still want to hear my music, I’m not going anywhere."
And then there’s her next album—a project she hints will include some "topical songs," à la Dylan’s protest era. "Writing those kinds of songs is hard," she says. "You’ve got to walk that line between saying something meaningful and not beating people over the head with it. But I’m up for the challenge."
At 40 years into her career, Lucinda Williams isn’t just surviving—she’s thriving. Whether it’s revisiting the raw power of Car Wheels, collaborating with jazz royalty, or penning new material, she’s proof that great art isn’t about reinvention; it’s about staying true to yourself while letting the music—and life—take the wheel.
As we wrap up, she leans back, grinning. "It’s funny," she says. "People keep talking about these anniversaries like they’re milestones. But for me, it’s all just part of the journey." And what a journey it’s been.
Listen to the interview above and then check out the videos below.
