Jim James might not know how to play basketball, but he knows a thing or two about throwing a hometown party. What started as a couple of My Morning Jacket shows in Louisville almost accidentally became a budding festival, COVID chaos and all. “It’s like a seed,” James says, cautiously optimistic, as if he’s not entirely convinced it won’t be trampled by the realities of pulling off something ambitious in a city that already has more festivals than bourbon distilleries. “We just wanted to embrace the magic and the wonder of Louisville... and maybe start a tradition.”
Of course, “tradition” in the My Morning Jacket universe is loosely defined. After a long hiatus, a surprise archival release (The Waterfall II), and a pandemic, the band returned with a self-titled album, somehow both a reset and a continuation of their sprawling, genre-dodging catalog. “The sound of this album is five brothers coming back together and working it out,” says drummer Patrick Hallahan. So, yeah, if it sounds breezier, it’s because they finally remembered how to enjoy being a band again.
But don’t mistake breezy for brainless. James has been deep in his feelings, as usual, grappling with alienation, public perception, and the ever-present need to project hope while still trying to figure out life himself. “I’m still incredibly lost,” he admits, not even pretending otherwise. “But I want our music to be like a hug. A reminder that there’s love out there.”
And if you're expecting them to have a master plan for all of this—music, festivals, spiritual guidance—don’t. “You can’t curate every second of every day,” Hallahan says. “We’re just stewards, paying attention to what’s in front of us.”
What’s in front of them now is a Louisville love letter disguised as a concert series. They’d even roped in the Louisville Leopards, the city’s beloved kids’ percussion group, for a little extra competition. “I might have done myself in,” Hallahan jokes, fully aware that those kids might just steal the show. Again.
There’s talk of expansion, of weaving into the city's already overflowing cultural fabric, but for now, it’s about making each hometown show unique. “We’ve played every venue in town,” Hallahan says, “so now we want each time to be special.”
As for the record, James insists that spirit—not strategy—dictated the outcome. “You have all these thoughts of what you want a record to be, but spirit always takes over,” he says. “It’s like gardening. Some seeds grow, some don’t.”
One seed that sprouted hard? “Complex,” a track that channels James’ lifelong discomfort with existence into a full-blown rock eruption. “I feel like aliens will look back at my music and say, ‘This guy was super confused.’” But it’s not just navel-gazing. It’s a critique of capitalist brutality, of art being devalued, of climbing ladders for the sake of... what, exactly? “It just all feels so complex sometimes.”
And while fans might look to James and MMJ as guides, he’s not buying into the guru thing. “I don’t think about that,” he says. “I just hope people find some comfort in the music.” He’s more focused on the universal contradictions—public vs. private self, success vs. happiness—and on making it clear that no one, not even rock stars, has it all figured out.
Still, they’re not done. The MMJ Live archival series is just getting started, with volumes two and three already in the works. But don’t expect a dump of board tapes. “We want to honor the shows,” Hallahan says. “Not just rush it out.”
So, My Morning Jacket is back—or maybe they never left, depending on your definition. Either way, they’re planting new seeds, playing it by feel, and hoping, like the rest of us, to find something that feels like home. Even if home is as complex as everything else.
Listen to the interview above and then check out the videos below.
