Over the last several years, Justin Wells has been quietly, stubbornly, and courageously rebuilding himself.
He put down the bottle more than five years ago. He walked into the gym and stayed there. He took a hard look at the man in the mirror and decided that survival wasn’t enough anymore; growth was the goal. Wells talks openly about getting his brain and body right, about the daily work of becoming healthier, clearer, and more present. Sobriety reshaped not just his life, but his relationship with his own songs. Lyrics he wrote in darker days hit differently now. Some feel like messages from a stranger. Others feel like mile markers on a road he’s still traveling.
Most nights, Justin Wells is setting fuses in loud rock clubs, backed by a full band, guitars howling and rooms buzzing with rowdy energy. But on Saturday, January 31st at 7pm, inside the basement listening room of the Midnight Slip, you’ll see something rarer: this bear of a man in his most vulnerable state. No wall of sound to hide behind. No bombast. Just songs, stories, and the kind of emotional honesty that only comes when an artist has nothing left to prove and nothing to mask.
Ahead of the show, Wells Zoomed in for an in-depth conversation on the Midwest Mixtape Podcast, where Wells’ discussed the craft of songwriting. For him, songwriting is less about chasing hooks and more about chasing truth. He treats songs like living documents of who he is in a given moment, which is why he resists repeating himself or leaning too heavily on past formulas. A Wells song often begins as a feeling or a question rather than a clever line, then gets carved down patiently until only the most honest words remain. He’s unafraid to let the seams show, to leave in the rough edges if they carry emotional weight. Each record, each song, is a timestamp of a man documenting change in real time. The craft lies not in perfection but in authenticity, in creating music that feels lived-in enough that listeners can find their own stories inside it.
At his core, Wells sees himself as a rock artist, even if many listeners and industry labels try to file him under “country.”
“I think we’re a rock band,” he said. “They call us country, and I think that’s mostly because of my accent or some of the influences.”
That refusal to be neatly categorized is matched by a refusal to repeat himself. Each of his records carries a distinct sonic identity, a deliberate evolution rather than a retread.
That philosophy extends to his live shows. His solo performances are not stripped-down replicas of his full-band sets.
“I’m not just trying to play exactly the same as I play with my band and just do the MTV Unplugged version.”
Instead, the solo setting becomes its own art form, slower and more exposed, built to create an emotional conversation with the room.
That emotional directness is also present in how Wells talks about the world beyond music. In a time of constant political shouting matches, he advocates for something disarmingly simple: compassion.
“We can’t let compassion take a backseat to these team politics,” he said, comparing modern political tribalism to picking sides like a football game. He’s found that moving heated social media exchanges into private messages often turns enemies into humans again. For Wells, political affiliation should never become a person’s entire identity. Conversations across differences, starting from a place of shared humanity, matter more than winning arguments.
The same humility shows up when he reflects on his own past. Songs like “The Dogs,” now one of his most celebrated tracks, once felt almost too inside-baseball to release. Today it stands alongside classic road-worn anthems, its meaning shifting as Wells himself has changed. His catalog has become a series of timestamps: Dawn in the Distance (2016) felt like songs for himself, The United State (2020) like songs for everyone else, and Cynthiana (2025) like songs for her. Rough and vulnerable. Loud and whispered. Frenzied, then glacial. Kentucky and Louisiana. Ebb and flow.
Heart music.
Looking toward 2026 after a strong 2025, his biggest hope isn’t chart positions or bigger rooms.
“I hope that I can be a better man.”
There is new music on the horizon, but it will arrive on its own terms. Quality over quantity. Growth over comfort. Evolution over repetition.
All of that makes the Midnight Slip show more than just another date on the calendar. It’s a chance to see Justin Wells as he is right now: sober, stronger, still healing, still searching, and still writing songs that meet people exactly where they are.
Justin Wells performs Saturday, January 31st at 7pm at the Midnight Slip in Ste. Genevieve, Missouri, with Chris Welch opening.
The Barn 