#2402 - Miranda Lambert

We kick off loose and messy—head’s loud, room’s louder—and I joke that my brain’s chaos is part of the creative deal while we fiddle with the sound.

In‑ears saved my hearing, but I still miss the room’s energy; I grew up on loud honky-tonks, so it’s a trade I accept.

So many musicians and hunters from back in the day didn’t protect their ears; they’re paying for it now.

Selective hearing is real at home too; if my husband repeats my list back to me, somehow the bananas still don’t make it back.

How’d you get into shooting from horseback—this wild west training with balloons?

A friend in Scottsdale who’s a multiple-time world champ pulled me in; I started last year, forgot earplugs once, and instantly learned why a musician should wear them.

It demands full focus—like archery for me—there’s no space for laundry lists when you’re steering a horse and firing.

That’s the draw; I wanted a new challenge at forty to get out of my head and away from music‑industry thinking.

Artists need hobbies; golf, pool, fishing—anything that resets the brain.

I just started golf and got thrown into a celebrity Ryder Cup; practicing under tour pressure at something you’re not good at is humbling and electric.

The reset matters; otherwise you go nuts when your whole life is show business.

Writers have to live to have something to write; new people and new places keep me from repeating myself.

A friend of mine disappears off‑grid for months to come back weird in the best way; total immersion changes you.

Mine’s simpler—balloons and golf—but I love the tunnel vision; it’s a clean mental break.

Archery gives me that silence; you can only think about the shot, and you return lighter.

I dusted off bows in 2020 and taught my New York City husband to shoot; that quiet focus is medicine.

Did you bowhunt?

I did—tree stand, ground blind, white-tail—but I bottle‑fed a buck and that changed everything for me.

My wife fed an injured deer once; it’s hard to hunt after you see how quickly they warm to you.

Texas is filled with deer and I’m a full‑on animal softie; that’s why I brought dog toys.

Tell me about your rescue work.

My mom and I started MuttNation in 2009; we’ve raised over eleven million dollars, promote spay and neuter, and give grants to shelters in every state instead of running our own.

Allergies have hit my house hard—horses set my kid off in Rome—and Texas air will get you after a few years.

Nashville and Austin are brutal for allergies; I live on antihistamines because I refuse to give up horses and dogs.

Austin’s worth it; the comedy scene exploded here during lockdown when we kept rooms open and people moved to perform.

I went about eleven months without a show, then did a five‑night run at Billy Bob’s; I cried on night one because it felt like the old honky‑tonk days.

Do you protect down time now?

Winter’s my reset; last year I rode with cowgirls in Arizona and realized I need to stop being the person who overfills my own calendar.

Creativity’s a battery; you need charging time.

Musicians sit a lot, so my breaks have to be active; it clears my body and my mind.

How do you write—alone or with others?

I love co‑writing, and I do desert trips with friends for The Marfa Tapes; that landscape changes the songs and the mood.

Green rooms work the same for comics; riffing sparks ideas you’d never find alone.

Mentoring younger artists is fuel; their first‑gate energy reminds me to chase that feeling too.

Do you get nervous?

It’s not nerves, it’s anticipation; the good kind that says, here we go.

I like scary; fewer people try it, which is why I leaned into fighting and comedy.

Comedy’s the rawest—showing your whole hand and hoping the room laughs is the bravest move in show business.

First time I tried stand‑up, I was more scared than any fight; then I saw everyone starts bad and gets better the same way you do in a gym.

I first sang an original at sixteen because my dad, a cop and songwriter, inspired me; I didn’t win, but I left thinking I might belong.

No backup plan can make you hungrier, though it’s risky advice.

Music was the only thing that came easy; school and sports were hard, so I doubled down and worked like crazy.

Who pushed you to find your onstage voice?

A teacher forced me into honors speech and debate when I barely spoke; it cracked the shell I needed to talk to crowds between songs.

We riff on Prince, whose alien‑level talent made heels and falsetto irrelevant; charisma like that can’t be taught.

He was singular and fearless; copying him only proved no one else could be him.

You lived in Soho when your NYPD husband was still on the job; that city has you vibrating at a four all day.

I wandered, wrote songs like one about a fire escape, and learned I still need to touch grass; farm days settle his nervous system and mine.

Cops see carnage every day and carry it without applause; a lot of PTSD goes unnamed.

Both our families are police and fire, so we get the weight of it; nobody talks about their minds, they just come home and shut the world off.

Pool is my meditation; the balls don’t care who you are, and the geometry plus spin demands total calm, which is why pros chase that elusive dead‑stroke state.

Hearing you describe it made my heart race; now I get why it’s a mental sport that can drive you mad.

Were you always athletic?

Not really; golf and mounted shooting are my first true sports because music ate my teens.

Do you believe in fate?

I do—career breaks and even how I met my husband feel guided; West Texas skies make it hard not to believe.

Let’s talk nicotine pouches, because you tried one; nicotine itself can be cognitively helpful, it’s the smoke that’s harmful.

Writers in Nashville use them because words are our currency; I want focus without living on stimulants.

Vapes are a different beast; mystery flavors, sugar spikes, and that first hit you chase all day make them sticky and risky, especially for kids.

And the gas station ones feel sketchy; I don’t want heat or unknown oils near a singer’s throat.

Adderal’s handed out like candy, and parents game the system for extra test time; prescriptions jumped by the tens of millions in recent years.

People microdose mushrooms now too, but sourcing and dosing scare me; I’m cautious about anything that could hijack the day.

Do you do social media?

I try to keep it light; I know TikTok breaks artists, but I don’t want another firehose—my team can flag what matters.

My wife uses an app that locks her out—you feel human again after a long stretch off; it’s great for promotion but rough on attention.

I stapled posters to poles and begged radio to play my songs; I’m grateful there’s now a faster lane even if it can swallow you.

Oliver Anthony went from selling equipment to stadium‑big overnight; I told him not to sign anything and to remember the second song matters most.

When fame comes first, you still have to earn your voice in reverse; that part is unavoidable.

Kids chasing fame without a craft end up empty; being known for nothing is a hollow game.

Fulfillment comes from doing the thing, even if you’re bad at first; I paint little folk‑art chickens terribly and it still makes me happy.

Your chicken paintings cracked me up, but I love that you’re trying new stuff. So, do you keep chickens?

I do, and I paint ’em while my husband’s cooking. They eat table scraps like champs, but weirdly turned their beaks up at breakfast casserole and biscuits.

Chickens are savage little dinosaurs. I learned it when a mouse hit our coop—those hens hunted it like raptors, and I’ve since seen clips of them snatching mice from cats.

That blows my mind. I love dinosaurs, so maybe that’s why I love chickens.

Hens will brood even without a rooster, and it’s sad when they pluck feathers trying to nest. Roosters can be real jerks; I gave mine away before I turned him into soup, which you’d have to slow-cook anyway.

Ours attacked too, and my dad handled it. Through my rescue work we’ve helped bust cockfighting operations—it’s cruel, normalized in some places, and hard to rehab those birds.

Where it’s cultural, they’ll gamble on it and eat the loser, but dogfighting wrecks me more. Pit bulls can be incredibly loving, yet that bred prey drive makes the bad cases scary.

They’re overrepresented in shelters and unfairly judged. With the right screening and owners, many are fantastic; it just requires honest vetting and responsible adoption.

The challenge is you often don’t see dog-on-dog issues until they’re around other dogs, and then it’s chaos. Some breeds were literally built to brawl.

Exactly, certain homes can handle that energy. My bandmate fosters pitties, sets the hierarchy day one, and it works. People should match the dog to their lifestyle to avoid heartbreak returns.

Great Pyrenees are a sweet-guard mix until a coyote appears, then it’s game on. My golden is an angel—unless you’re a squirrel. Wild to think every dog started as a wolf; my Cavalier now is just a cuddle machine.

Adopt if you can. I always wonder who first turned a wolf into a friend.

Likely cavefolk by a fire tossing bones, then came guard work, then herding, then specific jobs. It’s the most extreme human–animal makeover ever.

Watching bird dogs and police K-9s do their thing is unreal.

Belgian Malinois are next-level—fast, fearless, and brilliant. Compared to a German shepherd weaving around obstacles, a Mali just launches over everything like a living projectile; they stare at you like they’re running calculations.

You never know if it’s cuddle time or mission time, so I’ll take the couch dogs at home.

There’s also that giant Caucasian shepherd, a wooly wolf-stopper that looks like a werewolf.

On people food versus pet food, anything shelf-stable forever can’t be great. It’s like living off Cheetos in a cabin; you’ll survive, but you won’t feel amazing.

I still put Cheetos on my rider. And touring makes drinking feel like part of the job.

I mostly quit because I felt better right away. Booze is fun and social, and some of our wildest shows were tipsy, but health-wise it’s a trade I don’t need most nights.

The road memories are real, though. My personal rule: two martinis max—if someone’s on a third in the afternoon, something’s brewing.

Some comics crush martinis, but the clear-liquor-is-better story is mostly wishful thinking, and plenty of tequila isn’t even proper agave. Tequila’s a very specific brand of chaos if you overdo it.

It’s the wrong-night, wrong-call kind of drunk if you push it.

Booze lowers walls, so it pairs with music and comedy. Live shows are the real medicine; a great song can hit like a drug—pure emotion, no hangover.

That’s why I write. When people say a song helped them through something, that’s everything. My rowdy tracks can spark pit scuffles, so I’ll pause and cool the crowd if it gets too hot.

It’s rare to trigger that kind of energy. Those songs must crush at the gym, too.

Come see it live. You’ll get a front-row lesson in crowd physics.

You killed at the McConaughey fundraiser. Lucas Nelson also floored me—serious range when he leans into that soul.

He sings with his whole body, bending back on his knees mid-solo like a rubber band. Pilates helps me ride better, and it’s harder than it looks.

Pilates humbled me, too. Those stabilizers fire up, and even sitting posture matters more than you think.

I started riding at thirty, took English lessons for fundamentals, tried hunter-jumper and hit the dirt, then showed my gypsy vanners before switching to mounted shooting. It’s timed, ten balloon targets, five shots per revolver, swap mid-run, and there are dozens of patterns.

People also do mounted archery and rifles. With rifles you drop the reins and steer with your legs; it’s wild to watch at tactical-style ranges.

We shoot at a huge desert facility near Scottsdale and even added a little rodeo arena. We use black powder blanks and ear protection for safety, but folks online will gripe no matter what.

You’ll never please everyone. Best to avoid the TikTok whirlpool and keep moving. Want to land the plane?

We covered the country checklist—chickens, dogs, guns, and guitars.

You’re a blast to talk to, and I love your music. I’ll try to catch you on the road in February—ever play Austin?

Not in a while, but I’m here all the time and need to get it on the books. Find me on the socials and at MirandaLambert dot com.

Thank you so much. Bye, everybody.