#2468 - Luke Grimes

We’re rolling—love your show, man; Yellowstone’s a monster—did you see this level coming?

It’s out now, and none of us expected it to blow up like this; Taylor was on fire in film and somehow wrote all this TV too.

He’s a unicorn; it reminds me of how Unforgiven made westerns feel real again.

That movie’s wild because the hero looks washed until one choice flips him, and Taylor’s own scrappy backstory explains his engine.

He hustled late, had a kid on the way, and never lifted his foot; I tell him to slow down and skip golf before it eats his life.

I won’t touch golf because I’m obsessive; I got that fix with pool and it took over my nights.

Balancing acting, music, and a toddler means I write and record for joy, but touring only works if you stay out for blocks of shows.

On the road you wake up not knowing what city you’re in; did stage fright hit you like it hit me doing stand‑up?

My first set scared me more than a fight, and I almost bailed.

I still get rocked by nerves before singing—studio’s my happy place, but seeing paid faces triggers ‘do I deserve this?’ chatter.

Almost every singer I know wrestles with that; when did you first step up to the mic?

At thirty‑nine, after a manager pressed for two years and my dad’s passing pushed me to try; I blacked out from nerves in Billings and four shows later played Stagecoach.

Oliver Anthony’s first crowd was massive, and I told him not to sign quick money because his talent would outlast a hot moment.

I joke my path wasn’t as pure, which just means the songs have to stand up.

That chip only makes you sharper; I did the podcast for fun when it paid nothing and showed up weekly until it became a life.

Did you know the UFC would become huge?

I loved it when it was in tiny gyms and people in Hollywood treated it like career suicide, but style‑versus‑style was my dream and I picked passion over optics.

L.A. can feel like everyone chasing the same invisible memo, and when your job depends on being picked you start self‑editing.

Showbiz is a comfy trap; comics sand off edges for TV, guests watch their words here, and actors still need gatekeepers while musicians can break online.

I wanted to live inside movies since I was five, but the ‘looks easy’ part hides mics in your face, a crowd of crew, and pressure on every line.

Masters like Day‑Lewis and Oldman show the gap; I’m hooked on Slow Horses, and Gandolfini changed TV by making a dangerous man human while Hunter S. shows how brilliance can get cooked by chemicals.

Vegas feels like sleeping beside a vampire; I’ve watched Dana ride six‑figure swings like it’s Tuesday, and slap‑fighting just looks like selling concussions.

We tried Austin pre‑lockdown, then lived in an Airstream and settled in Montana for work; the quiet killed my FOMO and saved my brain.

Montana’s magic and fiercely proud, so newcomers catch heat; let it go—mountains humble everybody and the land wins.

I avoid bars to dodge clout fights, I love that we can choose where to live, and my kid gets to call that place home while I sip coffee staring at a painting‑like view.

Austin’s comedy scene exploded after lockdown with headliners moving in; stand‑up’s the scariest craft, and bombing can be the loss that levels you up like a fighter after a bad night—just ask Charles Oliveira.

I wish I’d started Jiu‑Jitsu young; trying late felt like being smothered—how long till it clicks?

With drilling you’re competent in a couple years, but levels never end—Gordon Ryan trains daily and toys with killers, while Bourdain started at fifty‑eight and became obsessed; get kids on the mats and they gain quiet confidence that keeps them out of dumb street trouble.

Those Sixth Street fight clips show how fast it turns evil; sanctioned fights are high‑stakes problem‑solving, which is why one‑on‑one grabs me more than team ball.

MMA takes a rare kind of nerve, and legends like Tyson won before the bell thanks to Cus’s mind training and film study; today’s greats like Loma and Usyk move on angles most never imagine, with new phenoms rising from Dagestan, and Fedor’s calm still lives rent‑free in my head.

Live UFC hits different up close.

Cage‑side or the Apex is best because you hear every thud in a smaller cage; the White House card worries me, guys fight banged up constantly, and Brazil’s Gracie story rewired the sport—Hickson was the family’s boogeyman, Art Jimmerson wore one glove at UFC 1, I got humbled into Jiu‑Jitsu, and if you start, drill one‑on‑one so rolling doesn’t crush your ego like it can after a bag session.

That first submission blows your mind, then it’s reps and patience. Drill without resistance so your body auto‑moves; live rolls alone just make you tense and frantic.

Can you learn without getting wrecked, especially when a few guys just want to tap the TV cowboy?

Injuries happen, but smart partners cut the risk; avoid strong, spazzy blue belts. I watched a 58‑year‑old white belt with a past in addiction stick with it, compete, and win—obsession aimed at the right thing is rocket fuel.

It also re-sizes life; getting out of a choke makes Hollywood stress feel tiny. Pick something harder than your day job and the rest gets lighter.

I try to stay humble; chasing validation is a trap. Now I’m number one on the call sheet, and the insurance rules are real—horses scare me more than anything.

Fame’s weird because everyone treats you like a planet they orbit. Horses are the riskiest; my kid fell a couple times and I was done, and motorcycles lost me after friends crashed.

I tried to make bikes part of my identity until a near miss on PCH told me I didn’t love it enough to die. In Montana, my 70‑year‑old neighbor hit a deer at highway speed, shook it off, and was back riding a month later—absolute tank.

Deer are chaos, especially in the rut. If humans had one rut month, I’d hide in a bunker; funny movie pitch though—flip a yearly switch and get it over with.

I grew up whitetail hunting and thought elk would be similar—wrong. Bowhunting elk humbled me fast.

You have to build lungs and legs—Airdyne sprints, step‑ups with weight, farmer’s carries. Dress to start cold, live in merino, and know that a tree stand is like a freezing silent retreat where drawing a bow feels twice as heavy.

The mountains punished me, and my buddy moved like a goat. I get why Cam runs ultras for it.

My knee says no to running, but I condition hard. Dawn glassing is church, and Starlink minis and satellite texts now let you check in from nowhere.

A bull screaming sounds prehistoric. Getting to 65 yards, settling a pin, and then grilling that meat at home—being out there is like a vitamin for your soul.

By day three I want to move there, but schools for my kid matter, so we may keep a cabin and live closer to town. I write a lot up there; it’s the best place for songs.

Ideas feel like they arrive if you keep showing up. The War of Art nails it—treat the muse with respect, sit down daily, and let the good stuff slip through.

I get more ideas when I’m rested and clear; getting messed up never helped me like the legends claim. That rawness drove my new record—we wrote eight of ten songs the night before or day of to keep it honest.

Pressure flips on the lights. In comedy I’ll throw a half‑baked bit onstage, and under the gun the missing line shows up.

Mellencamp told me he wrote Hurt So Good in the shower and still chain‑smokes—‘find something you love and let it kill you.’

I promised my wife I’d quit smoking with the baby here, but drinks and cigs are a package for me, so I may drop both.

I paused booze, came back to a glass or two and no hangovers. The danger is shots with comics; electrolytes and liposomal glutathione help, and Van Damme crushes water between shots like a machine.

Coke never tempted me; friends can’t stop, and now fentanyl makes one bad bag a death sentence.

I watched coke turn a guy into a ghost in high school and swore it off; heroin’s a one‑and‑done hook for many. After knee surgery I loved the morphine button for a day, then painkillers made me feel stupid—no thanks.

Worst way to go? A bear starts eating you before you’re dead. I’ve seen grizzlies up close; pepper spray can fail, and in Alaska they fear people more because there’s hunting, which keeps the balance.

Bigfoot? With today’s trail cams, I doubt it, though I love the myth.

Most sightings are bears on two legs, but a giant bipedal ape once existed in Asia, and the Younger Dryas impact likely erased a lot of megafauna here—maybe that legend, too.

Flat Earth is a nonstarter; we’ve seen the globe.

Pilots ride the curve by holding altitude, and people do fly over Antarctica; secret projects may exist, but not a wall at the edge. We distrust more now because we can see so much more—Epstein, JFK, all of it.

That’s why Montana feels right; we even had a little mushroom‑lit sky show that sealed the move. Nature is the default, not concrete.

Phones are a bridge to crazy, and AI will only learn our worst moments online; it can mash up songs, but it can’t feel your neighbor’s 500‑yard range or a 70‑year‑old shaking off a deer strike.

AI songs can sound great, but I still want a human story behind the music. People love to hate once something gets huge—Coldplay, Nickelback—yet craft is craft.

This was a blast. I love your work on Yellowstone and can’t wait for the Marshals; killing the wife character hurt, but it drives the story.

We loved working together, but you can’t watch a guy be happy for fifty hours—conflict moves the train. Thanks for having me.

Taylor throws wild curveballs, and it keeps it fun. Thanks for coming by.