Dylan Bradley is a Nashville-based country artist with roots planted deep in the hills of Western Pennsylvania. His music blends Modern Country with Americana, telling stories of hometowns, heartbreak, and the roads that always seem to lead back home. Influenced by artists like Morgan Wallen, Stephen Wilson JR., and Ruston Kelly, Dylan pairs memorable hooks with honest lyrics that capture the grit and nostalgia of everyday life. Whether he’s writing about love that won’t let go or the pride of where he came from, every song feels authentic.
With a sound that’s both familiar and unmistakably his own, Dylan is building a catalog for anyone who’s ever missed a place, a person, or the version of themselves they left behind. We caught up to discuss his music and latest offering, “Read My Mind”.
Dylan, Thanks for taking the time to speak with Occhi. When you think back to Oakdale, Pennsylvania, what’s the first sound that feels like it built you—something you didn’t realize was shaping your ear until years later?
I think the first sound that really built me was just the mix of everything I heard growing up around Oakdale. My family listened to a lot of country—Brooks & Dunn and modern country, that kind of stuff—but at the same time, being from the Pittsburgh area, rock music was everywhere. I was hearing AC/DC, Pearl Jam, Meat Loaf, and all these huge voices and guitars right alongside country songs that were built around stories.
I didn’t really think anything of it when I was younger. It was just the music I liked. But looking back now, I can hear how much that combination shaped me. I fell in love with the storytelling and honesty of country music, but I also loved the weight and emotion that rock music could have.
Your grandmother bought you your first guitar at eight. What did that gift really represent in your life at the time—escape, identity, connection, responsibility—and how has your relationship with that moment changed as you’ve gotten older?
I’d say everything. To this day that guitar is still in my childhood room. That was the start of my journey that I had no idea would unfold until now. It was honestly an escape when I needed one, a way to express things I probably wouldn’t have known how to say otherwise, and eventually it became a huge part of my identity. It took me from learning “Highway to Hell” in my bedroom to playing in bands, writing my own songs, moving to Nashville, and building a life around music.
The older I get, the more meaningful that is to me—and the more grateful I am that my grandmother was the person who put that guitar in my hands.
You started performing in school talent shows. Were you chasing approval back then, or were you chasing truth—and what did young Dylan need to hear that he didn’t hear enough?
Not at all; I was truly chasing performing. I was scared to death the first time I had to perform in front of hundreds of my classmates, but I had such an urge and want to perform that it took over that fear. I think overall I heard everything I needed to hear. My parents were and are still extremely supportive as well as my friends. I got great friends, family, and team behind me.
What was the earliest “welcome to being a musician” moment that humbled you—something that forced you to either get serious or walk away?
I believe during my junior year of high school, I took music very seriously. There wasn’t necessarily a moment that humbled me as much as a moment that I felt I was achieving being a good musician. Kind of like life, I think everyone is good at their own thing so I was never jealous of other artists or musicians. I just knew I could hang with the good ones as long as I worked on my craft.
You grew up on Brooks & Dunn, Pearl Jam, and Meat Loaf—three very different emotional languages. What did each one teach you about storytelling, and where do you still hear those fingerprints in your writing today?
I would say those are three artists/bands I could remember from my earliest childhood music memory. My dad sang us those artists in the family room to my sister and I to make us laugh and spend quality time. I wouldn’t say those three influenced my writing the most. I think hearing my parents like them turned me away from them until I was older and I realized that they had good taste. I just couldn’t admit that as a stubborn child. I truly found my own influences by listening to music every second of my childhood. That’s how I found the Beatles and AC/DC when I was like 10. But I would say the one thing that all three of those artists have in common is that they make their songs and emotions feel big. So maybe that has snuck into my writing cause I do like to be emotional.
After more than six years with November Blue, what part of yourself did you have to unlearn to step forward as a solo artist—and what part did you refuse to let go of?
I definitely had to learn to not rely on others. It’s tough not having your best friends with you. I mainly rely on myself and my notes app to keep my crap in line. There is definitely more of a freedom to be by yourself but the part I refuse to let go is trying to bring my guys along with me. I truly like to help the people that are in my circle or have crossed into my circle. That’s the part I’ll always try to do no matter what. I think it’s just a part of me and the way I was raised.
You’ve said Nashville taught you to write with more confidence, honesty, and personality. What’s the most uncomfortable truth you’ve had to put into a lyric—and how did it change you once it was out in the world?
That’s a great question. I honestly have no problem with being honest and vulnerable in my songwriting. I’d say the closest I’ve been to that feeling was writing a song I put on my first album called “Free”. That song has every emotion, every word, and every feeling I was feeling at the time that I did not want to say or confront but needed to. It was one of those songs you don’t want to put out because it’s too personal, but people need to hear that they’re not alone in feeling the same feeling you are.
Playing multiple nights a week can sharpen you, but it can also numb you. When did you first notice the difference between “performing to survive” and “performing to say something,” and how do you protect the second one?
I’d say I still perform to survive in the sense that I perform because it makes me feel good. I’ll get really anxious if I don’t perform for like a week. But performing to say something has been a more recent development for me. That’s because I used to say different messages and emotions with my old band. Now I get to steer the ship and say everything I’d love to say. I’d say the best way to protect it is to always be you. Always take opinions in but never hold on to them. Let your message be the message that’s dying to break out inside of you.
Keystone Kid is rooted in Pennsylvania experiences. Looking back, was that album more of a love letter to home—or a way of making peace with it?
Great question! I’d say it was making peace with it. I believe it sounds semi like a love letter because there is kind of some hope in the songs but I know dang well it’s making peace because there’s no going back if I’m pursuing music.
You wear a whitetail deer necklace honoring your late grandfather. How does carrying that symbol affect the way you show up—on stage, in the studio, and in the quieter moments when nobody’s watching?
It affects me. It affects me in a lot of different ways but more ways internally than externally. Definitely more in the quieter moments when no one’s watching.
Let’s focus on“Read My Mind” and intimacy as a question: The song takes that almost unsettling connection—finishing sentences, same thoughts—and turns it into “How can someone know you this well?” What scares you more: being deeply seen, or being deeply seen and then misunderstood?
Woahhh, I’d say deeply seen and then misunderstood. Being deeply seen is great because then someone understands you at least you’d think they do. But being misunderstood sucks, but there can be some beauty in it. Like take a songwriter for instance. If I don’t explain my song, 10 people might take away 10 different things about my song. They honestly still can because it’s art; it’s what the song means to them. But in a general sense, I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood.
You walked into the studio without a second verse, and within 30 minutes you and Liam Slater found it—and even landed on that hypnotic “read my, read my mind” refrain. What does that say about how you create at your best: preparation, instinct, trust, or surrender—and what did that session teach you about letting other people into your process?
I’d say I create the most effectively through trust and surrender. When I’m with friends, I trust them very much, which lets me break down my walls and let their ideas in slightly more than if I were writing with someone who isn’t a friend. I love letting people in my process as long as they don’t try to steer the ship, which John and Liam definitely wouldn’t unless they see something I’m not, which I would trust them with. But I love collaborating with my guys. I wanna bring them along through my journey.
Where can our readers find out more about you?
They can find me on all social media at @dylanbradleymusic, and my website is www.dylanbradleymusic.com. I really appreciate you taking the time to interview me today. Thank you!
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