Stateline Saints Perspective on Can't Go Back To Tupelo

I’m Michael “Doc” Studard — singer, songwriter, and storyteller behind Stateline Saints. What I do is more than just play music; I turn real stories into songs.

The Saints are built on Southern blood and bone — Mississippi dirt roads, Memphis neon, and New Orleans shadows. My songs aren’t written in some corporate office or by committee. They’re born from life: family, loss, the people I’ve loved, the places I’ve run from, and the ones I keep coming back to.

I’m not just trying to make music you hear — I’m trying to make music you feel. The kind that gets under your skin, reminds you of home, or stirs up a memory you thought you’d buried. Some of it’s rough around the edges, some of it’s haunting, some of it’s hopeful. But all of it is honest.

So, who am I? I’m a man chasing the truth in a song.
And what do I do? I tell stories — Southern stories — through Stateline Saints.

“Can’t Go Back to Tupelo” didn’t come out of thin air — it’s stitched together from where I come from and what I’ve lived.

I grew up right on the Mississippi/Tennessee line, in a world caught between gospel and grit. I was raised on stories of Southern legends, haunted highways, and family roots that ran deep into the Delta. That history is always in me, and when I write, it spills out.

Tupelo itself is tied to myth — it’s Elvis’ birthplace, but to me it’s also about leaving behind the ghosts of who you were and the weight of expectations you never asked for. My own life has been marked by loss, by chasing dreams, by refusing to play by anyone else’s script. That’s exactly what the song is about: carrying all that history in your blood, but knowing you can’t go back and live it again.

Every verse in “Tupelo” is a piece of that background — the push and pull between pride in where you’re from and the knowledge that you’ve outgrown it, or it’s outgrown you. It’s a song born out of Mississippi clay and Memphis neon, out of my family’s struggles, out of my own scars.

So when you hear “Can’t Go Back to Tupelo,” you’re not just hearing a song. You’re hearing the story of where I come from — and why I had to keep moving forward.

My earliest memory of music is standing beside my mom, singing Elvis songs together. She loved him, and I can still hear her voice blending with mine, the crackle of those old records filling the room. That was the first time I realized music wasn’t just something you listened to — it was something you could share, something that brought people closer.

At the same time, outside our house in New Orleans, the streets would come alive with the brass and rhythm of second line parades. I can still picture it: the horns, the drums, the way the music bounced off the buildings and carried down the block. It was raw, it was joyful, and it felt like the whole world was moving to the same beat.

Those two memories — Elvis with my mom and the Dixieland sound of the second line — shaped everything that came after. One gave me melody and heart; the other gave me rhythm and soul. Together, they became the foundation of why I make music today.

There were a lot of little sparks along the way, but two moments stand out like lightning bolts.

The first was the night I saw KISS live for the very first time. The lights, the fire, the makeup, the larger-than-life energy — it didn’t feel like just a concert, it felt like stepping into another universe. That was the moment I realized music could be more than sound. It could be a show, an experience, a world you build for your audience to live in with you.

But the defining moment — my own “Beatles on Ed Sullivan” moment — came when I saw Bon Jovi on Saturday Night Live. The band was electric, but what hit me hardest wasn’t just the music, it was the way the girls in the audience reacted. They screamed, they lost their minds, they connected with it in a way that felt bigger than anything I’d ever seen. Right then, I knew: I want to do that. I want to write songs that make people feel something so powerful they can’t hold it in.

That was the night I decided. From that point on, there was no backup plan — I was going to be an artist.

“Can’t Go Back to Tupelo” leans hard into the country and Americana lane. It’s built on storytelling, heartache, and the kind of truths that only come from lived experience.

The song carries that Americana honesty — raw, reflective, tied to place and memory — but it’s also grounded in country roots, with melodies and lyrics that feel like they’ve always belonged on a Southern front porch.

It’s not polished pop-country and it’s not trying to be mainstream Nashville. This is real country, real Americana — born out of Mississippi clay, Memphis neon, and New Orleans soul.

It’s always moving. Flowing water doesn’t get stagnant, and I’ve always carried that idea into my music. My influences stretch wide—everything from The Beach Boys to Chuck D, from Poison to Pantera, from Ritchie Valens to Kenny Rogers. My mom always hoped I’d lean into country, and that’s definitely part of my foundation, but I’ve never limited myself to one box.

Instead, I play what fits the moment I’m living through. Each chapter of my life has its own soundtrack, and my style evolves to reflect that. Sometimes it leans raw and heavy, other times it’s soulful or rootsy—but it’s always authentic to where I am in that season of life.

For me, songwriting is an exercise in cleansing. I write what I need to so I can get rid of it—put it out there instead of carrying it on my shoulders. The themes run the whole spectrum: longing, love, loss, my mom and dad, my kids, my dogs… really, it’s about life, man. Life in all its mess and beauty.

Blackberry Smoke and Whiskey Myers. They’re the modern-day troubadours of the South—carrying on the tradition of storytelling, grit, and soul in their music. They feel like kindred spirits, and sharing a stage with them would be like riding the same train through the heart of Southern music.

It’s Southern at the core—story-driven, raw, and honest. Think country grit with rock edges, blues in the veins, and a little gospel soul running underneath. It’s music built on real life—family, love, loss, and the South I grew up in. If you’ve ever sat on a porch at sundown, heard the cicadas, and felt both the weight and the beauty of life all at once—that’s the sound I’m chasing.

I don’t think I’ve written it yet—and honestly, I’m not sure I ever will. That’s part of what keeps me moving forward. I am proud of Tupelo, and Old Pictures holds a special place for me. Bothersome Child too. But I never want to feel like I’ve already written my best—that would mean the story’s over. I’d rather keep chasing the next one.

That’s a tough one, but I’d say Prince. He was one of the most amazing guitarists ever, and I don’t think he ever fully got the credit he deserved for it. A brilliant man, gone way too soon. To see him perform live—feel that energy, that genius in real time—would be unforgettable.

The Cadillac Three. They’ve got that Southern swagger, grit, and groove that feels like home to me. Their sound is raw but still polished, and their songwriting has that balance of fun and honesty. Working with them would feel natural—like brothers in the same band—pushing each other to bring out the best and create something loud, soulful, and true to the South.

Home.

It ain’t tape trading anymore—streaming is king these days, no doubt about it. But when the debut Stateline Saints album came out on vinyl, that was a whole different feeling. To actually hold a record with my music pressed into it, drop the needle, and hear it spin—that was incredible. It felt like a full-circle moment, connecting the old ways of music with the new.

People are listening. I am a success.

That’s a deep one. I think artists are the storytellers, the memory keepers, the guardians of the past. Music, art, film, writing—these are the ways we carry history, emotions, and lessons forward. Long after events fade from the headlines, it’s the stories we tell through art that keep them alive.

But with that comes responsibility. We have to be careful about what kind of stories we pass on—because art doesn’t just reflect the world, it shapes it. The songs we sing, the images we paint, the stories we share… they become part of the collective memory. An artist’s role is to tell the truth of their time in a way that resonates, but also to honor the weight of what those stories will mean for the next generation.

"Country Boy (You Got You Feet in LA)" by Glen Campbell. Listen & you'll know why.

Losing my marriage and my sons while I was out trying to be a big shot and selfish. That’s the darkest side of chasing a dream—when ambition blinds you to what matters most. Music has always been my lifeline, but it can also become an obsession if you let it.

The scariest part wasn’t just losing them, it was realizing how easily I could trade away the very people I was writing about and writing for. It taught me that success doesn’t mean much if you don’t have love, family, and real life to ground you. Now I try to carry those lessons into the songs I write, because music should never cost you your soul.

I’d get rid of the gatekeepers. There are too many middlemen—publishers, labels, managers, all the go-betweens—that stand between artists and the people who actually want to hear the music. They talk about “draining the swamp,” but with the music industry it would be like draining the whole ocean.

At its core, music is supposed to be about connection—artist to listener, story to soul. But too often the system is built to filter, profit, and control instead of letting the art flow freely. I’d strip all that away and build something where the music speaks first, not the business cards.

Paul Crosby—formerly of Saliva and now with Coldwards—got me into HVAC when I was 18. I’ve also worked as a bouncer in strip clubs. That’s kind of a musician’s rite of passage, right? I mean, you end up dating strippers… and in my case, I’ve even been married to three of them. Life’s had its twists, but every job and every chapter has fed back into the songs I write.

I love history—especially military history—and that shows up in the songs I write about honor and valor. I’ve always loathed the government, so that side of me comes out too, in a way that nods to those old protest songs, like Country Joe and the Fish. And then there’s the South. Growing up here gave me a lifetime of stories, images, and characters that turn into anecdotes in my songs. All those passions bleed into the music—they keep it honest and give it a backbone.

It did—until I found my wife who truly understands me. That makes all the difference. She knows I love her with all my heart, but that I’ll always love music just a little more, and most likely put it first sometimes—because that’s who I am. And she accepts that. I’m so damn lucky to have the most amazing wife in the world, who just happens to be hot and my best friend.

It makes you a dreamer, a wisher. It lets you see behind the curtain hiding the great and mighty Oz, you know? You don’t just take things at face value—you question them. Sometimes that can make you more cynical, because you’re always peeling back the layers. But I think that’s part of it. When you’re exercising freedom of speech through your art, you become more aware of any threats against those freedoms. Being an artist means seeing the world differently, and refusing to stop asking questions.

Music. Music & let me see, music.

Cody Jinks, Jerry Reed & Kenny Rogers.

Trust yourself. Listen to yourself. Fuck what anyone thinks, fuck what anyone cares. Your music comes from you. Even if one person loves it, you’ve succeeded.

Other folks will always throw shade—they’re too chicken shit to have the guts to hang all their emotions out and bare their life for others. Other musicians will always be jealous of any success you have, because truth is, a lot of them are selfish as hell. That’s just a fact.

But at the end of the night, it’s you and you alone that has to sit with your music. So make sure you’re good with that.

Because I can't paint......