Ric Robertson crafts the kind of music that doesn’t beg for your attention — it quietly earns it. One note, one image, one breath at a time. He’s a singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and visual artist — but mostly, he’s just trying to make sense of the absurd beauty in being alive.

These days, Robertson is mostly out on the road solo, carving out his own odd little orbit, hauling a real upright piano from town to town — a heavy, creaky companion that makes every show a little less predictable and a lot more alive. It’s an old-school, seat-of-the-pants kind of operation: no playback, no safety net, just songs, stories, and a whole-hearted belief that the good stuff doesn’t need a middleman.

Raised in the American South but never easy to pin down, the music floats somewhere between timeless folk wisdom and psychedelic backroom vaudeville. A strange, beautiful blend , he has a gift for turning personal detours into universal truths, and turning heartbreak, hilarity, and hallucination into something you can hum along to.

Robertson has lent his voice, songs, and musical curiosity to projects with artists like Lucius, The Wood Brothers, and Sierra Ferrell, but it’s in his solo work where his vision comes fully alive and his voice shines most true. His latest album, Choices and Chains, is a crooked little odyssey of transformation- following the technicolor psychamericana on his breakout album “Carolina Child”.

Quietly radical, unabashedly grassroots, and fiercely human, you may find Ric Robertson somewhere past the edge of the map — alone on a small stage, an upright piano, a spellbound crowd, and a kind of music that cuts through the noise and reminds you why any of this matters at all. There’s a tenderness here, and a little madness too. But mostly there’s honesty — the kind you don’t come across every day, and the kind that sticks with you long after the music fades out.