Originally from Louisville, Kentucky, but now based in Jeffersonville, Indiana. Ryan Davis He's a multi-hyphenate of the highest caliber: singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, record label head (Sophomore Lounge) and music festival founder (Cropped Out). He does a lot. In 2025, he somehow found enough time to write, record and release one of the best records of the year with the acclaimed band. New threats from the heartbackbreaking, exhausting, verbose work that demands your attention.
The album's title track is an extended, rambling indictment of the US through indie-Americana, the personal as the highly political—and vice versa. It rocks and pierces in equal measure, a time-honored musical tradition of resistance and protest in the spirit of Wilco, Gillian Welch, Songs: Ohia and Bonnie Prince Billy. And yet, his musical and lyrical DNA hints at Davis' eclectic influences: Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan, Nas and Mobb Deep, Sun Ra, Kurt Cobain and Elliott Smith. He shakes and flops and squeals and swoons, and it's more than inspiring.
The hype around Ryan Davis is deafening because the hype is real, the talent is real, and on Thursday night (December 11), he brought his Roadhouse Band to Toronto for a sold-out show in Garrison.
Mike Polizze, who leads the die-hards Pulsating hissabandoned the band's monstrous combination of psychedelic, noise and indie rock in favor of something less harsh. Solo and acoustic, Polizze fingered his way into our hearts, his voice swirling over intricate hammer-ons, progressions and riffs. On one guitar, he accompanied himself to rolling songs and capoe, loops complementing the sound, equally hypnotic and brief.
The mood of the crowd was largely one of “the guys blaming you for coming to their show on Sunday night,” and during Polizze's set, mindless chatter about Parquet Courts members, vinyl scales and beer prices filled the holes between the chords. Such is life at concerts in Toronto.
Photo: Mike Polizze, by Atsuko Kobashigawa
During “Too Much Thinking,” Polizze sings, “Too much thinking, you're on my mind,” a beautiful little pain. Light, effortless solos glided and jingled through his loops. It wasn't always perfect, the guitars were sometimes a little off-key, but that's the beauty of performing live.
He kept his eyes tightly shut during the game's toughest moments and silently tuned in, Nick Drake in blue flannel, his smoky repeats complemented by harmonicas. At some point, I also closed my eyes, and a stream of multi-tracked guitars washed over me, lulling and hypnotizing.
A series of tunes ended with a decisive blow, and the loop sank into oblivion. The penultimate track “Eyes Reach Across” seemed to carry the weight of the world on its guitar lines, the barbed wire running through Polizze's solo parts.
The group of six came out prepared and ready; from the jump it was tight, balanced and loud. A drum machine kicking in marked the start of “The Simple Joy,” as light electronics and Davis' singing soared above the clicking rhythm. The music spun, unwound, untied from the group, Davis's serpentine lyrics rising above the simple but soulful melodies. His guitar came loose and he put it back on like a consummate professional.
Davis's music has a stunning, sublime quality, and live a hint of decrepitness adds to its understated yet bombastic impact. The band, the harmonies, the fucking pedal steel, it all came together beautifully. During the lively set of “Monte Carlo / No Limits,” people fist-bumped, hooted, and screamed with an energy that makes all those mainstream pop-country artists look like frauds.
The keyboard player was the most animated, cheerful, country Santa Calus I've ever seen, dancing while playing recorder, harmonica, bongos and drum pad, and shaking so hard he lost his red cap. He was having a great time and I was right there with him. And here's what was most obvious about seeing the Roadhouse Band perform live: they're having fun! During the jams, they smiled, shook their heads and jumped up and down.
Photo: Ryan Davis and Roadhouse, by Atsuko Kobashigawa
At the end of “Better If You Make Me,” Davis seemed to mess up a little and laugh at his own mistakes. This is very important. Not all the guitars were high: the flanger and overdrive stood out very prominently, and the rhythm section rolled in like a damn tide, gushing and rolling throughout the set. Davis danced and delivered his own lyrics, clearly in control, and the sound and mood were restless and vibrant, urgent and raucous. Noisy interludes instantly turned into melodic country rock, like a Byrds-themed birthday party.
There's something about the sweeping, gorgeous, rising melodies and sustained notes of “New Threats from the Soul” that are both recognizable and super original. It's amazing music, but it's definitely not craft bullshit; there is a callback to A Tribe Called Quest! Last night it became my favorite song of 2025, maybe even the decade. It's beyond perfect, full of conviction, love and exhaustion, Davis on edge like the reincarnation of George Jones in a hoodie.
A guy who looked like Bama's high school football coach was standing next to a horn-rimmed guy, cheering with beer and dancing. After the song, Davis told us he regretted wearing the sweater, saying, “I'm from Kentucky and it's fucking cool.” Answer? “Come on now!” and “Take it off!” (He didn't do this until the encore).
During the final song of the main set, “Crass Shadows (at Walden Pawn)”, Davis launched into the tune alone, accompanied by a ghostly harmonica and (almost) complete crowd silence. Later, he pulled out a barely audible melodica that seemed to get louder as he played the solo. Before the one-song encore, “Free from the Guillotine,” Davis introduced the band, then admitted that it had indeed been a fun evening and that they had allegedly smuggled contraband into the country in the form of beer.
Photo: Ryan Davis and Roadhouse, by Atsuko Kobashigawa
Without a sweatshirt, wet, his hair damp with sweat, he looked like a modern-day Paul Westerberg, the lanky, slightly tipsy poet laureate of a cashless salon. For the final chorus, he pulled his fluorescent pink hood over his face and sang through the spandex as the Roadhouse Band rolled through the rowdy outro to the crowd's screams, hollers, and cheers.
Watching Davis, I imagine this is what it must have been like to see Jason Molina—or Townes Van Zandt or the Compulsive Gamblers—live: an exceptionally talented, quickly beloved figure, deserving of press, praise and fans. It was mesmerizing, righteous and exuberant in equal measure.
As the crowd came out into the busy night, “Pancho and Lefty” played us a prank. Someone near the venue said it was one of the best concerts of his life – and it was definitely Southern comfort for this old soul.
