When Christian musician Brandon Lake and country–hip-hop artist Jelly Roll performed “Hard Fought Hallelujah” for 75,000 people at a country music festival in April, they stood in front of an LED backdrop, a row of arched “windows” flanking a huge backlit cross.
Before the performance, Jelly Roll told the crowd, “I know that I fall short of the glory of God all the time … but man, I’ve got a heart for God, y’all.” Lake followed up: “Don’t y’all think this is what heaven is going to be like?” Afterward, the two artists posted a collaborative video of the performance to Instagram with the caption, “Bringing church to @stagecoach.”
These days, it does seem like Jelly Roll—a tattooed, bearded performer who fuses Southern rock, country, and hip-hop influences and makes his personal history with drugs and the criminal justice system a central part of his persona—is trying to take his fans to church. Or rather, he’s trying to “bring church” to the places they hang out: bars, festivals, gyms, YouTube.
Jelly Roll has become the leading figure in this wave of what one could call barstool conversion rock: faith-flavored, hopecore, God-finds-us-at-the-bottom-of-a-bottle pop rock recorded by popular male artists. The genre (if we can call it that) is noticeably present on the Billboard Hot 100 and platforms like TikTok, where Alex Warren’s “Ordinary” has been used in nearly half a million videos.
Barstool conversion rock is masculine, vaguely Christian, and at least a little bit country. It sits in a web of crisscrossing cultural threads, including conservative politics, party culture, and evangelicalism. Of the music in this category, it’s too imprecise to say it’s a vibe not a sound, but it does seem like vibes are just as important as shared musical characteristics (of which there are many, even if they aren’t entirely consistent).
“Hard Fought Hallelujah” typifies the trend; it’s a bluesy, country rock arena anthem that showcases both artists’ capacity for gruff belting and worshipful delivery. The opening line of the chorus, “I’ll bring my hard-fought, heartfelt / Been-through-hell hallelujah,” is a triptych that captures the aggression, earnest devotion, and rescued-at-rock-bottom message this music tends to convey.
Jelly Roll’s other recent singles have a similar energy. He teamed up with Alex Warren on “Bloodline” (“The storm keeps on raging, but don’t you forget / God’s not done with you yet”). The chorus of the song “Amen,” a duet with Black country star Shaboozey, ends with the plea “Somebody say a prayer for me / All I’m asking for is a little mercy, amen.”
Another notable hit is Thomas Rhett’s “Bar Named Jesus,” a down-tempo country ballad, about “a bar named Jesus / Where the light stays on / And there’s no such thing as too far gone” (not to be confused with Rhett’s song “Beer With Jesus,” released in 2012).
Sometimes barstool conversion rock drifts toward pop, exemplified by another Christian music darling of the moment, Forrest Frank, whose song “Your Way’s Better” currently sits at No. 63 on the Billboard Hot 100. Even though he’s known for beats-driven pop and hip-hop fusion, Frank recently collaborated with Rhett on the song “Nothing Else,” which hit No. 4 on the Hot Country chart.
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While proximity to country music—in either sound or aesthetics—is a key characteristic of barstool conversion rock, genre loyalty doesn’t seem to be all that important to these artists. Over the past few months, Jelly Roll has performed with Eminem and Nickelback. Brandon Lake recently posted a video on Instagram listing the five genres listeners can expect to hear on his forthcoming album, King of Hearts: country, gospel, rap, pop, and rock.
Perhaps genre is disappearing as an organizing force for artists and audiences in the music industry, overtaken by persona. Listeners no longer see themselves as committed members of a scene; instead, they identify with the artists themselves more intensely than ever in the age of influencer culture. The perception of shared values and worldview is more important than an artist’s bona fides in a particular musical niche.
Genre may be less of an audience organizer these days, but the industry still markets artists to particular demographics—and by seeking entry into the country market, artists still indicate something about their worldview. In Nashville, both the country and Christian music industries have long signaled to white conservatives that they share foundational values like faith, family, and patriotism. Many Christian artists—including Michael W. Smith, Sandi Patty, and Carman—have aligned themselves publicly with conservative political figures and causes since the Reagan administration. Remember the ferocious reaction from fans after The Chicks’ 2003 comments about George W. Bush?
With the success of Beyonce’s Cowboy Carter, Shaboozey’s “A Bar Song (Tipsy),” and Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road,” the country music world has changed substantially during the past decade. That change has sparked backlash and spawned internal divisions that seem to be polarizing fans and artists alike. One commentator recently suggested that, in an ideologically divided industry, country artists are increasingly having to choose between “reparative multiracialism” or “reactionary whiteness.”
Though Christian and country music share a geographic center, that doesn’t necessarily mean there are neat and tidy conclusions to draw about the shared values of their audiences. But it does seem that the cultural identity and aesthetic preferences of white country music and Christian music audiences are coalescing in reaction to political and social forces.
Last year, veteran rock band Skillet, who have successfully reshaped their brand across 30 years of active recording and performing, released the song “All That Matters,” a patriotic rock ode to “faith,” “family,” and “freedom.” The video features frontman John Cooper sporting a cowboy hat, which stands in stark contrast with the band’s early Nirvana-adjacent Christian alt-rock. In 2024, Skillet was the fourth most-streamed Christian artist in the world, and their popularity is growing, particularly with young, male listeners.
The idea that we should listen to music made by artists who share our worldview is, arguably, the animating force behind the Christian music industry. Christian music fans have long vetted performers’ morality, beliefs, and life choices. There was a time when Lake would have faced fierce backlash from fans over recording a hit and performing at a secular festival with someone who says he smokes pot to stay sober.
But both Lake and Frank have framed their high-profile collaborations and crossover successes as evangelistic endeavors, leaning into the narrative that “Christian music is taking over.” For former worship pastor Lake, going country is a means of going “seeker-sensitive.” In a recent interview, he said that he wished more worship leaders would program Sunday morning worship music keeping in mind “Bubba”—the guy who sits in the back and doesn’t know what “Holy, holy, holy” means.
Barstool conversion rock invites fans to a self-reflective spirituality that is decidedly nonjudgemental, even irreverent, prompting audiences to pray without asking them to put down the beer in their hand. This bid for attention from the spiritually open could easily land as a ham-fisted attempt to make Christianity seem hip.
But Jelly Roll doesn’t seem to be mixing references to drugs and drinking with faith to posture as the cool Christian uncle. In 2024, he testified before Congress about the fentanyl epidemic, and he often uses his platform to talk about addiction and the dangers of hard drugs.
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In an era of male loneliness, this music also foregrounds friendship and camaraderie. Sons of Sunday—the Christian supergroup that includes Lake, Steven Furtick, Chris Brown, Chandler Moore, Pat Barrett, and Leeland Mooring—releases videos of recording sessions that show the men sharing moments of silliness, hype, and reverence. In the music video for “Bloodline,” Jelly Roll, Alex Warren, and a crew of extras stage a goofy singalong in costume in what is supposed to look like a medieval tavern. It’s a self-consciously hokey conceit that swirls social drinking with back-slapping, hugs, and male bonding.
In the midst of near-constant commentary on the mental health of young men, Jelly Roll and Sons of Sunday are tapping into the search for a sustainable vision of masculinity. And unlike the hyper-individualized stoicism and optimization culture on offer in much of the manosphere, this musical cohort seems to be suggesting, “Find God, and find other people too.”
In many ways, music is the perfect vehicle for this message, because singing and writing songs with other people is inherently vulnerable, even for seasoned artists. While the content produced to market this music is carefully curated, it matters that it’s been shaped to display earnest soul-searching in the context of male friendship.
And while some Christians would object to the idea of “bringing church” to a festival or bar on the grounds that the church is the people and not a performance, it does seem like artists like Lake and Jelly Roll are making a sincere case for community.
Barstool conversion rock’s presence on the charts isn’t a sign that Christian music is suddenly “taking over.” Religious language and themes are fixtures of American popular music. It’s worth pointing out that Kanye West and Chance the Rapper have also made Christian music in recent years; country stars like Luke Bryan, Randy Travis, and Dolly Parton have long recorded religious tracks. But barstool conversion rock is meeting a social and political moment with a message and aesthetic geared toward conservative-leaning men. It’s seeker-sensitive, faith-flavored music for the spiritually curious and possibly inebriated. It’s worship music for “Bubba.”
Kelsey Kramer McGinnis is the worship correspondent for Christianity Today.
