Raise the Red Sail: a Country heart with Viking thunder
Some songs arrive like weather.
Not planned.
Not polite.
Just… there.
A wind in the room.
Salt on the tongue.
A drum under the ribs.
That’s how “Raise the Red Sail” came to me.
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I wrote it like you write a spell.
With both hands.
With a pulse.
It’s a Country / Viking fusion anthem, and I know that sounds like a strange pairing until you feel it.
Because Country is honesty.
Dust.
Boots.
A voice that doesn’t hide behind pretty words.
And Viking is the sea.
Steel.
Stormlight.
A people who kept moving even when the map ran out.
Put them together and you get something I’ve always needed in my own body:
Soft heart.
Strong soul.
This song releases February 5.
And it’s not just a song to listen to.
It’s a song to ride.
The red sail
A red sail is not subtle.
It doesn’t whisper.
It says:
I’m here.
I’m coming.
I’m not apologizing for the size of my arrival.
In the chorus I sing:
“We don’t run — we rise and ride.”
That line is the spine.
Because there’s a specific kind of courage I’m obsessed with — not the loud, chest-out kind.
The kind where you’re scared.
And you go anyway.
The kind where the world tells you to shrink…
and you refuse.
The kind where you keep sailing even when you don’t know what’s waiting on the other shore.
Country music understands that.
It has always understood that.
And the Viking story — the real one — is not just raids and axes and mythology.
It’s also hunger.
Curiosity.
Trade routes.
Risk.
People building a future out of wind.
The longship in my chest
When I wrote the verses, I saw it like film.
Dragonwood.
Carved names.
Hands that know how to make something that survives water.
“Built longships better than any could…”
I wanted rhythm in the writing.
Oars in sync.
Breath in sync.
Because there’s something primal about rowers.
About collective movement.
It’s not just power.
It’s devotion.
It’s discipline.
And it’s also… a kind of prayer.
Not just warriors
There’s a part of Viking history I can’t stop thinking about.
How the world loves a story when it’s simple.
Men.
Violence.
Legend.
But in the bridge I turn the camera.
“We weren’t myths.
We were flesh and bone…
Mothers, daughters, sisters too.”
That is the line I needed to write.
Because history has a habit of polishing women out of the picture.
Or keeping us as background decoration.
And I’m not interested in that kind of storytelling anymore.
I’m interested in the truth that breathes.
A woman can be soft and still be dangerous.
A woman can love fiercely.
Build towns.
Carry babies.
Carry blades.
A woman can be a home.
And a storm.
Both.
Why I needed this song
I think I wrote “Raise the Red Sail” because I’m tired of feeling like my bravery has to look a certain way to count.
Sometimes bravery is a scream.
But sometimes bravery is quieter:
Getting up.
Again.
Doing the thing.
Again.
Choosing your life.
Again.
Some days you don’t need a lullaby.
You need a banner.
A signal to your own nervous system:
I’m still here.
I’m still steering.
So I gave myself that signal.
And if you’re reading this with a tight chest, or a tired soul, or a heart that keeps surviving things it shouldn’t have had to survive…
Maybe this song can be a sail for you too.
How to listen
Put it on when you need motion.
When you need the horizon.
When you need to remember that your story is not finished just because it got hard.
Headphones help.
So does driving.
So does walking fast in cold air.
And if you want to make it a ritual:
Play it.
Close your eyes.
Picture your red sail.
Not the thing you’re afraid of.
The thing you’re heading toward.
Release details
🩸⛵ “Raise the Red Sail” — out February 5
If it hits you, share it with someone who needs courage right now.
Or comment the one line that stays in your body.
Because the world remembers where we’ve been.
And we get to choose what it remembers next.
With love,
