Some folks are born into silence. Sean Blackwell was born into sound.

Before he ever knew his own name, there were five strings ringing through the house, harmonies rising and falling like fog off the ridges. He comes from a family where music wasn’t a hobby or a hope it was inheritance. The kind of lineage that would make most Nashville songwriters pause and realize they’ve been chasing something Sean was handed before he could walk.

He was raised on the road between churches and tent revivals, riding along with his grandparents as they followed the Spirit from town to town. Wooden pews. Canvas roofs. Hands lifted. Voices joined. He learned early that music could be both prayer and proof something that reaches heaven and roots you deeper in the dirt at the same time.

Southern Gospel shaped him first. He played alongside Jeff & Sheri Easter, opened for Jason Crabb, and listened closely not just to notes, but to the weight carried between them. Somewhere along the way, the rough truth of Merle Haggard, the careful poetry of Mel Street, and the deep, rolling soul of Black Gospel music settled in. Nights often ended with the low growl of Elvis and the steady harmonies of The Jordanaires, voices he carried with him into sleep and into song.

Sean plays banjo, guitar, and keys, but more than that, he listens. He listens for what’s honest. What’s been broken. What still believes. These days, you’ll hear echoes of Stapleton and Larry Fleet in his sound, woven gently into the older threads whether he’s leading worship in a small church or trading songs in the corners of Tazewell where music still belongs to the people.

Sean Blackwell doesn’t perform at the mountains he stands inside them. His songs feel passed down, not written. Lived in, not polished. The kind that linger long after the room goes quiet.

You can find him at The Wayfarer most third Thursdays of the month, where the lights are low, the stories run deep, and the music remembers where it came from.

This is a FREE show!