That “Tennessee Orange” gal is in the black, as far as her country music currency goes. Megan Moroney‘s second album proves that she’s a country keeper, if there was any concern — and there shouldn’t have been — that her 2023 debut album, “Lucky,” was a fluke. Coming just 14 months after that record’s arrival, “Am I Okay?” is more than just all right: It establishes that she’s one of traditional-leaning country’s best and brightest new standard-bearers, upholding the most essential of the old values in a broadly beguiling new package.
If it’s at all true, as former country singer Taylor Swift claimed, that heartbreak is the national anthem, then Moroney is determined to be one of the genre’s foremost chroniclers of the bombs bursting in air. Or maybe not determined so much as just registering some recent life experiences, as the songs she co-wrote for “Am I Okay?” carry the distinct whiff of first-person reportage, not writers’ room roughage.
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There was an irony, of sorts, with Moroney’s debut album, where she made it clear that her natural inclination was toward sad songs saying so much — even though the singles, including “Tennessee Orange” and “Lucky,” tended to be upbeat outliers. I’m happy to say the new album isn’t any more happy-go-lucky; if anything, she’s doubled down a little on the weepers. Which, frankly, may be easier to sell when there’s some sex appeal to go with the sadness. The hurt in her heartbreak ballads feels closer to the bone than it does in most Music City fare. But even with a preponderance of lovelorn songs. the album doesn’t come off as too much of a downer, if only because her audience probably won’t get too bogged down in concern about whether a 26-year-old this spicy and assured will have a shot at love again.
The title track provides a little bit of fakeout at the start. Its name suggests the song will be a self-questioning rush of insecurity — and on that level, it’s a good, appropriate umbrella for the album as a whole. But in the context of this opener, Moroney is pulling a switch, wondering aloud if she’s in her right mind just because everything is going so right with “a 6’2″ dream heaven sent / He says what he means and he means what he says / And he’s funny and he’s smart and he’s good in…” (The “bed” is silent there, this being mainstream country, which still has a little bit of propriety, especially around its women artists.) “I don’t feel like a sad song soundtrack / The old me doesn’t know how to feel about that.” The gang vocals on the chorus are a little Swift-ian — “Cruel Summer” turned inside out for a legit-steamy summer night.
The Old Her returns soon enough, which may be welcome news for country fans who like rougher emotions, if not good news for her personal life. Before things get sadder, though, there’s one more positive love song to go in the second spot — “Third Time’s the Charm,” which seemingly lays out three different occasions our heroine has been in love, with a sunny optimism and strong hopes of indefinitely putting off any need for a fourth. But from there, Mr. 6’2″ is apparently history. (Moroney told Apple Music that the subject of the upbeat opening “showed his true colors… but we got a good song out of it, and then we moved on.”)
The really good stuff starts with track 3, the recent single “No Caller ID,” in which the singer keeps taking her ex’s 3 a.m. calls because… it is what it is till it ain’t anymore, to quote Kacey Musgraves, whose legacy this particular standout track is worthy of. The credits list Jessi Alexander, Jessie Jo Dillon and Connie Harrington as co-writers, and although Moroney has had some good luck with male co-writers, too, it’s nice to see what can come from a room of emotionally motivated female craftspeople. There’s an essential cleverness to the lyric that’s characteristic of Moroney’s nascent material, but there’s also a moment in the bridge where Moroney just repeats a key line rather than reaching for the next one — “Don’t you get tired of hurtin’ me? / I’m tired of hurtin’ me / I’m tired of hurtin’ me” — that shows how a moment of simplicity and repetition can reinforce the realness of a song.
Moroney may or may not qualify as a steel magnolia, but speaking of, there’s a hell of a lot of steel on this album. Justin Schipper’s pedal guitar stands out from the opening licks of “No Caller ID” on through the whole single, and anyone who had hopes that emphasis might prove true for the rest of the album will have reason to be pleased with a record that includes the instrument on 13 out of 14 tracks, for either mournful or feisty purposes. Between that, Kristian Bush’s other production elements, and Moroney’s Georgia twang, this album is as deeply genre-specific as modern country gets in this crossover-happy era.
Moroney can bust out a good, recriminatory rocker, like “Man on the Moon,” with its slide guitar helping bolster an obligatory Stonesy moment, and there are more feel-good-about-feeling-bad moments to come. “Indifferent” (which rhymes “truck” with an F-word — but silent, again) has power chords throughout the chorus, giving way to a theremin-like lick that suggests a carefree whistle through the romantic graveyard. The banjo-inflected “Noah” is the sweetest number, recalling a favorite high school romance so far back there’s nothing to get too torn up about — and it’s also the Swift-iest number, to the point where you wouldn’t be surprised if the same song had showed up as a Vault on Swift’s forthcoming debut album re-record. “The Girls” goes on a passing exile from guy-ville to celebrate untroublesome female friendships.
Maybe the best example here of Moroney having both a sense of humor and an enviable sense of perspective of “Miss Universe,” which throws a few “I Love Rock ‘N’ Roll” guitar chords in among an otherwise laconic exploration of what it’s like to realize your ex has moved on with someone much more gorgeous than you… and being kind of OK with that. “It could’ve been worse / At least my whole world left me for Miss Universe” — they don’t write ’em like that anymore. But lest she seem like she’s about sanguine cleverness, the very next song, the strings-laden “Mama I Lied,” has the kind of couplet that cuts to the quick, not the funny bone: “Mama I lied / He ain’t a good guy.”
The album moves into outright tearjerker territory with “Heaven by Noon,” a song Moroney has said was prompted by thinking about how a member of her extended family lost a husband in the tragedies of 9/11. Few modern country songs deal with the devastation of losing a loved one in an instant, and the idea of recalling a casual conversation as the last one before a murder is devastating… on paper. But the song feels a little less impactful than it should; the narrator sounds awfully resigned to an unspeakable tragedy that, we’re told, happened just hours earlier. (The song’s peacefulness might make more sense if they had placed the shocking death as something in the distant past instead of a fresh event.) Moroney doesn’t shoot and miss with much of her material, but this one needed a rethink to really live up to its heartrending potential.
But there are no notes on the album’s other saddest song, the closing “Hell of a Show,” which only lasts 1:47 but accomplishes all it needs to in that short time. It’s her own heartfelt “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart,” minus the Eurodisco, as she writes solo (no collaborators on this one, either in the writers’ room or the recording) about the irony of becoming a breakout star in the midst of being treated like shit. “I’m on stage in 20, and he’s so damn mean to me,” she sings, before taking a sigh-filled pause, just long enough for fans to want to ball up fists on her behalf. It’s a hell of a compelling to be cont., as abrupt denouements go.
Much has been made of how Moroney looks like a beauty queen; when she sings about losing out to a “Miss Universe,” it’s not a huge stretch to imagine her having played that role in someone else’s relationship. But the key factor in her success is that she doesn’t sound like one. Her everyday drawl can stay in a sweet spot, or proceed to a slight rasp that catches you with its edge, the common factor to all her intonations being how it feels like real talk. The writing, too — which stays remarkably true to her voice, no matter who she’s collaborating with — walks the fine line between what feels thought out and what feels blurted out. You can wish her well in the personal life that inspires these songs (“Fourth Time’s a Charm,” next time, maybe?), and still wish for just enough drama — real or imagined — to get a third album that feels as well-fought and endearingly honest as this one.
