LANGHORNE SLIM
I can’t fix a car engine or do a bunch of other things that are even simpler. But I think I have a smart heart. And that’s something beautiful to have. That’s something I can pass on to these kids.
— LANGHORNe SLIM
ACOUSTIC
PERFORMANCE
Langhorne Slim performs “Sugar Plum”.
Video - David Katzinger | Editing - Kathleen Howes
Langhorne slim is living beyond what he thought was possible and he wants everyone else to do that too.
words BY LEMON | images by David Katzinger
To set the scene: we’re just outside of Nashville at Sean Scolnick’s new home, tucked along the banks of Little Spring Creek, a spring-fed stretch of water so clear it looks coastal. A place he and his fiancé, Alyssa, have lovingly dubbed (of course) Little Spring Cabin.
The word is bucolic, sure. But there’s also a current of wholesome absurdity that's slightly cinematic. I call it the “puppy-baby combo”—a one-two punch of cuteness. KO’d. If you hang around Sean long enough, this kind of thing just becomes normal.
Because yes, there’s an adorable baby splashing around in wellies, with a tiny new puppy named Big Cherry at his feet, who I’m still not convinced is a real dog (see photos). Big Cherry, by the way, was named after one of Sean’s relatives: a 700-pound man who was reportedly both a mob boss and an FBI informant. Spicy.
Most people know Sean as Langhorne Slim, the voice that carried them through. Through heartbreak, through healing, through the disorienting part of life that feels like an endless question. His songs have become emotional shorthand for a generation of feelers — empaths, misfits, the ones paying too much attention.
But to me, he’s my workout partner. He prefers to sweat to Cypress Hill or Beastie Boys, which is pretty ironic considering he starts whining around squat number eight. But he makes it funny. And between (and during) sets, he’ll drop some offhand wisdom that stays with you all week. That’s just Sean.
Over the last few years, I’ve had the privilege of watching him evolve - not just as a musician, but as a partner to one of my closest friends, a stepfather to one of my favorite kids, and now as a father to his baby boy. And in that process of new roles, he’s become even more himself.
He’s spent the last twenty years building a devoted following, playing stages across the world, and turning grief and hard-won hope into melody - as Langhorne Slim and always as himself. He doesn’t fit in a box and he wouldn’t let you put him in one.
Once he finished serenading the trees in the nude, as one does - we sat down to talk about love, parenthood, manhood, his almost-Broadway career, and, most importantly, what it’s meant to build his home from the inside out.
Lemon: Let’s start small. What’s the weirdest compliment you’ve ever received?
Langhorne Slim: There’s probably a better answer to this, but the one I always joke about with other musicians is when people say, “You’re so great... why are you playing here? Why aren’t you playing the Ryman?” Or some version of “Why aren’t you on a bigger stage?”
They mean it with love in their heart—but it’s always funny. Like… we play where we’re supposed to play.
But let’s say, hypothetically, if I ever exposed myself onstage and someone came up after the show like, “Oh my God. I thought it would be way bigger,” I’d honestly take it as a compliment. Like, wow. Because of the way I carry myself, they just assumed… ha.
L: You’ve been a vegetarian since you were a kid, which is rare and kind of profound. Was it moral? spite driven? inspired by a cartoon?
LS: All of the above. Thirty-four years now. I think it was driven by a love and sensitivity to animals and all living things.
I have this early memory of getting boiling water and pouring it on a bunch of ants just to see what would happen. I was young, I didn’t mean to be cruel, I was just curious. But I was devastated afterward.
I also remember fishing with my grandfather. My brother and I would take the minnows we were using as bait and toss them out of the water, thinking it was funny that they looked like they were breakdancing. My grandfather got upset and taught us that they are living things and what we were actually doing was killing them. And that really stuck with me.
L: I think this says a lot about who you are. Where do you think that early sense of empathy—and that willingness to go your own way—came from?
LS: Yeah, I think so. I had this cousin who was just… the coolest. He showed me Jim Jarmusch films, played me all this amazing music, gave me Butthole Surfers and Pavement CDs for my bar mitzvah. He was a vegetarian, too.
We’d go to New York City and he’d take me down into the subway to busk. I had a couple little songs I’d written when I was maybe twelve, and he’d help me get set up, open the guitar case, get into position and then walk way down the platform so it looked like I was just this kid out there on my own. But he’d keep an eye on me from a distance, just to make sure I was safe. He really believed in me. Just a cool dude.
And then in elementary school, there was a separate lunch line for kids with allergies or religious restrictions. I didn’t love being told where I could or couldn’t eat, so one day I just decided, “I’m a vegetarian.” and walked into the other line. I liked talking to adults about it, I liked that they thought it was interesting. And it’s lasted my whole life. It just feels like something I’m not supposed to do.
L: Like that old saying, “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” But with you, it’s actually true—I know you won’t kill a spider.
LS: That’s not a thought that I decide to have. It just doesn’t occur to me to want to kill something. If a spider’s in the house, I’ll gently catch and release it. It would actually hurt me to hurt it- like just fucking kill an innocent ? No. I don’t like mosquitoes. But I respect their hustle. Same with ticks. I’ll take a tick off me and flick it outside so it can come right back.
L: What’s your most irrational fear? And what’s your most rational one?
LS: I don’t dig water I can’t see my feet in. And I guess my most rational fear is not giving enough time, love, or energy to the creative gifts I was given, to not see them through as far or as deeply as I can. That one’s always with me.
And then, you know... sharks. But I don’t carry that one around every day. The one that I carry with me every day is the other one.
L: Your life walkout song?
LS: “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” — The Ramones version. Or “Where Eagles Dare” The Misfits .
Also: Edvard Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. That one’s solid.
L: Some authors say they write the book they wish they had as a kid. When you write songs, are you thinking more about what you need to say—or what someone else might need to hear?
LS: That book thing is beautiful. But I definitely write what I need to say. It’s a release.
It’s like, there are things I can’t figure out how to express without singing them or playing them. The feeling’s there, or the situation’s there. It’s either something happening now or something I’ve carried around. And writing is how I try to move through it.
L: How do you know when a song is finished?
LS: Sometimes I don’t. It’s just like, this feels like the right place to wrap it up, even though you could definitely keep going. Other times, it’s obvious. It already feels like it’s there, like it came out fully formed.
And then there are the ones you have to work for, really sit with and shape. I think most creative people know both sides of that.
I’ve heard people describe songwriting like being an antenna or a vessel and I kind of believe it. Sometimes something flows through you, from the air or within or wherever it comes from, and it tells you when it begins, and where it ends. You just try to follow it.
L: I would guess it’s rare as an artist to be someone who writes as well as they perform—and that’s you. Do you feel like there are two different versions of you in that way?
LS: The performance part of me has always come naturally. I used to get in trouble in school for it. Thankfully, I found the guitar and then had some people clap about it.
I remember doing school plays. I hated rehearsals, hated being directed, and hated memorizing lines. But the night of the show? I was like, fuckin’ A, this is the greatest thing in the world.
L: Oh, a young thespian. Do tell! Any breakout roles from back then we might know?
LS: I went to a high school with like a hundred kids, so there wasn’t much competition. If you were a guy who could project your voice, had a little presence—or could sing even a little—your odds were good.
I played Conrad Birdie in Bye Bye Birdie, which was a big one. He’s the Elvis-type character—gold lamé suit, and they paid for me to get a full pompadour, which I was very into. And then I played Edmund in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe with a community theater group that had people of all ages. That was a real tryout. I remember on closing night, the director came backstage and said, “Gather around, thespians! There’s a New York agent in the crowd tonight—she’s looking for talent. So put on the best show you can!”
It felt like something out of a movie. After the bows, this woman came up to me and said they wanted me to come audition in New York.
L: Wait—so you were almost a full-blown theater actor instead of Langhorne Slim?
LS: Yeah. I begged my mom to let me do it, and she finally agreed. For about a year I went to auditions, had actual headshots, the whole deal. Eventually, she quit her job and put herself through law school, and couldn’t take me into the city anymore. That’s when I started playing guitar.
L: This is wild.
LS: One time, a girl tripping on acid in Langhorne, Pennsylvania (home town and artist name sake- fun fact) came into a store and thought I was Fred Savage from The Wonder Years. She asked me for an autograph. I didn’t want to lie, but my friend was like, “Dude, she’s high—just make her day.” So I signed it. Sorry to Fred.
Another time, I was eating at Veselka, this legendary Ukrainian spot in New York (the real ones know), and sat next to this guy Jim, who was one of the writers of HAIR on Broadway. We hit it off and he asked me to audition.
L: You talk about your feelings like most people talk about the weather. Has that always come naturally to you, or was it something you had to grow into?
LS: Oh, it’s always been natural. It’s like not killing bugs, it just doesn’t occur to me not to.We’re all trying to connect in some way, right? And what am I gonna connect with you on? We can talk about the Philadelphia Eagles or about music, but I don’t always want to talk about music.
So yeah.. It’s always been easy for me, because I’ve always felt a lot.
I’ve also learned over time that being open with feelings, being outwardly sensitive, has brought me the most connection and uplift in my life. As a kid, I got picked on for that. You get called all the obvious names that sensitive, artistic kids get called. But as an adult? It’s a superpower.
And I deeply resent living in a culture that treats sensitivity as weakness. It gets us into so much trouble. We live in a sick society. So much anxiety and depression and I think a lot of that comes from people feeling like they need to mask how they really feel, to perform some version of themselves. If you lean into you, stop pretending to be something else, you feel better about yourself. And then you can be a better friend. A better dad. A better everything.
L: Sadly you’re right. We live in a world that tells men to keep things in. How has your comfort with emotion shaped the kind of father you’re becoming—with Silver, and in general?
LS: The two main men I had in my life were my grandfathers. In different ways, they were both emotional and sensitive but also tough guys. It’s hard to know what part of that is genetics, what part is just who you are, and what’s conditioned or environmental. I don’t know.
But I’ll tell you maybe the sweetest compliment anyone’s ever given me. I always thought if I had a kid, it would be a daughter. But then Silver popped out and I had a son. And someone said to me, “Of course you’d have a son. You didn’t really have a dad around, so the cosmic soup gave you a boy—so you could be the father you didn’t have.”
That really stuck with me. I thought that was really beautiful. There’s a lot of things I don’t know how to do. I’m not the most intellectually astute person.
I can’t fix a car engine or do a bunch of other things that are even simpler. But I think I have a smart heart. And that’s something beautiful to have. That’s something I can pass on to these kids.
L: What do you think Little Sean would say about Big Sean right now?
LS: Mmm. That’s some Ramona shit. (My therapist.) But I think Little Sean would be proud. As a kid, I knew I wanted to be a musician, a creative person. That was in me really deeply. And I also wanted to be a dad and have a family. So yeah, I think he’d be pleased with where we landed.
I think we’d hug and tell each other: Don’t take it all so seriously. Enjoy yourself. Because I still struggle with that—carrying a kind of sadness or weight that’s not always needed. Little Sean did too. I think a lot of us do. It’s part of being human, and part of the culture we live in. That feeling that something’s missing. That there’s a void.
I’ve definitely felt that for most of my life. And I think that’s what I was trying to fill with drugs, alcohol, chasing people, chasing places. But maybe the game is to fill it with beauty instead of poison. And maybe that’s what helps you not take it all so hard. But I don’t know. The world’s a fucking crazy place.
L: What has sobriety, and being a sponsor, taught you that music didn’t? Or maybe just keeps teaching you, again and again?
LS: It might’ve changed the music, maybe in the words or the melodies, but I’m not sure. What I do know is that with the career part of it, sobriety helps.
I still fall into the trap of when I get to this place, I’ll feel this way, you know? Like, once the next record does this or that, I’ll finally feel full.
Even though I already know that’s not how it works. But being sober, being in recovery, it helps me stay more present. I still struggle with that, but I’m way more grounded than I used to be. And there’s just no way I could have a shot at having a family, writing songs, or even promoting myself if I were still in the throes of addiction.
Sobriety helps me stay, even when I want to flee. And a guy like me? I want to flee sometimes.
L: Since becoming a dad, what’s something you’ve learned about yourself that’s surprised you?
LS: Well, it didn’t surprise me what I felt. But more, how intensely I felt it. Like, all those clichés you hear about parenthood? Turns out they’re true. That infinite love thing? It’s real. I could stare at Silver’s face forever. I’ve never kissed anyone’s head more in my life. I miss him with this aching feeling when we’re apart—it’s just different.
And honestly, I think I’m relieved to know that I do feel all of that. That I’m still human. If I didn’t, I think that would scare me.
L: How did your idea of fatherhood compare to what it actually feels like day-to-day
LS: Before Alyssa, I didn’t really hear parents talk honestly about how hard parenting can be. Everyone would say, it’s the greatest thing ever, with maybe a ‘but it’s hard’ thrown in.
But Alyssa let it rip. She was way more specific. I remember thinking, This woman is wild!
But I get it now. I’ve always struggled with discipline and routine. I still do. But I’ve found that there’s adventure in routine too. That was new for me. And sure, some days it still feels like Groundhog Day. I still romanticize getting in the car and taking off somewhere just because. That’s harder to do now. But the tradeoff? That opened up something beautiful in my life.
L: OK, you've built a beautiful blended family. I won’t go into full detail on that… but to make a long story short—you're best friends with your fiancée’s other baby daddy. No notes. How has this unique setup changed your definition of love?
LS: Oh, here’s a corny but true answer: there’s never too much of it. And it’s all so particular to the people involved. I can’t speak for Matthew or Alyssa, but for me, it’s just the right combination of people, the right ingredients for this cocktail.
To have two men not only co-exist but actually be close friends? I love this man. Truly. He’s one of my best friends. And I think he feels the same? So getting to raise these kids - me, Alyssa, and Matthew, it’s something I’m grateful for all the time. And I’ll be honest: it pushes me. There are definitely little ego-y moments where I’m like, Wait… what? Like, how is this okay? How is this dynamic not threatening?
But then I think about Silver. The fact that he gets to grow up learning from Matthew and all of his gifts, many of which I don’t have - that makes me so thankful. Same with Goldy. I’m pretty sure she knows how to change a tire at eight years old. I don’t.
So yeah… I don’t always have the words for it. It’s a unique situation that doesn’t feel unique, because it’s just our life. It’s a good situation. Confusing? Maybe. But what situation isn’t?
What matters to me is that we love and respect each other, and I hope that’s what we’re instilling in the kids.
L: Tell me about where we’re sitting - The Little Spring Cabin.
LS: Well, I’ve had this fantasy for a long time, some kind of nature commune. Not a cult, exactly - there’s no leader and nobody has to do any weird sexy stuff—but a space for communal living, out in the woods. And when I got with Alyssa and we had a family, we realized we both had a similar dream. Living by water, being surrounded by nature. We both feel the effects of anxiety pretty regularly, and we know being outside calms us down. It felt like a beautiful thing to be able to offer that kind of life to our kids, barefoot, running around outside, learning what that snake is called or what that plant does.
One day, our real estate agent sent us this listing—and we instantly knew. When we came to see it, we both immediately pictured the kids running around the creek and imagined getting married here. It just felt like home. And we’re both just crazy enough to say yes.
L: And now you’re opening it up to other people, kind of like you did with the Pink House. (For reference: Sean’s first home, known simply as “The Pink House,” is arguably the most beloved house in Nashville – a bright pink Spanish-style bungalow with a “hooker on the corner” mailbox. It’s become something of a legend—and yes, he’s emotionally attached.)
LS: Opening it up wasn’t part of the plan at first. It was supposed to be just for us. But like the Pink House, it felt right to share it. So many people stayed at the Pink House over the years. Folks still come up to me at festivals and say, “I wrote a song on your toilet using one of your guitars.” I’m like, fucking awesome. I’d never even met them before.
It was just sort of open to anybody that could bring goodness into it, it welcomed them. I love the idea that these places don’t really belong to us. They’re creative, peaceful spaces for anyone who walks through to take something from, as long as they leave a little something good behind.
L: Last question. What’s the most “Nashville” thing about you now that you never saw coming?
LS: I say y’all. That one snuck in.
The end, y’all.
It’s easy to forget that the people who perform for us, the ones who make the things that move us, are drawing from everything else in their lives to do it. However full or fucked up that life may be. In that way, it’s less about performance and more about sharing. And what Sean shares- whether it’s a song, a story, or a spider he basically hugged, is always something real.
His new album, The Dreamin’ Kind, comes out this Winter. I asked him what album number this is for the article and he said, “I don’t know.” Maybe that’s the point. Still, despite the laid-back delivery, something tells me he knows this one’s big.
From where I sit, it’s easy to see why Sean’s inspired. He’s living beyond what he thought was possible. But he wants everyone else to do that too. He’s a lead-by-example kind of guy. Knowing him makes you softer. Braver. Funnier. Wiser. More awake.
And if you’re really lucky, there’s a barefoot kid nearby, a weirdly small dog at your feet, and your girlfriend’s other baby daddy telling you he loves you too, man.
