Lottie Raines

“Barroom confessions and two-step truths from a Fort Worth voice built for the long haul.”

Lottie Raines learned country music the hard way — three nights a week at the Maverick Bar on the Fort Worth Stockyards strip, singing for tip jars and the occasional free beer until the last two-stepper went home. Raised on her granddad’s Hank Thompson records and the jukebox at her aunt’s diner off I-35, she grew up believing a country song ought to tell the truth even when it stings. By twenty-four she’d cut her teeth on Texas dancehall circuits from Gruene Hall to Billy Bob’s, carving out a sound that sits somewhere between a worn vinyl groove and a neon-lit last call. Lottie writes like she’s confessing across a sticky bar top: stories of almost-loves, empty highways, and the kind of pride that won’t let you call first. Her voice carries the warmth of classic country without the museum dust — a retro-revivalist edge that nods to the greats while staying firmly planted in the present. For Lottie, honky-tonk isn’t nostalgia. It’s a living language, and she’s fluent in every heartbreak dialect.