Tyler Childers is a creature of habit. It’s in his roots, in the eastern Kentucky soil he grew up on and still calls home. So when we meet to discuss his new LP, Country Squire, the state of country music, and red Solo cups, we meet at a pinball arcade in a small town 20 minutes outside of Austin. “We were here for South by Southwest two years ago, and the motel next door was the closest we could find that wasn’t booked up and was reasonably priced. We decided to come back,” he explains, before revealing his real reason for choosing this spot: “I also really like pinball. We were here for a whole week in 2017 and I spent far too much time playing games. Happy hour is two bucks for a well drink, the draught is cold, the bar food is pretty legit.” What else can you ask for?

The arcade bar (the name of which we’re redacting here because honestly there are only so many of these joints outside of Austin and the musician is a private person, to say the least) is populated with the sort of people Childers writes songs about. There’s a lot of camouflage, some Timberland boots, a bunch of Carhartt. Big mustaches run untamed and 3:00 p.m. means beer time.

By hanging here, espousing the glory of cheap food and cheaper shots, Childers is—intentionally or otherwise—playing into the myth of his art, although after spending time with him, it’s clear that this is just the kind of guy he is. He likes cold drinks and nice people and fresh air—preferably away from crowds. He’s like all of us, just with the weight of traditional country music atop him. He’ll be the prodigal son, but how ‘bout a shot and a beer first?

After explaining the various rules at the pinball spots he frequents (the one up in North Austin is BYOB) and waxing philosophically on the patience it takes to play the sport (“Sometimes you get the pinball machine and sometimes the pinball machine gets you”), we move onto Country Squire, the 28-year-old’s third LP, and his first to reach the top of Billboard’s country charts. Childers sings songs about people, giving humanity to the shapes that mainstream country stars sketch. To paraphrase Childers, mainstream country talks about red Solo cups; Childers talks about the guy at the factory who makes them, returning home after a 12 hour shift.

By Childers’s own estimation, the album has grown significantly since its August release. It’s his second collaboration with Sturgill Simpson, who handles production and serves as a mentor of sorts. Childers pedals in a softer style of country than Simpson, but the latter’s knack for unique phrasings within the traditional country canon is pervasive throughout. He likes to jam these songs live, turning his folk-skewed ballads into something harder and sharper—more attuned to psych-rock than the quiet ache of his studio work. One thing both artists share is a penchant for shit talk and a rabid defense of country’s roots. “Hopefully, by tending to my own self and getting out there and playing my music for people, they hear what artists like myself are putting out,” Childers explains. “Then, they have to sit and critically think about what it is and why it’s better than the shit on the radio.”

GQ: Do you generally like to stay out of cities when you play shows in them?

Tyler Childers: Not necessarily. I just really like this spot in particular. I’m a creature of habit.