Despite being one of country music's most beloved artists, Monroe has been perpetually overlooked. She grapples with feeling invisible on a shockingly candid album

In Ashley Monroe’s writing room on the West Side of Nashville, you can find all sorts of relics of a career well-lived. There are acoustic guitars played with Vince Gill, framed hymns she grew up singing back in Knoxville, and a trio of posters on the wall from a Pistol Annies tour, her band with Angaleena Presley and Miranda Lambert. On a shelf in the corner, there are drawings by good friends Allison Moorer and Shelby Lynne, and, by the window, there’s a black-and-white print of a woman holding a sign that says “not your bitch.”

What you won’t find, though, are any awards.

“Nope, not one,” Monroe says with a shrug, swiveling on a green velvet chair in a tank top and slouchy jacket. “Want to give me one?”

It’s a warm spring morning, and Monroe’s been here since her son went off to school. This is her sanctuary, her creative space, where she comes to write songs and pretend that the new Nashville is the old Nashville, back when she and her friends were just making up country songs and getting high, and people’s worth wasn’t measured by streaming numbers or trophies on a shelf. Nearly two decades since her debut album, Satisfied, she’s become one of the town’s most beloved singers and writers: a voice so mesmerizing that Jack White once pulled over while driving just to listen, and drew attention from Gill when she was a teenager (he went on to produce two of her records). Despite all that, it’s usually been someone else’s name on the big marquees, on the radio, on the award show stages sniffling through their speeches. Nashville’s been breaking Monroe’s heart and, until recently, she smiled through it publicly. It was just easier that way.

But in April, Monroe surprise-released Dear Nashville, an album that brought all these latent feelings to the surface. The Tennessee native was ready to admit that even though so many of her country music dreams had come true, there was also a lot of pain and disappointment, including years of being the “next big thing,” being signed and dropped by labels multiple times, and some “awful” radio programmers. She’s had her albums, including 2013’s exquisite Like a Rose, put in an unwilling battle with Kacey Musgraves’ Same Trailer Different Park, just because they were both projects by women released in the same year. She’s co-written songs that were Number One on country radio, but never for her solo work. And she’s never taken home an award. You can’t blame Monroe then for titled the LP’s opening track “I Hate Nashville.”

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“I’ve never really let myself feel that, because I don’t hold my art’s value in accolades or charts, probably because I’m not on them a lot,” she says with a laugh. “It would hurt my feelings, a little ping here or there. But this was kind of like a storm coming out.”

Monroe’s been to her share of award shows over the years. She’s even sung onstage at some of them. But last fall, in the audience at an industry function in Nashville, she says she had a “straw that broke the camel’s back” moment.  “It just snuck up on me,” Monroe says. “That they’re never going to see me. There are these different invisible worlds or something, and I’m not on their radar. And I’ve been in this town long enough. I know I have a gift. I know people feel it. People can say it all day long, but when it comes time to support me in a small way, they don’t. All these little things came to a head.”

The morning after, she couldn’t shake the lingering sadness. Monroe was scheduled to have a session with producer-writer Luke Laird that day, and when he asked if she had any ideas mulling, the concept for “I Hate Nashville” spilled out. It blossomed into an entire album that is actually more love letter than score-settling rant.

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“I had to get mad enough, and I had to get my feelings hurt,” she says. “And what do I have to lose, really? It’s romantic to me. When I listen to this record, I think it’s romantic, because who doesn’t want something written about them?”

Good friend and artist Elizabeth Cook was at the industry event with Monroe, watching some “less than stellar performances,” as Cook puts it. “There was no shit talking, and it wasn’t a sour grapes thing,” she says. “Just a sort of awakening about some hard truths. She said she wanted to tell Nashville how she felt.  And she sure did.  But through a classy, hooky, musically dense framework of an up and down romance.  I think it’s genius.  It’s some of her best work.”

Monroe decided to put out Dear Nashville as a surprise release (“I’m tired of rollouts,” she says, having just gone through the process for last year’s Tennessee Lightning). She posted a note on Instagram, writing “Nothing has inspired me more, or hurt me more than this place. I feel like I’ve earned the right to say that.” Comments from other artists started coming in. “Whew, woman…. do your words ever hit home,” LeAnn Rimes wrote. “I feel this on the deepest level,” said Lauren Alaina. One thing became clear: Nashville breaks a lot more hearts than it makes stars. “I’ve heard from more people about this project than I’ve ever heard from people about anything,” Monroe says.

With the massive success of Ella Langely’s “Choosin’ Texas” and the current widespread popularity of country music, it’s easy to overlook the well of talent that’s been toiling for years to be recognized, or to forget the ones the industry has too easily cast aside. Monroe isn’t bitter, and neither is Dear Nashville: country music, as she sings on the album, is the reason she’s alive. “I feel positive about what’s happening in our world,” Monroe says. “I just want to be on the dang bandwagon! Somebody get me up there. Call me!”

She thinks about artists like Mindy McCready, who died by suicide in 2013 after being put through the wringer by Nashville for years. She wants more for her friends and creative partners, as well — for Presley, for Charlie Worsham, for Waylon Payne, who calls Dear Nashville “one of the most impressive and stunning displays.” For her dear pal Cook, who sent Monroe a voice memo telling her she’s been listening to Dear Nashville every night. For legends like steel guitar player Paul Franklin, who is both called out and featured on the album. For Rimes, whom she credits as being a major part of why she wanted to come to Nashville and learn to yodel.

“I love that she subtly shows up and says, ‘Don’t forget this,’” Monroe says. “[Rimes] never lets you forget how good she is, just subtly and humbly.” The two have talked about a “little dream project” they’d like to do together one day.

Dear Nashville doesn’t call out specific names, and neither does Monroe (unless she’s showering them with admiration, like she does Gill and Franklin). She hopes some folks might take a hint, though. “People don’t hold up mirrors, so I’m not expecting it,” she says. “But I’m always hopeful that it might make someone think they should be more supportive. People just get so caught up in the game, and we all probably overlook people without knowing it.”

She brings up a video she watched recently of George Jones’ speech while accepting the Pioneer Award at the 1993s ACMs. “If I had one last wish,” Jones said, “I’d like to wish that radio, somewhere along the way, would pay attention to us older artists. We’re not dead yet.”

“If you think about it, people ignored Johnny Cash for years,” Monroe says. “It’s just interesting how you never know, and then everything can change. I’ll never give up hope that what I’m doing matters, or that it wasn’t all in vain. I know already that it wasn’t.”

Despite it all, she doesn’t ever think of actually leaving Nashville.  “It’s a weird town, but I’m here for a while,” she says, her eyes glancing toward the “not your bitch” print in the window. “I’ve definitely had my defeated moments. That I’ve given my life to this, and it doesn’t even care. But I love it here. In ‘I Hate Nashville’ I say, ‘wrote a lot of songs, made a lot of friends, and if I’m being honest, I’d do it all again.’ I meant that.”

And she’d still like to be on those award show stages, but this time laying it all on the line. “I asked someone if they could see if the CMAs would let me sing ‘I Hate Nashville’ at the next awards,” she says. “I can’t remember what the answer was. Hell, maybe I’ll just go pitch it myself.” 

A few months later, Monroe is onstage in all black. Not at the CMA Awards — at least not yet — but at the Station Inn, for an intimate show where she’s playing Dear Nashville front to back alongside Laird and Franklin. Many of her Nashville friends are out to support her: Karen Fairchild of Little Big Town, Caylee Hammack, Brittney Spencer, Worsham.

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After she and the band strike what seems to be the final note and the crowd delivers a hearty standing ovation, she announces she’d like to play a cover of Patty Loveless’ “Nothin’ But the Wheel,” a song she cues up at least once a week and mentions in “I Hate Nashville.” Monroe is a huge Loveless fan, and the day “I Hate Nashville” came out, Monroe sent it her way. Loveless responded with a photo of her  wearing an Ashley Monroe T-shirt.

“This whole journey has been divine, and it’s healed me,” Monroe tells the crowd. “Hopefully it’s helped you all. This town. It’s a whole ordeal.”