Ahead of the release of his new album and an October 15th storyteller set at Carnegie Hall in Lewisburg, the Huntington-raised singer talks about his grandfather’s wisdom, juke joints, and his love for West Virginia.
THE RUNDOWN
New Album: Appalachian Soul Power drops September 22nd and features special guests Corduroy Brown, Wes Hager of Fletcher’s Grove, Megan Paullet of HR Department, Osage Gospel & Soul Community Choir, and West Virginia legend Al Anderson.
New Video: “Appalachian Soul“ out now and available for free on YouTube
New Book: Mountain Alchemy, Jones’s first novel, paired with the album’s September 22nd release
Live: Oct. 15 — Carnegie Hall, Lewisburg, WV, with Ron Sowell
More: aristotlejones.com
Appalachian Soul
There’s a version of West Virginia that exists mostly in the rearview mirror, as a green blur on I-64, a place people fly over, drive through, or only half-remember from a headline about the destructive impacts of coal mining or opioids. Then there’s the West Virginia that Aristotle Jones knows, one that can only be found down a winding country road, a version seeped in history and carried forward by bold individualism and an appreciation for our diverse cultural heritage.
On October 15th, the Appalachian Soul Man will take the stage at the historic Carnegie Hall in Lewisburg for a stripped-down, storyteller-style show alongside Ron Sowell. The local event will follow the September 22nd release of his new album, Appalachian Soul Power, and its literary companion piece, a debut novel titled Mountain Alchemy.
The album and the book were created as a single, symbiotic project, one you can enter from either direction, and together they offer a deeper perspective from an artist who has spent his career arguing, gently but insistently, that Black Appalachian soul music was never missing from the story of American music. It was just waiting for somebody to say its name out loud.
We sat down with Jones to talk about all of it: his grandfather who set the whole thing in motion, the blues and gospel legends whose blueprint he’s still tracing across the mountains, what “Soul Power” actually meant on a boarded-up storefront in 1960s Memphis, and why he thinks West Virginia is in the middle of a quiet creative renaissance. What follows is his story, told mostly in his own words, because as you’re about to find out, nobody tells it better.
A Tale of American Music
Jones didn’t invent the unique sound that shapes his music. That’s the first thing he wants you to understand.
“I’ve been making music for a long time, and I was always blending these different styles of R&B and soul and country and folk, because I grew up in Huntington, and that was the environment –the music that was around,” Jones says. “You’d see it at the Regatta, at the fairs and festivals, the street concerts. It would be a bluegrass band one day, a country band the next, then there’d be a Four Tops cover band, or a blues band performing. So, I got a lot of different genres as influences growing up in West Virginia. Of course, that would be the only thing going on in the town, so everybody would come out and hear these different types of music.”
But the idea of Appalachian Soul Man didn’t crystallize until much later, and it didn’t come from a stage. It was an understanding, an identity, passed down like a living oral tradition across generations.
“It was right around 2019, when I put out my first solo album, that the idea of the Appalachian Soul Man came about. And really, that came about when I was spending time with my grandfather, who was a gospel singer in the ‘40s, ‘50s, and ‘60s. He had worked in a coal camp, and he was a farmer, and on the weekends he would perform with his gospel group, traveling around to different coal camps and singing in gospel quartet competitions.”
At the time, Jones and his grandfather lived together on the family farm, and it was there, listening to an old man’s stories, that something clicked.
“After spending some time with him, I realized that the music I was makingthe unique blend of sounds- I wasn’t originating that. That was something that was already here in West Virginia, because of our geographic setup –you know, down in the hollers, everybody would hang out, and the music they were making would blend together. And it actually paid tribute to the diverse heritage of the region, because a lot of folks came through from all over the world to work in the coal camps, including the American South, where my great-grandfather had migrated from.”
Once Jones started tracing the history, he couldn’t stop finding evidence. A whole lineage of Black musical genius had run straight through the mountains he grew up in.
“Appalachian Soul Music –It was just part of our culture, but I realized somebody needed to be the leader of the genre, to show how much it had actually become prevalent in American music, coming from artists like Johnny Johnson, who was the original ‘Johnny B. Goode,’ or Bill Withers. How the Chitlin’ Circuit had traveled up and down the mountains, with Ike and Tina Turner… with Ray Charles. Soul music was part of the scene, it just hadn’t been mentioned.”
That name: Bill Withers, the “Lean on Me” and “Ain’t No Sunshine” songwriter born in Slab Fork, West Virginia, comes up like a touchstone throughout the conversation, right alongside Johnny Johnson, Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, Rufus Thomas, Isaac Hayes, Bobby “Blue” Bland, and James Brown. For Jones, these aren’t just influences to name-drop. They’re a map.
Sankofa: Going Back to Move Forward
When you hear Jones speak, it’s clear that he embodies something from the past, that he represents something bigger than the individual man. Ask Jones whether he feels like he’s tapping into something bigger than himself on stage, a kind of collective memory, and he doesn’t reach for a vague answer. He reaches for a word.
“There’s a word used in Black Appalachian storytelling — what’s called Sankofa. And that means going back to move forward. The idea of knowing where you come from, to allow yourself a trajectory of where you’re going. That’s a key element of my music and my art.”
It’s a principle he traces directly back to those farmhouse conversations with his grandfather.
“My grandfather was really one of my biggest inspirations, because it was the stories he told me about himself growing up — passing along the values that were important to him, that he wanted instilled in me as his legacy. That connected me to the idea of place and purpose. By paying tribute to the legacy artists who came before me, that gives me a platform to move my genre forward, my creativity in writing and literature, the storytelling I portray on stage — but it also gives me a place to come home to. It gives me a center in rock and roll.”
That center, he argues, has been left off the official map of American music history for too long.
“I love when people say rock and roll was invented in places like Cleveland, or St. Louis, or Philadelphia, or Chicago — but they kind of ignore where a lot of those folks came from, through the Great Migration. They ignore the migration pattern of the art and culture that moved along with the music. That, along with the people, is what really became an eye-opening portal for me to dive in and pay tribute to these artists.
“I’m a student of the game. A lot of these artists came through with the coal miners, who just wanted to find work. If an artist was popping off in St. Louis and wanted to get to Washington, D.C., there’s this chunk of land in between called the Appalachian Mountains, where they needed gigs and safe places to stay. Looking back at eras like Jim Crow here in West Virginia — even though a lot of folks came as immigrants and migrants from the American South — it was one of those places where it wasn’t always safe for a musician to stop just anywhere.
“James Brown — a well-known artist — he had to have a special place to stay. So he had to go to the coal camps or the lumber camps, the more populated areas, where he could stay with Black culture leaders or influential members of the community. They’d know it was safe — but there was also a gig there, because the people were craving the music.
“When I get a chance to travel, I go to those same towns, and I participate in uncovering some of the lost history — where were the venues, how did they promote, what was the style of energy? And a lot of times, those were what were called juke joints. Those out-of-the-way venues. That became the style of music we present on stage with my Appalachian Soul band. I always say it’s a juke joint night. You’re gonna come here and it’s gonna be getting away from the hard work of the week, where we’re celebrating the fact that we survived, and we get to celebrate the joy of being together.”
What “Soul Power” Really Means
If Appalachian Soul Man was Jones introducing himself, the new album, Appalachian Soul Power, is him doing a deep dive into the legacy of the music. The title, he says, is a direct nod to challenging times in Memphis, home of Stax Records, the label that gave the world Southern Soul’s rawer, rowdier cousin to Motown’s polished style.
“I’m very inspired by Stax Records, out of Memphis, Tennessee. I consider Appalachian soul music a form of southern soul music — a regional dialect of it. Stax was the home of Southern soul. Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, Rufus Thomas, Isaac Hayes — so many prevalent ‘60s and ‘70s soul artists were allowed to take that joyous, celebratory style of soul versus Motown, which was a little more buttoned-up, pent and proper. Southern soul is all about rocking and stomping and juke joint and high energy and dancing — just being alive and living in the moment.
“If you look at Stax Records in the ‘60s — Memphis had a cotton strike, the economy was oppressed, and there were going to be riots. If you wrote ‘soul power,’ or ‘soul man,’ or ‘soul brother’ on the boards when you boarded up your window, people knew it belonged to a Black business. So when race riots or protests would escalate, folks knew who not to go after, as they were expressing their rage and outrage at an oppressive system.”
He brings that history forward, deliberately, into the present-day fight for recognition in Appalachia.
“The power inside of that is a throwback to the ‘60s and ‘70s soul power aspect of it — but moving that forward into the 21st century and into the Appalachian region, where today we’re also looking for ways to present diversity within the Appalachian region. So Appalachian soul power is saying: there are people here. There’s a more diverse perspective than what you’ve had before.”
The new record marks the third leg of a journey Jones has been mapping across three albums: Appalachian Soul Man, Mountain Dew-op in the Streets of Osage, and now Appalachian Soul Power.
“My first album was Appalachian Soul Man, which really spoke to me discovering myself. The follow-up, Mountain Dew-op in the Streets of Osage, was me discovering my history in a town where my grandparents had fallen in love and raised my dad — paying tribute to the place, and the person within the place.
“Appalachian Soul Power leans into what it takes to get back to the top of the mountain once you’ve achieved some heights. You’re gonna be tired already, you’re in the middle of your journey, you’re following that intrepid mountaineer through a harsh region, and what you’re looking for is the strength to continue on. When you’re really digging deep, you also have the perspective of somebody who’s grown up in Appalachia”
“I like to consider that the Appalachian soul power. The name of the album lies in those three aspects — person, place, and perspective — in connection to your higher power. It’s a throwback to those ‘60s and ‘70s soul artists, moved forward through the perspective of my life, my history, and my connection to my region.”
On the Book: Mountain Alchemy
The album’s companion piece is Jones’s first book, a novel called Mountain Alchemy. It’s his first extended venture into prose after a career built on songs and poems.
“I’ve always written poems and songs, so I consider myself a writer. But this is a new experience for me. However, as a storyteller — if you ask any of my friends, they’ll tell you I’ve always told stories. Writing this book, it was almost like watching a movie in my head. The words were just flowing out, and I’d be so excited to see where the next chapter went as I wrote.
“The book tells the story of one night in Appalachia. It also gives really great descriptions and glimpses inside the inner monologue of an individual as they’re going through very interesting twists and turns — having to navigate things he maybe didn’t understand before, and having an eye-opening experience about himself. There is a mystery aspect to it. But really, what I get to do with this book is spend a little more time with my audience — I get to showcase the storytelling side of my performance without having to be in front of them on stage. I consider both the book and the album a simultaneous project.”
The album and book meet directly in one song, a gospel hymn written specifically for the novel, and closing out Appalachian Soul Power.
“There’s a song, a hymn, a gospel song I wrote specifically for the book — the final track on the album — called ‘Ain’t No Day Worth Crying (Momma’s Hymn).’ In the book, it’s passed down orally, so it follows the tradition of oral storytelling — it becomes a different version of a song different characters get to sing.
“When we were in the studio making it, it was one hundred percent hand-in-hand with the visuals from the book. This is what we have to put in the video, these are the characters singing along. You really get a pure sense of how the book comes to life when you hear the album — and a true sense of the world where the book lives when you listen to the album.”
The book’s title comes from a metaphor Jones uses for the region itself. It’s a story of transformation. The individual, the people, the place forged, under pressure, into something else entirely.
“That’s where ‘Mountain Alchemy’ comes from. It’s the transition from carbon to coal, from coal to a diamond. Looking at our community now in the 21st century, how it’s transitioning from what used to be an extractive industry — and now I feel like Appalachia is a place with green grass and beautiful trees and mountain getaways, where folks are looking at this as an experiential, tourist destination.”
A West Virginia Nobody Expected
Jones’s mission has never been confined to a stage. He’s become something like an evangelist for a version of West Virginia that rarely makes it into the postcard, and he’s found, again and again, that the state’s own story surprises people who think they already know it.
“I’m just looking forward to sharing Appalachia’s connection to the larger scope of American music. What’s really unique about our region is folks fly over, they drive through, they stop and visit very briefly. When I visit other places and tell people I’m from Appalachia, West Virginia, their jaws hit the floor — because what they’d heard was a narrative that basically said I don’t exist, or that there’s not a lot of diversity in the region.
“So when folks discover someone like me — somebody they wouldn’t have pictured if they closed their eyes and imagined West Virginia — and then I stand up and sing ‘West Virginia Hills,’ they get excited. My whole set starts with the West Virginia song, and it ends with a Bill Withers song, or maybe ‘Country Roads.’”
That framing, he says, is deliberate. To Jones, it’s a way of reclaiming a narrative that’s too often been written by outsiders, or by tragedy.
“A lot of times we’ve been told, through the opioid epidemic, through the Hatfield-McCoy narrative, through extractive industries that looked to put us in a position where it was easier to take what was beneath our feet — we’ve been told that what we have isn’t necessarily something to be valued. But we’ve been raised to know that what you have is the most valuable thing you can showcase. Just be yourself. That was something my grandfather instilled in me — just be yourself, man, you know what you’re doing.
“I got to thinking about all the people, those who were able to build a house on the mountain, all the ways we’ve controlled the rivers, built tracks through the valleys… I got so into the story that whenever I share it with other people, it almost makes them fall in love with West Virginia. So I’m happy to be an ambassador for the state — ambassador for Appalachia, ambassador for the Black Appalachian experience, and a way to connect people to some of our rural roots.”
And he’s not shy about attributing that shift to something bigger than himself: a generational handoff currently underway across the state.
“There’s been a general generational shift. There’s a lot of younger folks who love West Virginia, and they’re inviting me to come… I get to visit towns I’ve never been part of. There’s a movement of younger folks looking at the infrastructure currently in place and saying, ‘Well, I like living here, but I need to do something with this building that hasn’t been maintained. This road or this creek needs attention.
“There’s a mentality of many younger folks here in West Virginia who want to stay, who want to build the scene they want to be a part of. It’s not just myself — it’s a group of like-minded individuals with a renewed commitment to being something more than what we’ve had in the past. Taking the values of determination, resiliency, commitment to the community, and reinvesting inside the community — hopefully finding ways more folks can engage by being themselves.
“I think our stories are kind of like the story of John Henry — the hard-working, steel-driving man who wasn’t going to let the machine beat him down. Right now, a lot of West Virginians are working to make sure the machine doesn’t beat us down, or that we don’t get left behind as we move forward. The new waves of the creative renaissance coming out of West Virginia are just reflective of that.
“I always say community starts by showing up. If you don’t know, you don’t go. Now that I’ve been invited to these places, I’m getting invited by folks within those communities who are working to highlight the diversity, or working to overcome the stigma and stereotypes that had previously been in place.”
From a Place of Love and a Love of Place
We asked Jones, in closing, what is most important about his work, what he wants the readers to know. He sums it up with something of an artist statement, and a call to action. There is no doubt, Aristotle Jones is carrying the torch forward into a new West Virginia. He does it for his grandfather and all those who came before him, for his community, for a new generation of artists, and for a purpose, much larger than himself.
“I write my music and my literature from a place of love. I write about love — romantic love, of course, love for community, love for your higher power, and ultimately love that reflects back on yourself. Discipline is the highest form of self-love. That was taught to me through the hard-working values of my grandfather, who was a coal miner, a farmer, and who raised a large family. Those values are things we can use to move forward in the 21st century here in West Virginia. So when you’re participating — reading my book, listening to the music, or coming out to a live show — just know that I’m a proud West Virginian, and I love continuing to push forward the narrative of Appalachian soul music, and the creative contributions of underrepresented folks here in West Virginia — the Black community, and beyond.
“On this album, there are a lot of collaborative experiences — I’ve been very intentional about highlighting other Appalachian artists who contribute to the narrative with that same like-mindedness. And within the band, you’ll see the diversity at work in real life.
“The artists, the musicians, and the creatives of our region are the storytellers of this generation. You’ll find a lot of really great hidden jewels in the values we represent, tucked into our artwork. So I encourage folks to dig deeper into Appalachian artists of all mediums.”
