Watching Dallas Smith through a grainy Zoom window is a lesson in the modern domesticity of a rockstar. There is no tour bus hum or the frantic energy of a backstage green room. Instead, there is the quiet, slightly chaotic backdrop of a man who has traded the road for the nursery. Smith is currently navigating the peculiar reality of being Canada’s most consistent country hitmaker while simultaneously being a father of three. The birth of his daughter, Everyn, has grounded a career that usually moves at 100 miles per hour.
But the numbers do not lie. Smith just logged his 10th No. 1 hit with *Like A Man*. He has a fifth Juno nomination for Country Album of the Year on the mantle. And he is branching out into the media space with the *Sticks and Stones Podcast* alongside 604 Records President Jonathan Simkin. It is a lot of plates to spin, yet Smith seems more relaxed than most artists with half his workload.
The 519 sat down with Smith to dissect the mechanics of a career that has successfully bridged the gap between post-grunge grit and Nashville polish. We talked about the evolution of the Junos, the technical hurdles of remote recording and why he is ready to trade the stage for a Denny’s breakfast in Anaheim.
Smith’s history with the Junos is a timeline of the industry’s shift from intimate industry gatherings to televised arena spectacles. When he won for *Lifted* in 2015, the vibe was decidedly different. It was a "music person’s" event, held in the hushed, high-stakes environment of a gala dinner rather than the roar of a stadium.
"The first year I was nominated I was actually playing a charity gig that night, but in 2015, I was there," Smith says. "To hear my name called and that record being called up — and have my entire team there and celebrate that with them — was amazing. Back then it wasn’t the situation like it is now, in an arena with lots of fans. This was when the country category was presented at the gala the night before. But still being the Juno’s, it was all music bigwigs and a lot of very famous people that you’re talking to. It was a very different experience. I’ll never forget that."
There is a specific kind of pressure that comes with being the veteran in the room. Smith has been a fixture of the Canadian music circuit for nearly 20 years. He survived the collapse of the physical sales era with Default and thrived in the streaming era as a solo act. That longevity gives him a perspective most of his contemporaries lack. He sees the industry as a single, interconnected web rather than a series of isolated genres.
"No, I think it’s fun either way," Smith says when asked about the difference between the genre-specific CCMA crowd and the broader Juno audience. "I mean, there’s a lot of the same music industry people that are there that cover all genres — media, record label people and managers, etc. And you make friends across the board. I’ve been in the Canadian music industry for almost 20 years now (both with rock band Default and as a solo country act) so I’m always happy when I get the chance to see a lot of friends from different genres over the years."
And yet, even the veterans have their moments of being humbled. The Junos are a place where the hierarchies of Canadian music are laid bare. For Smith, one particular encounter with a Canadian icon remains etched in his memory. It involves a stage, a classic rock cover and a sudden, unexpected endorsement.
"Yeah, Sarah McLachlan was a big one — probably the biggest," Smith says. "It was great. I remember we were up on stage one year and we were playing Summer Of ‘69. She came over gave me a kiss on the cheek, I was just like — wow. The guys were giving me a hard time afterwards. I was like yeah, I know. But it was worth it."
The conversation shifts to *Timeless*, an album that feels like a curated collection of Nashville’s best pens. The credits read like a "who’s who" of modern songwriting: Brett Eldredge, Thomas Rhett, Rhett Akins and Steven Lee Olsen. In the world of commercial country, song selection is a high-stakes game of A&R. You have to find the balance between what will play on the radio and what feels real in the vocal booth.
"I think the song has to relate to my life somehow," Smith says. "It’s all about being authentic, when you’re trying to deliver a song and emoting in the right way — trying to tell that story. It’s really important. We go through quite a few songs, but at the end of the day, I try to just grab the ones that touch me."
I want to go to Disneyland. I want to take the kids, and just go to a hotel and walk over and have a Denny’s breakfast early in the morning and then get over there and hop into the park. ...I think I get more excited about it than the kids do.
But authenticity is not just about the lyrics; it is about the sonic architecture. Smith’s collaboration with producer Joey Moi is the secret sauce. They have a shorthand that allows them to build tracks that feel massive without losing the emotional core. *Drop* is the perfect example of this—a track that leaned into the streaming-friendly production while maintaining Smith’s signature vocal grit.
"I don’t want to hit the same type of song too much on the same record," Smith says. "I want to be able to tell a story and hit those emotions that most people feel throughout their life. So, that’s just kind of how I like to build the records. One of the biggest songs off this record is Drop, and to have fellow Canadians participate in that — Joey Moi and Steven Lee Olsen — it was cool. It’s a pretty magical song. I think it’s my highest streaming song to date."
Then there is the Hardy collaboration, *Some Things Never Change*. Hardy is currently the hottest property in Nashville, a songwriter-turned-superstar who brings a certain "dirt-on-the-tires" energy to everything he touches. Smith’s connection to him was not a boardroom decision; it was a byproduct of hanging out in the trenches at Big Loud.
"I’ll give you a bit of a backstory," Smith says. "So, I hang out quite a bit in the studio at Big Loud when I’m in Nashville. It’s where my friend Joey works out of, so I spend a lot of time there even if I’m not recording — I’ll just pop in and say hi. There’s this board on the left-hand side — the guys producing the Nickelback records, Joey and Chad, they used to do this all the time — just put a board up about what’s needed and check things off like songs and what artists are needed, stuff like that."
It is a fascinating glimpse into the Nashville machine. It is less about formal pitches and more about who is in the room when the tracking starts. Smith saw the name "Hardy" on a whiteboard and recognized the talent before the rest of the world caught up.
"I saw this name Hardy on there, and I recognized it from different song credits," Smith says. "I pieced it together at the time Joey was working on Hardy’s record. The songwriter at Big Loud. I’d cut a couple of his songs and I got to get a sneak preview of the early stuff that he was already doing. He’s been around, and he’s the same management, record label, producer team, and so I’ve watched him come up behind the scenes a little bit. And he’s just exploded. So, luckily, I was able to convince him to hop on a track and it’s actually a track he co-wrote, as well. So that’s how that one came about."
But there is a bitter irony in the title *Some Things Never Change*. The last year has been defined by nothing but change. For an artist who lives for the stage, the 18-month drought of live performance has been a psychological grind. Smith has the No. 1 hits, but he has not had the chance to hear 20,000 people sing them back to him yet.
"Yeah, it’s gone over really well, and this year has been crazy," Smith says. "I’m really excited to get back out on the road. I’m trying to think of the last time we played live. I think Drop was the single, so we’re talking 18 months ago. So, we’ve never played Some Things Never Change. I want to play a festival with that one, it’ll be a banger, for sure."
Every artist has the "ones that got away"—those tracks that the label passed over for a single release but the fans embraced anyway. For Smith, his back catalogue is littered with these hidden gems. There is a palpable sense of "what if" when he talks about songs like *Heat Rises* or *50/50*.
"Oh yeah, there’s been lots," Smith says. "There’s been a lot of great songs on records that I wasn’t able to release. One was called Heat Rises, a couple records back off Lifted. There was another one off that album called Wrong About That, that was one of my favourite tracks back in the day. 50/50 was a song off Side Effects that I think could’ve gone out and done some damage but we just never got there. We’ll still play those ones and keep them in the set because you can tell people are still connected with them."
The connection between an artist and a specific region is one of the more mysterious elements of the music business. You can track data all day, but you never really know what will land until you are in the room. Smith recalls a show in Abbotsford where a deep cut suddenly felt like a national anthem.
"Ah, yeah. One happened when were in Abbotsford, when we played last tour," Smith says. "It’s really funny, each area and each region — you’ll see what song has really connected there for whatever reason. Not sure why, it just happens. The last show with the tour here locally — Abbotsford is pretty much a hometown show — we played Rhinestone World, and the chorus just had everybody singing along. It was so huge that night, but it really stood out. So, it happens quite often."
The technical reality of the pandemic forced Smith into a new way of working. The days of flying to Nashville to track vocals are gone, replaced by home studio setups and file sharing. It is a lonely way to make music. You lose the immediate feedback of a producer, but you gain a brutal kind of self-reliance.
"Fact is, it’s an even playing field for everybody. Nobody can do anything," Smith says. "It’s been a really different experience. The way this record was cut, I did my vocals all here by myself and sent the files down to Nashville to be finalized. So, it was weird. But it was interesting — instead of having a producer there to give you instant feedback — it was more of a self-critique, which is a good and bad thing. But it was a good experience to be able to self-diagnose and look at exactly what I needed to do and what was missing before I actually sent it the producer."
And what happens when the world finally reopens? For most, it is about the big stage. For Smith, it is about the small, mundane joys of family life. He wants the neon lights of a theme park and the smell of cheap coffee.
"I want to go to Disneyland," Smith says. "I want to take the kids, and just go to a hotel and walk over and have a Denny’s breakfast early in the morning and then get over there and hop into the park. I don’t know, that’s just so much fun for me. I think I get more excited about it than the kids do."
But the industry veteran in him knows that the recovery is about more than just his own travel plans. It is about the road crews, the lighting techs and the local venues that have been bleeding out for a year. He is ready to play anywhere, for anyone, just to get the machine moving again.
"Oh whatever, it doesn’t really matter," Smith says. "The industry has to get going here, it just does. It’s not even just me and the crew guys and the bandmates, but the production companies — all the way up and down the ladder. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care where we play, how it’s managed. Just get it done, and I’ll be glad to be there.
