There’s a certain warmth to Treaty Oak Revival that doesn’t quite translate through song streams or listener stats. You feel it the second they start talking—open, quick to laughter, the kind of humbleness of people who’ve seen hard things but don’t wear the hardness as armor to cut themselves off from the people around them. With their new album, West Texas Degenerate, the band find themselves growing up, retelling stories they’ve lived, taking pride in where they come from, and the people who’ve shaped them.
We sat down with Jeremiah Vanley, guitarist, and Dakota Hernandez, their new bassist, to talk about their latest album, West Texas Degenerate, out Friday, November 28.
The album title itself captures attention. West Texas Degenerate sounds like a middle finger, a love letter, and an eye roll all at once—but Vanley explains it comes from something far simpler. “We have a song called “West Texas Degenerate,” and it’s kind of about where we’re from,” he says. “It’s about the Permian Basin, about the oil field, about all the crazy stuff that goes on there.”
The band aren’t interested in mythologizing the place. They talk about Odessa, Midland, and the surrounding communities the way people talk about family—honestly and full of stories. “Odessa is where it’s at,” Vanley laughs. “That’s where it all started.”
That sense of place runs through the album’s DNA. The record opens with “Port A,” a song about the last wild blowout before adulthood comes knocking. “It’s more of a chronological thing,” Vanley explains. “Sam (Canty) wrote these songs intermittently, but when we started putting the order together, it just made sense. He’s in college; he’s partying; he’s at the beach with his friends getting drunk. And it kind of starts there.”
From there, the album begins its slow turn toward heavier realities: working the oil fields, breakups, addiction, responsibility, fear, and resilience. “It’s a record about growth,” Vanley says. “How you transition from your younger days—your adolescent days—to being an adult and getting married and having a family. All those things.”
The band talk about these themes plainly, without dressing them up. When asked about the gravity of “Shit Hill,” the room shifts; everyone knows the song cuts deep. Here, their manager, Eli, chimes in from the back of the room, half in, half out of the interview. “I think that’s just about being in a bad situation,” he says. “Like, in a relationship. The line, ‘Don’t tell me that I’m drunk if you know that I’m drunk when you’re never sober’—it’s like, don’t tell me what you think you know, ’cause you ain’t never seen the real me.” Vanley nods. “That’s what I’ve got—just a bad relationship.”
But even in the heavy moments, they find levity in each other. Vanley lights up talking about “Naders,” especially the part of the song where drummer Cody Holloway breaks loose. “We just get to hear Cody go crazy,” he says. “He’s breaking it down, and we’re all just rocking out. That’s my favorite part of the album—even though it’s probably my wife’s least favorite,” he laughs. “She’s not a rock fan.” Hernandez has his own anchor point. “I really like ‘Port A,’ especially the line where it talks about ‘I can’t be trusted with that substance these days.’ That line really sticks with me.”
What becomes clear, the longer they talk, is how the band’s bond shapes the record—how every song is built collaboratively, piece by piece, with everyone contributing something essential. Hernandez jumps in, smiling as he talks about stepping fully into the band. “I’ve known the guys forever,” he says. “I met them back when they were practicing in the shop and watched everything grow from the outside. Then I came on as a guitar and drum tech, just helping out. Now I’m the bass player. I’m blessed to be with these guys. It’s a great group and it’s like family, you know?” Vanley laughs beside him: “Yeah, instant rock star. Look at him. He looks the part.”
And tucked inside that conversation is a moment that shows just how wide their influence really stretches. When the album’s intro comes up, Vanley grins. “Yeah, that’s actually a guy that we hired to do that intro,” he says. “He plays for a band called Ben Quad … Edgar.” They’d wanted something outside their usual palette. “We were like, hey, you know, we want like a different tone for the intro of this album—something like emo-y, like Midwestern-like stuff. And he sent us the tracks … and we loved it. So, we put it behind the vocal that we recorded from that one dude.”
“In the first album, we were playing out of Fender amps and single-coil pickups, trying to do, like, a Texas country kind of thing,” Vanley explains. “Then the second album, it was like, ‘Hey, we want to sound more like a rock band,’ so let’s slowly transition. And now with this third album—this feels like us—It feels like all our influences finally coming together.” Vanley grins when he lists them: Van Halen, Metallica, Pantera—big riffs, even bigger energy. “Sam brings the vocals and a basic melody,” he says. “Then Lance adds to it; Dakota adds to it, Cody adds to it, I’ll add to it … and it just becomes what it is. It’s fun.”
Treaty Oak Revival do everything in-house—recording, shaping the sound, finding what fits. You can hear their fingerprints on every part of it, which is why “Sunflower,” the band’s first actual love song, felt like such a turning point. The song was originally written just for Canty’s wife, who, as Vanley notes, is also his cousin. “I’m a little biased,” he says, laughing. “Because Sam married my cousin … without my permission, by the way.”
But the story behind the song is gentle. “I think he’s always wanted to write a love song,” Vanley says. “But he’s never really been in love. Once he married Kelsey and had kids, he’s like, ‘Man, Treaty Oak needs a love song.’ Originally, he didn’t even want to put it on the record because it was just for her. He wanted it to be only hers.” It was Kelsey who insisted it belonged on the album. “She told him, ‘No, put it on the record. See what it does.’” From there, the story unraveled into something tender, something that softened the edges of the album without breaking its spirit. “I think it’s a beautiful song,” Hernandez says quietly, almost to himself. “From my perspective—it’s just beautiful.”
By the time the conversation winds down, the picture is clear: West Texas Degenerate isn’t another album cycle for Treaty Oak Revival. It’s the sound of a band tightening their circle, growing into themselves, and letting every influence, memory, person they love bleed into the album, creating a love letter to their surroundings and celebrating what they’ve overcome.
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Photo credit: Paige Williams
