Ģ����ý

Anytime Lindsay Ell steps onto a stage beside Shania Twain, the moment still occasionally feels surreal. Never mind that it’s part of a 12-night run with Harry Styles starting June 12th at London’s famed Wembley Stadium.   

But for Ell, performing alongside one of the artists who first inspired her to pursue music still carries flashes of memory from an entirely different chapter of her life, one rooted not in Nashville or sold-out arenas, but in Ģ����ý living rooms and childhood mirrors. 

“I’ll remember learning how to sing from this song years ago,” Ell says of performing songs like Twain’s classic “No one needs to know” on tour. “And now I’m two feet away from the woman who inspired me to want to start this whole thing.” 

It is the kind of full-circle moment many artists dream about. But, nearly a decade after first speaking with University of Ģ����ý Alumni News about chasing country music stardom, Ell’s story now feels less about reaching the dream and more about what happened after and what’s coming next.  

Side A 

Back then, the focus was momentum: Nashville, record deals, radio singles and breakthrough opportunities. The version of Lindsay Ell introduced to UĢ����ý audiences in 2018 was an emerging artist rapidly gaining momentum while navigating the traditional expectations of commercial music success. 

Today, after 15 years in Nashville, a place she now calls ‘home’, Ell speaks much more openly about honesty, healing, identity and creative freedom than she does about fame. Her latest EP, , showcases an artist increasingly comfortable revealing more of herself through her music. 

And, perhaps more importantly, she sounds far more interested in sustainability than perfection. 

“This last record that I put out has been very personal,” Ell says. “I’ve really wanted to get down to the nitty-gritty of what I want to put in my music and what I want to say.” 

That shift has become increasingly visible in both Ell’s music and the way she speaks about her career. Her recent work explores themes of transformation, self-worth and emotional healing with a level of vulnerability that feels intentionally unguarded. It is a notable evolution from the younger artist who once entered Nashville trying to prove she belonged. 

“When I first moved to Nashville, I think I was a little bit more led by, ‘Okay, this is what the industry wants me to do, so this is what I will do,’” she says. “Even the content of my songs was more like, ‘What would be the most commercial thing that I could release right now?’” 

That tension between commerce and authenticity quietly shaped much of Ell’s early career. Signed into an industry still heavily driven by radio formatting and genre expectations, she often found herself navigating spaces where artistic individuality and commercial viability did not always align comfortably. 

Nowhere was that tension more visible than in country music itself.

“I knew I wasn’t going in there with a cowboy hat and cowboy boots singing about trucks and beer,” Ell says with a laugh. “That just wasn’t part of my world.” 

Remix 

Long before “genre-fluid” became an industry buzzword, Ell’s musical influences stretched well beyond traditional country conventions. Raised on Shania Twain before later immersing herself in blues, rock and pop music through mentorship from another iconic Canadian performer, Randy Bachman, Ell entered Nashville with ambitions of becoming “a female John Mayer.” 

Instead, she often found herself being told she was not “country enough.” 

“I knew I wasn’t going in there with a cowboy hat and cowboy boots singing about trucks and beer,” Ell says with a laugh. “That just wasn’t part of my world.” 

The comment is delivered lightly, but the underlying pressure was real. For years, Ell has existed slightly outside the lane the industry seemed to want her to occupy, close enough to country to market there, but stylistically and creatively pulling from something broader. Her music has continually become more sonically expansive and emotionally direct. She describes the process as both freeing and terrifying. 

“Marketing my music now in a new landscape kind of feels like starting over again,” she says. “It feels like the beginning of something.” 

That balancing act between creativity and practicality has existed throughout much of Ell’s life. Education was always important in the Ell household. Her mother, Suzanne Ell, was an archives specialist in Libraries and Cultural Resources at UĢ����ý. Her older brother, Shawn Ell, ����dz���’09, graduated from the Haskayne School of Business, and Lindsay initially followed a similar path, believing a business background could help her navigate the music industry just as much as her creative instincts would. 

While studying at Haskayne, Ell says she developed many of the teamwork and communication skills that still shape how she approaches her career today. But balancing a full university course load alongside an increasingly demanding music career quickly became unsustainable and, in 2009, she chose to step away from her studies. 

“It was one of the hardest decisions,” Ell says of deciding to pursue music full time. 

Still, she credits that experience with fundamentally shaping how she navigates the business side of the industry. 

“I’ve always been very hands-on with my business,” Ell says. “I’ve always wanted to know what my manager’s doing, what my business manager’s doing, what my agent is doing.” 

What makes that reinvention particularly compelling is that it appears rooted less in rebranding than in self-trust. Again and again throughout the conversation, Ell returns not to strategy, but to authenticity. 

“At this point in my career, I’m just like, ‘Man, I really need to write the most honest thing that I can say,’” she says. “And hope that that connects with somebody else going through a similar thing.” 

That honesty extends beyond music.

Feedback  

Over the past several years, Ell has spoken publicly about mental health, body image, healing and self-worth, the conversations she believes are finally becoming more normalized both inside and outside the entertainment industry. 

“I feel like mental health is so much more at the forefront now,” she says. “We don’t need to wear these masks anymore of, ‘This is who I’m trying to be,’ versus who we really are.” 

For Ell, songwriting has increasingly become a way to process those realities in real time. 

“Still to this day, I feel like I’m learning about myself and processing the things I’m going through in life through writing songs about them.” 

It is perhaps the clearest indication of how much her relationship with creativity has changed. Earlier in her career, songwriting often existed within the framework of commercial expectations. Now, it feels more like reflection and release. However, that shift has not necessarily made life easier. 

If anything, Ell acknowledges that modern artists now face entirely new pressures surrounding visibility, comparison and constant access to audiences. Social media, she says, remains both “a blessing and a curse.” 

“The fact that anybody can post something and potentially have millions of people see it overnight is wild,” she says. “But, if I sit there scrolling for hours, that’s where my happiness jumps out the window.” 

Over time, Ell has learned to place stricter boundaries around her online life, recognizing that protecting her creativity sometimes means disconnecting from the noise surrounding it.

“Your voice is the most unique thing that you can bring to this world,” Ell says. “And that’s the thing that will take you the farthest.”

Resonance 

Sometimes, during an interview, there’s a clear moment where a person stops answering questions and starts talking about something they genuinely love. Their energy changes instantly.  

With Ell, that shift happens whenever the conversation turns toward music making itself. At one point during the interview, she goes from talking tour dates and numbers to tilting her laptop webcam to show off her guitars, enthusiastically pointing out hand-painted designs and talking about the instruments like old friends. 

The energy is noticeably different, lighter, more animated, deeply personal. For all the conversations about industry pressure, reinvention and visibility, it is clear that the simple act of creating and playing music still sits at the centre of who she is. 

“I feel like I’m entering another era where I really want to become the best guitar player I can be,” Ell says. 

That evolution extends beyond music and into how Ell now defines fulfilment.  

“When I first moved to Nashville and signed my first record deal, life looked very flashy,” she says. “But the things that bring me joy now are very simple.” 

Walking her dog. Hiking. Making breakfast. Spending time outside. 

It is a striking answer from someone whose career includes world tours, major festival stages and performing beside one of the biggest names in modern music.  

“The things that bring me joy now are usually free,” Ell says. 

During the conversation, Ell references author Martha Beck and the idea of “following the joy,” a phrase she repeatedly returns to when discussing career pivots, uncertainty and growth. 

“It sounds cheesy,” she says with a laugh. “But it’s actually very practical.” 

For Ell, following joy has become less about chasing happiness and more about recognizing alignment, that is, understanding which creative choices, environments and relationships feel grounding, rather than performative. 

It is also, perhaps, the clearest contrast between the artist who first arrived in Nashville 15 years ago and the one speaking now. 

The younger version chased validation, whereas the current version seems far more interested in truth.  

“Your voice is the most unique thing that you can bring to this world,” Ell says. “And that’s the thing that will take you the farthest.”

Eight Seconds with Lindsay Ell 

Here in a rapid-fire format inspired by Hot Ones host Sean Evans, Lindsay Ell answers eight questions about CTrain performances, Stampede survival, Alberta-highway playlists and why guitars have personalities.  

I heard that back in the late 2000s, there were times people could find you playing guitar on the CTrain. Is that actually true? And what’s the hardest part about playing on public transportation? 

LOL When I was younger, I said yes to pretty much any opportunity to play a show. So that had me playing random places downtown, random street corners, busking. I played on top of the baggage carousel at the airport, which was one of those shining moments and yeah, on the CTrain too. Thankfully, it was all acoustic, so I didn’t have to plug into an amp or anything, and I was kind of roving up and down. But the hardest part was keeping your balance! 

You’re arriving back in Ģ����ý. What’s the first thing you’re doing? 

I love ice cream so much, so probably going to Village Ice Cream… But honestly, the first thing is probably seeing my family, seeing friends, and then going to my favourite places. I used to work at Joeys, so I normally try to get a meal at Joeys Crowfoot for old times’ sake. 

Is there a Ģ����ý venue that has always stuck with you? 

I remember playing the Jack Singer so much when I was growing up. The Jack Singer and the Jubilee both had that wow factor when you walked in. I remember being on stage and just thinking the acoustics in those rooms were so stunning and beautiful. 

Stampede is basically 10 days of chaos. What’s your survival strategy? 

Sleep and water whenever you can get them. I have to tell you my craziest Stampede was when I was still my own agent and booking all my own shows in my mid-teens. I booked 68 shows in the 10 days of Stampede. My mom actually had to take time off work just to drive me from show to show. 

What’s your Tim Hortons order and what’s playing if you’re driving down an Alberta highway? 

I used to get a double-double all the time, but I actually don’t drink much coffee anymore, so now I get peppermint tea; Tim Hortons peppermint tea is bomb. Sometimes, I’ll get an Iced Capp because they’re just too good and, if I do, I order it with chocolate milk because it’s better that way. If I’m driving down an Alberta highway right now, I’d probably put on some OG Shania or Terri Clark or maybe Paul Brandt. Those were the OGs back in the day. 

What’s harder right now: writing a great song or getting people to discover it? 

Writing a great song is difficult, but I’d definitely say getting people to discover it seems harder these days because there’s just so much music. 

Do you still get as excited about guitars as you did when you were a teenager? 

I do. I feel like I’ve gone through different chapters with guitar. When I was a teenager, you literally couldn’t peel a guitar off my body. I played all day long. Then, in my 20s, I was so busy travelling and writing songs and playing shows that I was always playing guitar, but not really practising guitar, if that makes sense. Now I feel like I’m entering another era where I really want to become the best guitar player I can be. So, I’m practising every day again and workshopping every day. It kind of feels like I’m back to how I was in my teens. 

You showed me the guitars behind you during the interview — do instruments kind of have personalities or souls? 

I think they do. I think a lot of things have their own soul. Every guitar I own kind of feels different. Some feel like they need a male name, some feel like they need a female name. I don’t know — I just think instruments channel different parts of you and bring out different messages.