Charlie Peacock’s stage name may sound like it was crafted for a pop icon, but he is better known for his impactful behind-the-scenes roles as a producer, songwriter, and label owner. Although he enjoyed a cult following as a singer-songwriter in the 1980s, especially among progressive Christian music fans eager for spiritual representation in the alternative rock scene, he never achieved mainstream fame. His daughter once humorously described his level of recognition as “just famous,” a sentiment Peacock (born Charlie Ashworth) has echoed in his new memoir. This quip captures the essence of his career—well-regarded yet not a household name.

His memoir, titled “Roots and Rhythm: A Life in Music,” is filled with vivid recollections from his journey in the ’80s, collaborating with labels such as Island, A&M, and the alternative Christian label Exit Records. The book chronicles a career marked by unexpected turns—from his rise as a notable figure in the Sacramento rock scene to his breakthrough as a Nashville-based pop hitmaker with Amy Grant’s “Each Heartbeat.” He also founded the Re:suppose label, nurturing acts like Switchfoot, before achieving significant commercial success as the producer for the Civil Wars’ acclaimed albums. Additionally, he ventured into serious jazz, reaching the jazz top 10 while collaborating with industry heavyweights like John Patitucci, all while managing a debilitating neurological condition.

As one might expect from a writer of his caliber, “Roots and Rhythm” is not merely a career retrospective but also serves as a spiritual memoir. It thoughtfully examines the influences of geography, heritage, and his deep admiration for figures like Jack Kerouac, John Coltrane, and Jesus. The narrative intricately weaves together various literary threads, creating a tapestry that reflects his life’s journey. This autobiography will appeal to readers interested in the mechanics of the music industry and those seeking broader insights into life’s profound questions. Variety had the opportunity to discuss this captivating book with Peacock on the day it was set to hit the shelves.

With two books published within a year—one co-authored with your wife (2024’s “Why Everything That Doesn’t Matter, Matters So Much: The Way of Love in a World of Hurt” with Andi Ashworth) and now this memoir—how did you manage to write them concurrently? The careful thought and writing in this memoir suggest years of effort went into it.

Oh, absolutely. I was reminiscing with Andi recently about how I began writing this memoir about 15 years ago. We both agreed that it originated when we returned to Northern California, where we had a home for a while to reconnect with my mother and family. It was during that time I felt compelled to write, driven by the profound sense of place and a desire to reflect on my upbringing in the Yuba City farming community of the ’50s and ’60s. I aimed to understand how those formative experiences shaped my identity. This exploration naturally led me to contemplate my proximity to San Francisco and the eclectic musical influences that emerged during that period, particularly the impact of concert promoter Bill Graham, who curated lineups featuring diverse artists like Jefferson Airplane and Albert King sharing the same stage as Miles Davis.

It seems like your memoir contains multiple narratives within it. You could have easily penned a separate book focusing solely on your family background, another on the intricacies of the music industry as a whole, or perhaps a collection of your spiritual and philosophical reflections. Readers will approach your memoir for various reasons: some may seek your spiritual insights, while others may be more interested in the music business perspective.

“I want to know who was in the room”—that’s a sentiment I resonate with deeply. As a journalist, you’re in a unique position where I feel comfortable sharing this, but I began this memoir as an inquiry into epistemology, the study of knowledge.

That’s quite an intriguing revelation.

For me, this book was about understanding how I know what I know. I realized that the writing process involved unraveling these threads and seeing where they led me. Time and again, I discovered an interconnectedness among these stories that may initially seem disparate to the reader but became profoundly linked for me. That realization shaped the structure of the memoir.

This memoir has a nonlinear narrative that allows for dynamic connections, providing readers with a refreshing variation rather than a monotonous 30 pages focused solely on one theme.

Exactly. Like you, I’ve read over 100 music biographies and autobiographies, and the ones that resonate most with me—such as Elvis Costello’s and Bob Dylan’s “Chronicles”—are structured similarly. One of the significant challenges I faced throughout my music career was the desire to be recognized as a writer rather than merely a musician writing a book. I aimed for this memoir to be perceived as a piece of art rather than just a reflection of my music career. I wanted to transcend the notion that, “Oh, I’ve had a music career, so I should write a book.” That wasn’t the driving force behind this project.

During your 15-year writing journey, did you discover any elements in the later drafts that weren’t part of your initial concept?

The themes of interconnectedness and the power of place were present from the outset. However, I realized that a crucial tension in the music industry is the requirement to be in the name-making business. Yet, being involved in that can be incredibly soul-crushing. I wanted to explore this struggle, particularly as someone who is “just famous” and primarily operates behind the scenes, whose solo career didn’t extend far beyond college radio and the Christian music sphere. Surviving in the music industry means constantly proving yourself. I observed how fame often opens doors long before talent or the quality of your work does, and this became a recurring theme throughout the memoir—navigating that tension and witnessing the rise and fall of others in the industry.

You write in the memoir: “Name-making is among the top five most exhausting and inhuman undertakings in the world.” Convincing a 21-year-old in 2025 to focus on anything else when everyone around them is obsessed with impressions must be challenging.

Indeed, Andi and I were discussing the concept of impressions over dinner recently, reflecting on when we first started hearing that term. Many successful artists have been discovered based on a gut feeling, akin to Malcolm Gladwell’s “blink” thesis. It’s fascinating to think about how some artists were approached by industry leaders based on intuition rather than metrics. This gut instinct often defies the data-driven world we live in today, where everything is quantifiable.

You briefly outline significant transitional phases in your career, noting times when certain opportunities became stifling. This pattern occurred when you transitioned from the church-related scene in Sacramento to the Exit Records environment, then moved to Nashville to work primarily behind the scenes in the CCM world for a decade. Subsequently, you started your label, which you later sold, intentionally leaving it behind to explore different artistic avenues. Jazz became a primary focus for a time, leading to an album that charted in the top five on the traditional jazz charts. Was it always clear to you when something wasn’t working anymore?

I touched on that in my reflections on the influence of the Beat Generation during my youth, alongside my background in the migrant culture of the West. I embody a sense of individualism while also having a deep appreciation for collaboration. There’s often a tension where I find myself thinking, “The freedom isn’t here anymore; it’s somewhere else.” Those early influences and family narratives drive me powerfully. Additionally, my love for jazz means that if I’m in an environment that stifles my ability to improvise, I need to leave. I value the excitement of risk and surprise in my creative endeavors.

Your memoir opens with a dramatic moment—the breakup of the Civil Wars, during a peak in your career as their producer. It symbolizes the many reversals of fortune that can occur throughout a career, particularly in yours.

Many younger people haven’t yet experienced the other side of the mountain, but they will eventually wake up one day—possibly wealthy—and wonder what it means to prove their worth again. They may question if they can change how others perceive them. Each of us, whether it’s someone like T Bone Burnett or myself, must have the determination to reinvent ourselves repeatedly, saying, “You’re mistaken about me. Let me show you once more who I am and what I’m capable of.” This process can be exhausting. Ideally, as we age, we shift our focus from self-promotion to uplifting others. However, in every industry, we face competition from talented newcomers eager to take our places.

How much of survival in the industry is attributed to luck, and how many individuals are simply hardwired to adapt at the right moments?

In the book, I discuss hyper-vigilance and resilience. While I can’t speak for everyone, those attributes have certainly helped me navigate my career, even amid my struggles. I once took a childhood PTSD test, and while I scored low on incidents from my past, I scored high on resilience. After falling ill a few years back, my doctor at the Mayo Clinic explained that my resilience allowed me to endure the prolonged challenges without breaking down. I’ve developed a capacity to withstand pain, whether physical or emotional, as I pursue my music career.

Being honest, there have been countless tearful moments and instances where I thought, “I can’t believe this is happening.” Yet, the next day, I would resolve to keep going. I once struggled with substance abuse, which only compounded my challenges. I realized that wasn’t the solution. Instead, I needed to focus on the work, committing to producing quality music, collaborating with talented bands, and meeting deadlines. This dedication left little room for other important aspects of my life, such as the joyous spontaneity of music and dreaming about future projects, which required a degree of success to pursue without depending on others’ financial support.

In your memoir, your daughter remarks that while you’re not a household name, you’re “just famous.” Did you ever struggle to let go of the dream of being a pop star, or was your transition to behind-the-scenes work seamless?

I wouldn’t say it was a smooth transition. I must admit to experiencing some confusion and jealousy. However, I am analytical enough to recognize that artist A excelled in the public-facing role due to their musical choices or persona. I began to understand that my purpose was to contribute my unique voice to someone else’s project, enhancing it exponentially without fully inserting myself.

I lacked the ability to market myself effectively because of my stubbornness. If I’m honest, I was probably the artist I wouldn’t have enjoyed working with. When I was creating songs or projects, it was about my vision in that moment. I was never motivated by money or trends; I simply followed my artistic instincts. My first development deal with A&M Records, where I worked with David Kahne, taught me the value of artistic integrity while achieving commercial success. I’ve held onto many of those principles throughout my career, and I’m always willing to make mistakes in pursuit of something great.

Despite the challenges you discuss, your memoir doesn’t convey a sense of frustrated ambition, where it’s “I must have my own shot at the golden ring or nothing.”

Not at all. Once my children reached a certain age, my priorities shifted. I began to see myself as a father and husband first, and I felt privileged to have a creative life. The notion of wanting to be a pop star at 35 felt absurd. At that point, I would have thought, “Don’t be a fool.” My perspective evolved, and I no longer felt that striving for stardom was a valid aspiration. At that time, I wasn’t confined to a specific genre; I explored various musical avenues, which made the idea of becoming a pop star unrealistic.

That’s the last thing record labels want to hear—they prefer artists to stick to one lane. I, however, had five or six lanes, making it impractical to pursue pop stardom. If someone like Paul McCartney struggles with that, having dropped orchestral or experimental electronic music to mixed reviews, why would I think I could succeed as a pop star with such eclectic interests? Only a few artists can navigate that path successfully. Paul Simon has continued to experiment while maintaining a certain freedom from expectations, and I admire artists like him who forge their own paths.

For readers interested in the history of contemporary Christian music, your memoir offers a wealth of insights, particularly regarding the ’80s and the perspectives on crossover attempts. You draw parallels to U2, who received advice from their ministers to abandon the music industry and focus on glorifying God. However, your experience in the Warehouse scene in Sacramento was quite the opposite—where you were encouraged to play for secular audiences, distancing yourself from explicit Christian music associations. Can you elaborate on that complex narrative?

Yes