The case for great songs: How lawyer Chuck Hodges turned storytelling into songwriting

For most of his professional life, Chuck Hodges has made his living through words. As a federal tax litigator, he spent three decades building cases, crafting narratives, and finding the human story hidden within complex disputes. Today, he’s applying those same skills to a very different form of storytelling: songwriting.

Unlike many writers who begin with a melody, Hodges starts with an idea. A missed opportunity. A lasting relationship. The values that define a community. Each song begins as a story worth telling, with the music arriving later to support the message. The result is a catalog of songs that feel less like traditional compositions and more like character studies set to music.

With collaborations including Jonathan Moody and a growing collection of original songs ranging from heartfelt love stories to reflections on faith, family, and hometown pride, Hodges is proving that great songwriting can emerge from unexpected places. We recently sat down with him to discuss his unique creative process, the inspiration behind songs like “Don’t Be My Doubt” and “Last Call Comes Around,” and why understanding people remains at the heart of everything he writes.

You spent three decades building arguments in federal tax litigation. How did that experience unexpectedly prepare you to become a songwriter?
People are always surprised when I tell them the connection, but to me it feels completely natural. As a litigator, your job is to pay attention to life's details because trials are about history — real people, real events, real consequences. That discipline doesn't stay in the courtroom. It follows you home. It sits with you at dinner. It changes the way you listen to people. You start paying attention to the stories people tell you, the good ones and the painful ones, and you file them away because you never know when a detail is going to matter.

Litigation is also remarkably similar to songwriting in ways most people wouldn't expect. In both, you have an audience, and you don't know until the very end what kind of impact your words will have. You build your case — or your song — one piece at a time, and you hope that when it's all said and done, something lands.

Most songwriters start with a melody or guitar riff, but you start with a topic and build from the lyrics outward. Why does that process feel natural to you?
Because I always know the story I want to tell before anything else. The words come first because the story comes first. For example, it rained here for days straight, and somewhere in the middle of all that gray I started thinking about what it feels like when someone you love just won't let up — how a relationship can feel like weather you can't escape. That became a song comparing rain to a significant other. It started with the idea, not a chord progression.

I love to create, and I think part of what drives my process is that I want to write music that isn't already out there. That's my whole approach. I ask myself: what do I want to hear? What stories haven't been told yet? What topics are people living through every day that nobody's put to a melody? When you start from that place — from the story outward — you end up somewhere original, because you're not following a formula. You're following a feeling.

You've said your songs are really portraits of people. What is it about human stories that inspires you more than traditional songwriting subjects?
We all have qualities that make us unique, and I've always been drawn to that — to the thing about a person that separates them from everyone else in the room. I love to tell stories. My conversations, my opening statements in court, my everyday life — all of it involves storytelling, because I think that's what truly resonates with people. When you're about to share something, the listener is always asking themselves one question, whether they realize it or not: does this apply to me? If the answer is yes,you've got them. If it's no, you've lost them.

That's why I write portraits instead of abstractions. I want to connect with people, and I mean really connect — not small talk, not surface-level pleasantries. I want someone to hear a song and feel like I've been watching their life. That's the same instinct that made me a good litigator, honestly. I never wanted to stand in front of a jury and talk at them. I wanted to talk to them about someone they could see themselves in.

"Last Call Comes Around" tells the story of a missed opportunity. What first sparked that idea, and what do you hope listeners see in themselves when they hear it?
I should say upfront that I didn't know my wife when I was in my twenties, but that story is absolutely true. I was twenty-two at the time, and I remember the situation vividly — though, funny enough, I don't remember her vividly. What I remember is the moment the opportunity was gone. I used that situation for the main purpose of the song-- take the shot--why I am writing music. If I fail, oh well — I tried, and it just wasn't part of the path the Man upstairs has for me. He's got something better waiting for me tomorrow. That's what I hope listeners take away from "Last Call Comes Around." We've all been that person who hesitated one second too long about an opportunity. The song isn't there to make you feel bad about it. It's there to remind you not to let it happen again.

"Don't Be My Doubt" carries a powerful message about belief, encouragement, and parenting. Was there a specific moment or experience that inspired that song?
There is so much doubt in the world — an overwhelming amount of it — and what we do with that doubt is pile it onto other people. We put pressure on the ones we're supposed to be lifting up. And the worse place to feel doubted is by loved ones. I've seen it everywhere, but nowhere more personally than in two places: the workplace and the ballfield.

In my career, I had doubters. I ignored them and focused on the man in the mirror. But they were not booing at me, yelling at me, etc. I watched my sons go through doubt placed upon them as they played baseball at the highest levels, all the way into college. There were doubters at every turn. I should done a better job at the faith part and shielding them from everyone else's doubt. That realization hit me hard. "Don't Be My Doubt" came from that place — from understanding that the people closest to you can either be your armor or your heaviest weight, and you get to choose which one you're going to be. That is why i hope this song gets played everywhere and maybe the doubters will stop and start sharing faith. I do not think there is a song out there about this.

You discovered Jonathan Moody by listening through artist after artist until you found the voice you heard in your head. What was it about Jonathan that convinced you he was the right collaborator?
Two things: his talent and his desire to be great. Those don't always come in the same package, but with Jonathan, they do. He works harder than anyone I know at his craft. He's constantly refining, constantly reaching for the next level, and that kind of dedication is something I recognize and respect deeply.

When I found him, I knew "Don't Be My Doubt" was unlike anything he had done before. But I also knew that the passion the song demands was already down inside him — it just needed the right material to bring it out. And man, does it show. Jonathan makes that song come alive in a way I couldn't have imagined when I was writing it alone on paper. He doesn't just sing it. He lives it.

You've mentioned that you believe in the outer ranges of Jonathan's voice even more than he does. What was it like pushing him creatively during the making of "Don't Be My Doubt"?
"Don't Be My Doubt" was out of Jonathan's comfort zone, and we both knew it going in. But the best thing about Jonathan — and the sign of a true professional — is that he invites feedback. He doesn't just tolerate it; he asks for it. That told me everything I needed to know about what we could accomplish together.

I have a favorite thing I say to anyone in my life after I make a point: "Now, push back." So Jonathan and I went back and forth, and I pushed him, and he pushed back, and the song got better every single time. I told him what I tell everyone I work with: the greatest successes come from uncomfortable situations. Fourth down with the game on the line. The buzzer-beater. Pushing your talent into a song that the world needs to hear. That's where greatness lives — right on the edge of what you think you can do.

"In the Heart of Georgia" feels deeply personal and rooted in place. What does Georgia represent to you, and why was it important to write a song celebrating its people?
I'm originally from West Virginia — the home of "Country Roads," one of the most iconic state anthems ever written. Georgia has "Georgia on My Mind," and that's a beautiful song, but I wanted something different. I wanted a song that can blast through the speakers at State Farm Arena, shake the walls at Mercedes-Benz Stadium, and pound out of car speakers from anyone who's proud to call themselves a Georgian. I wanted an an anthem for this state of mine.

Because we are different down here. Georgians take a stand — we're not shy about that — but we are always willing to lend a helping hand. That's a line from the song, and it's the truth. I wanted to capture that spirit, that mix of backbone and generosity, so that when you hear "In the Heart of Georgia," you know exactly what you're getting when you meet one of us.

Your educational background spans economics, law, and other disciplines. How have those experiences shaped the way you observe people and tell stories through music?
At their core, law and economics are both about one thing: how people react to situations. You study human behavior. You study decisions and consequences. You learn what motivates people, what frightens them, what drives them to act against their own interests, and what finally pushes them to do the right thing. You spend years watching people under pressure and taking notes.

Songwriting, for me, is exactly the same discipline pointed in a different direction. I'm still observing. I'm still studying how people act and why. The only difference is that instead of presenting my findings to a judge, I'm putting them to music. The training never turned off — it just found a new outlet.

You currently have ten songs written and waiting to be heard. As someone who arrived at songwriting later in life, what motivates you to keep creating, and what do you hope listeners take away from your music?
I love to create. It's that simple and that deep. I create art for galleries. I wrote a screenplay for television. I've written at least ten songs, and I'm nowhere close to finished. While others golf, play tennis, etc. I create--from 6 am to 8 am every morning. Then i get to work! Creation is the throughline of my life — it's the thing that connects everything I've done, whether I was standing in a courtroom or sitting at a desk with a pen and a blank page.

If I weren't doing what I'm doing today, I'd want to be a writer on a comedy television show or a movie — something where I could spend every day building worlds and making people feel something. That's the motivation. As for what I hope listeners take away, I just want them to hear a song and feel like somebody out there understands. That's all any of us really want, isn't it? To feel understood.

If someone listened to only one Chuck Hodges song to understand who you are as a writer, which song would you choose and why?
"In the Heart of Georgia," without question. That song is the most complete picture of who I am as a writer. It crosses genres — there's country in there, and there's hip-hop influence that I grew up on — and it has a passionate chorus that grabs you and doesn't let go. But more than anything, it tells a true story. When you meet someone from Georgia, that song tells you exactly what you can expect: somebody with pride, somebody with heart, and somebody who's going to show up for you. That's the kind of music I want to make, and that's the kind of person I want to be. If you only hear one song, make it that one.

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Photo credit: Ocho Hernandez