Quentin Moore‘s “Ride With You” feels like stumbling on a mixtape in your dad’s glove compartment—sun-drenched, scratchy in the best way, and completely alive. It’s equal parts soul sermon and cookout groove, vintage but not dusty, modern but never cold. There’s something inherently generous about it, like it was made to be shared out loud with the windows rolled down.
This one’s got that rare alchemy: a Southern soul bass line thick with sunlight, organs that hum like old church pews, and a voice—Quentin Moore’s voice—that grins even when it aches. The kind of timbre that feels like an arm around your shoulder. It calls back to Sam Cooke and Frankie Beverly, but floats into that woozy, reverb-drenched elegance you’d hear from Khruangbin. There’s groove for days, but it never showboats—just eases forward like the best kind of Sunday ride.
And let’s talk craft. Moore laid this whole thing down himself—drums, bass, guitar, organ—straight out of his home studio. There’s no filler here, just layers that breathe. A little razzle-dazzle from longtime collaborator Emsy Robinson on lead guitar, horns and strings courtesy of Ben Bohorquez and Olajide Paris, and a velvety sax solo by Vandell Andrews that might cause your steering wheel to melt. It’s polished, but in the way a good leather seat is polished—worn in, lived on, loved.
About Quentin Moore:
Quentin Moore isn’t exactly new to the scene—but what he’s doing feels freshly urgent. With 13 albums and viral street cred from Tokyo to Berlin, he’s built an indie-soul lane all his own, one shoutout from Snoop Dogg at a time. He’s the kind of artist who can turn a live show into a family reunion and a line-dance challenge into a love movement. If “Ride With You” is any indication, he’s not just driving; he’s steering the groove into something timeless.
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