One of the things I really enjoyed about interviewing Toronto-born singer-songwriter Julian Taylor is his relationship with the truth. He has a really peaceful attitude towards learning and sharing new information. For example, at the beginning and the end of our interview, there were biographical facts about him that I had gotten wrong in my research. Gently and matter of fact he fact-checked me and we just moved on. It was such a cool example of, “Oh, you’ve got this a bit wrong and it matters that we get it right,” but nothing about that is personal. In an era of misinformation and alternate facts, it feels really grounding to have an hour-long conversation with someone who really cares about getting it right. That shows through in his songs and in his storytelling.
Julian experienced an eclectic musical upbringing thanks to his classical-and-gospel musician father, his mother’s love of Motown and folk, and wide influences from pop to blues. Oral tradition in his family shaped how he tells a story. Especially on his mother’s side with his Mohawk grandfather, a pastor who told incredible stories. He also discusses being pigeonholed by race and genre. Oftentimes, people will think that he performs a certain type of music because he looks a certain way. He mentions that audiences can be shocked when he pulls out a country song while sporting hair that looks more reggae than Johnny Cash. Taylor discusses his breakthrough 2020 album, The Ridge, he talks about his writing process (often starting with lyrics), and the intent behind his latest release Anthology: Volume Two – including “Hunger,” “Don’t Let ’Em” (with Jim James), “Dedication,” and “Weighing Down” – addressing mental freedom, identity politics, and self-forgiveness.
(Editor’s Note: This article originally published on Good Country in December 2024. At that time, Good Country content was available exclusively on Substack.
Townes was included as part of our end-of-year coverage in 2024, examining how many country artists across the continent have blurred genre lines to connect with new audiences and plumb greater depths of self expression. Jewly Hight spoke to Townes about her recently becoming an independent artist at that time and together they examined where she stood and where she was headed.
Now, on April 10, 2026, Townes will release the first full-length album of her independent era, The Acrobat. To celebrate, we’re naming her our Good Country and BGS Artist of the Month. And we’re re-sharing this piece from the archives to kick off the month. Below, enjoy an excellent interview on our website for the first time – and check out our Essential Tenille Townes playlist, while we look ahead to spotlighting The Acrobat and Townes all month long.)
“Genres are a funny little concept, aren’t they?” Linda Martell poses rhetorically during the spoken intro to “Spaghettii,” roughly halfway through Beyoncé’s western epic Cowboy Carter.
“In theory,” Martell goes on with sly poise, “they have a simple definition that’s easy to understand. But in practice, well, some may feel confined.” Martell knows what she’s talked about. She endured all manner of efforts to hem in her musical sensibilities and diminish her agency back when she was country music’s most visible Black, female talent.
And now, because she lent her voice to a track where Bey and Shaboozey go hard with downhome boasts over a lurching beat, she’s up for a GRAMMY for Best Melodic Rap Performance. Other tracks from Cowboy Carter are in pop, country and even Americana contention, a staggering range of styles for one project to cover.
That’s the kind of boundary-blurring year it’s been, with Shaboozey translating country gestures and imagery to broody, contemporary hip-hop cadences with tremendous savvy and both Jelly Roll and Post Malone furthering their paths from rap origins to ever more fully embracing – and being embraced by – the country music industry.
Things haven’t been any tidier on the rootsy side of the spectrum. After being treated like a pop prodigal during her Star-Crossed era, Kacey Musgraves’ shimmering, urban folk revival-echoing ruminations on Deeper Well have been received as a country homecoming of sorts. Noah Kahan has helped bring on a resurgence of cozily folk-forward, singer-songwriter sensibilities in pop music.
A major country record label snatched up the Red Clay Strays, the type of crowd-pleasing, Southern blues-rockers that have long been celebrated in the Americana scene, where many other pivotal voices – first Allison Russell last year, then Sarah Jarosz, Amythyst Kiah, Adeem the Artist, Kaia Kater and others – experimented with lusher or more polished arrangements and production aesthetics in their latest work.
Tenille Townes offers us a particularly compelling example of an artist charting her course against the background of that extreme slippage between genre lineage, stylistic markers, and industry affiliation. She tried the major label country route in 2018, greeted as a promising new voice at a moment when the broad appeal of Kacey Musgraves’ Golden Hour ruminations made the industry a little more receptive to artists with a personalized, writerly bent, and she’s emerged independent on the other side. In her mind, being unfettered in a time of great genre fluidity is cause for optimism.
Townes began her tenure on Columbia Nashville with spare acoustic recordings, and concluded it this year in similar fashion. She was, and remains, an ardently openhearted singer-songwriter, bent on tapping deep veins of empathy whether she’s in observational or confessional mode. When I first interviewed her, it made all the sense in the world to hear her say she felt a kinship to singer-songwriters like Patty Griffin and Lori McKenna. It also struck me that Townes’ singing – curling syllables and stretching out lines with feeling, a style sometimes called “cursive” singing – was far from the hearty enunciation for which country music has been known.
In between then and now, Townes dropped an album that bore a super-producer’s digitally sharpened touch, won a pair of ACM awards to go with the pile of honors she’s received from the Canadian Country Music Association – which began to recognize her promise when she was a teen with dreams of pursuing music beyond Grande Prairie, Alberta – and she toured with big country names like Miranda Lambert and Dierks Bentley. Townes also faced enough professional hurdles, and observed enough changes in the landscape around her, to reconsider where her songs might belong. And I very much wanted to hear about that.
You’re presently on tour in Canada, aren’t you?
Tenille Townes: I’m having the best time on this run. It feels like a community at these shows. We’ve done a few tours through Canada at this point, but this was our first time going as far east as we did. I feel like live music in general is a little bit more scarce over there. They don’t get as many people making the trek. And so [I could feel] the appreciation.
They sold out the shows so fast and they’re singing all the words. And very quietly listening intently and leaning in a really vulnerable way. And then also having a blast and being loud, which is so cool to me, for it to feel like a living room and a rock club at the same time. That’s been such a big part of my vision.
I don’t know how far out you planned this tour, but I wonder if it’s become an important chance for you to return to your home turf, regroup and get reinvigorated.
Yeah, it honestly feels really essential in my creative journey. I could not be more grateful for the way the timing has aligned this year for this moment on the road. It feels like the ingredient that I’ve been craving. In January, I’m going to be so ready to dive in with my whole heart and make [the music] I’m going to share next. I don’t think that the recipe could have ever been complete without this tour in this moment. It feels so timely, because so much of this past year has felt terrifying.
And just standing on my own two feet as an artist again, pretty much entirely, I feel so excited and grateful to be making this leap into the arms of these people showing up at the shows who are so excited about this new chapter. And it’s such a wave of encouragement to go, “Oh yeah, I think I’m on the right path, doing the right thing.”
How is it different from when you’ve toured the U.S., in terms of headlining versus being an opener, the size of venues and how you’re engaging with the audience?
There’s been a lot of theaters for us on this run, which have a bigger capacity than some of the clubs that we’ve played in these towns before. It’s our first time playing a handful of these [places], but this is our third headlining tour in Canada.
What I noticed that’s different is when it’s our shows and our community, it just feels like people show up with open arms and they’re requesting songs that I haven’t played in so long. They know the deep cuts. They’re showing up excited for a night of feeling whatever they need to feel. And I think that emotional permission feels different at our shows than it does at a show where we’re a guest [in the opening slot] going to make some new friends. And it’s been really cool hearing from people that were like, “I saw you on the Dierks [Bentley] tour and this is our third Tenille show.”
One thing I always say at the top of the shows is I want our time together around my songs to be a place where everyone who walks in the door feels safe to show up and be whoever they are and to feel embraced and welcomed for that. And I thank everyone for buying a ticket and for showing up as that community. And I really feel like they’re embodying what that means.
Years back, I took note of the fact that Corb Lund had what was considered fairly mainstream country success in Canada, but he played Americana events when he came to Nashville. I’m curious whether you’ve seen folk, Americana and country are treated as separate genre categories in the Canadian market, like they are in the U.S. How do you tend to get categorized in Canada?
At least from my experience, it feels different to me. Because in Canada, I have been really grateful to have felt super embraced by the country community, by the CCMAs, by country radio, by the community of people listening to country music. And we have fit in that bubble there. And I don’t know that we fit the same way in the States.
I relate to what you’re saying about Corb Lund. I think maybe the lane is just not as narrow in Canada. And I think that they’re just more in it for live music of any capacity. I think most fans [who come see me] would be like, “Oh, I’m at a country show.” Which is funny because when we play shows here, that doesn’t necessarily feel the same. I do feel like the Canadian country music community definitely jumped on board with what I’m creating. And the music [I release in both markets] is very much the same, so it’s so strange. I will say that the people coming to our shows, our headline club shows that we’ve done in the U.S., they feel very similar, like-minded people to me.
You’re a little more than a decade into your Nashville tenure at this point. Why is it important to you to stay?
Even though this town has a lot of jagged edges or hard things about it, I really do still feel inspired here. I feel like there’s a tapestry of artists who have come to this town with their dream and worked at sharing their art and building a group of friends and people around them who support that. I have a front row seat, you know, going to an Emmylou Harris fundraiser at City Winery and watching all of these people that she’s embraced in her life that she’s written with or jammed with that’s really a legacy.
I love this community, and I do feel inspired musically, having access to so many songwriters and musicians and producers. There is a heartbeat to this town that I want to continue to be present in and be a part of for sure.
I can picture the show that you were just describing. The atmosphere was very similar at the tribute to Mary Gauthier during AmericanaFest, a multi-generational gathering of Nashville’s singer-songwriter community.
When we first talked all those years ago, you described being an astute student in Nashville, paying particular attention to singer-songwriters like Lori McKenna and Patty Griffin. At the time, you considered them touchstones because of how they used the language of the heart in their storytelling.
In terms of their career arcs, their material’s been recorded by big names in country, but as respected as they are among songwriting connoisseurs in that world, they’ve had contemporary folk careers as performers. They’ve often released their music on independent labels. Were you also taking note of what their professional paths have looked like? Or are you now?
I honestly don’t know that I was conscious of it back then. It was just the music that I loved. I don’t think I even had an understanding of the choices made on an artist’s path to stay true to that route.
I’ve learned a lot in the last handful of years: “Oh, that makes sense why a certain path, like Patty Griffin’s, unfolds in a certain way.” I never thought of it as a ceiling or an alternate route. It just was where the music had taken her. That’s been inspiring to me.
I never want to look at any options of teams to work with or whatever with any closed-doors feelings. I would love to play the music that I make in stadiums. That’d be great if that still unfolds that way. But I also just really want to tell my stories and my truth, and whoever is going to come as the audience, that’s amazing to me. The idea of seeing it as a wider horizon than maybe a stereotypical path, that doesn’t seem scary to me. I think that’s because I’ve looked up to people like Patty or Lori, people who have always stayed true to what they’re doing and figured out the path there regardless. But I don’t know if I’ve ever actually intentionally thought about it that way.
Your intention has been clearer than ever this year. It wasn’t lost on me that the final two songs you released earlier this year, before you parted ways with your label – “As You Are” and “The Thing That Brought Me Here” – each were expressions of commitment to staying the course. What did you want to communicate?
I love that you noticed these themes. At the end of that journey, “As You Are” felt like such a great theme to end that season on. There was lots of resistance [from the label] in several years of working on music and getting to a point of actually getting to put it out. But that song always had a green light from them, which I really appreciated.
I wrote that song thinking it was about showing up and being a support system for someone. I had friends in mind that I was thinking of. It was just like, “I will be that safe place.” And then listening back to the demo after the [session] on the drive home, I was like, “No, I wrote this ‘cause this is what I want to hear when I’m struggling to let somebody in.” That’s been something that I’ve felt even in my professional journey for sure, just wanting to feel seen.
It really seems like you’re the one communicating on your own TikTok. In recent months, a lot of your posts have been about celebrating your professionally “single” era. When you shared the news that you were no longer in your major label deal, you framed it as a breakup that you were happy about. What felt right about striking that tone?
It felt honest. It was a lot building up to that decision, and it was not easy, and it was terrifying. All of those emotions were a part of it. I just felt like, “I can’t continue to share the music I want to make if I’m not letting people in on my process of that vulnerability, even when it’s hard.” Making those videos felt scary, for sure. But that just feels like the kind of artist that I want to be, to walk the walk. Also part of my intention was, “This is something that creatively feels really empowering to me, to take back the ownership of my music.” And for any young girls out there, I want them to know, “That’s a possible feeling for you, to stand up for yourself at any moment in any kind of career, or on any path of your life.” It’s brave to take that step. And I guess I just want that invitation to be there for anyone following along.
And I want to bring together the community of people. Like, it is an “independent artist,” but I think it should be called a “community village artist,” because you can’t get your stuff out there without people believing in what you’re doing and coming with you. I wanted it to be very clear that we’re in this together. We’ve always been in it together, but it feels very defined to me now. And I wanted to make sure everyone knew that.
And now we have the benefit of accumulated perspective, so I want to reflect back. At the beginning of your label journey, what was in the atmosphere at the time in Nashville or the country music scene in the U.S. that contributed to a sense of possibility for you?
At the beginning, it was excitement. And [I] look back and think, “How crazy cool that I got to be a part of a major label deal that let me put out a debut single about homelessness, and then follow it up with a song called ‘Jersey on a Wall’ about losing someone in a car accident?” I’m so glad they gave me a chance to put out songs that were different and that sonically didn’t sound like a sure bet. I will always appreciate that. And it set me up with so many people who heard this record and the songs because of the way that they helped lift it up.
So I have nothing but love for that season. It might not have hit the thing over all of the world’s fences by any measure of what you measure as success. But to me, it’s a win to think that I got to share that art and that people found it and that they get to keep finding it because of that.
Years back, you told me that in one of your initial meetings, when you played some songs in a boardroom, the head of the label compared you with Jeff Buckley, which was a funny thing. In hindsight, I think that kind of speaks to the fact that you were bringing a sensibility as a singer-songwriter that might’ve been a little bit outside of their frame of reference.
And maybe the Jeff Buckley comparison – as much of a stretch as it was – was a gesture of someone who lacked the frame of reference or language for what they were hearing. Because the way you elongate your vocal phrases and hold onto lines is more akin to the “cursive” singing style that’s been a thing in indie music, folk, pop and R&B than in country, with its crisp enunciation. What kinds of conversations did you have about what you were doing, how they heard it and how they thought it fit into that world?
It is really fun to reflect on that. I definitely think from that initial meeting, they were going, “This is something that doesn’t necessarily fit in what that normal trajectory would be.”
I think that has been the compass that’s directed it a little bit left of where things would traditionally fit coming out of the system that they’re used to. I think they knew that all along. And at moments, that definitely made things a little bit bumpier or harder, because it wasn’t something that naturally made all the sense in the world, I don’t think. And I’m totally great with that.
I revisited the body of work that you released on the label, and I didn’t hear you bending your songwriting approach, singing style or artistic identity to any kind of mold that was really popular in country music at the time. What did it take to maintain that?
There was never an intention of, “Okay, that’s mainstream, so I’m closing the door to that.” I’ve always felt very open-hearted in the writing room. It’s just what was coming out of what I was making that I loved the most. The Lemonade Stand came out in 2020. Then I wrote the songs for Masquerades all on Zoom in my house by myself. It was a time when I didn’t feel as much outside influence of commerciality. I was just honestly writing to express something and feel better.
We certainly, production-wise, had moments of trying to be strategic about what kind of things might — I don’t know — reach more people or something, or sonically be something that could be more mainstream. So there wasn’t a lack of strategy in that. I just had to follow the songs, I think.
On TikTok, you’ve shared clips of songs that you’ve had in the can for years that you said the label didn’t want to release. How did the disagreements over your artistic direction begin to emerge? And what was at stake for you when they did?
I think the biggest rub maybe was being able to plan far enough down an artistic vision, because it was just like, “We’ll see how this one does.” And the targets just kept moving. Mentioning putting out an EP or a record was scary. They were like, “No, we can’t. We gotta just take it one step at a time.” So I think that became the hardest thing, and where a lot of songs fell through the cracks, because we didn’t hit certain measures to be able to go to the next. We still found ways to push through and get music out. It just didn’t happen in a guaranteed, planned-out manner, necessarily.
What brought you to the place where you were ready to part ways?
I could feel it building for a while, for sure. And when it came to the point of putting out “As You Are,” there was a group of songs that were ready, and we were just getting resistance on putting out more than one or two out again. And honestly, they came to us and [said], “I don’t think we can put out the rest of these.” And it was like, “Okay, I think it’s time to go.” It wasn’t like I’d arrived at this place of courage. Circumstances were like, “Okay, I think the arrows are really pointing that this is the moment to take the leap, and I’m just going to do it.”
What did you see yourself as leaving behind and moving towards instead?
The idea of taking back ownership of what I create and jumping into this place of freedom in the sense of less hoops to get through to actually get songs to people. I think creatively, I needed change as well.
I’m so proud of that whole journey. I have no regrets, but in a lot of ways, it’s like the metaphor of having a [limited] number of crayons in your hand and trying to make a picture out of that. I felt I wanted the whole box back. I never felt like I was trying to create something to fit within [the industry], but I do feel like that kind of a system can’t not have an effect on what you’re doing creatively. I feel this freedom in my hands. What do you do? That’s a whole other process that I’m in the middle of right now, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say and how I want to sound next. It’s so liberating, and it’s also just, “Oh, this is up to me now.”
When you look back on it, do you think that label partnership was no longer the right fit for you, or that the mainstream country marketplace that it exists in was not the right fit for you?
I don’t know. I think maybe a little bit of both. But mostly, I think the major label system just ran its course for me. And I feel open to whatever team there may or may not be in the future. I wouldn’t write that experience off ever again. I think it just depends on the season I’m in creatively and what people are behind it.
What’s funny to me is looking back on the history of country music, the things that have [at certain moments] laid on the outside have actually [become] pillars of what’s created the format that we love and know. So it doesn’t scare me to [say], “I don’t actually feel like I belong in what we call right now the mainstream of country music.” I’m just going to do my thing and whatever we want to call it later, looking back, it’s fine with me.
Earlier we were talking about the singer-songwriter ecosystem that’s long existed in Nashville and has amorphous boundaries – those songwriters play their own intimate shows and write for bigger names in other lanes.
But there’s been far more visible crossing of boundaries than that this year. We’ve had pop superstars going country, and Kacey Musgraves – who never fully left her country label, but was viewed as drifting towards pop – made a folk-pop album that’s gotten her country awards nominations again. And then there are artists like Noah Kahan. I know you’ve expressed admiration for what he does. He’s been having great success with songs that are grounded in folk, but he exists in the pop world – and yet he’s also gotten Americana and country nominations. Have you been looking around you and taking note of how other artists are transcending genre boundaries?
Yes, and it feels so encouraging to be like, “How about you just make what’s you?” And then, what if there are different categories of music lovers who want to listen to stories and songs and voices and actually don’t care what sticker you put on it? [As for] Noah, that’s just songs that are speaking to people at such a loud volume. I don’t know what you call it, and it doesn’t matter. Longterm-wise, I think Brandi Carlile’s path is a flashlight, to have something that’s just evolved with her as an artist and fit in so many different places. And I think about Patty Griffin. Even somebody like Billy Strings, Marcus King, I think is incredibly inspiring looking at all of these people who are not sticking to one lane.
You are actively narrating the decision-making process for your audience and frequently discussing what it looks like to be an independent artist, what that means, what your aims are, what challenges you face. From what I’ve read, you’ve kept some important parts of your team, management and publishing, but other aspects of the model have changed. What do you feel are the most significant differences in how you’re operating at the moment? What do you most want people to know about your present reality?
I think the biggest shift is how much making videos is a part of actually getting a song to be heard at all. And the creative output of just trying to make noise in a place that’s got way too much noise going on, the internet. That’s the most overwhelming thing that’s very different than what I thought it meant to be a singer-songwriter and write songs and tour.
I’m trying to balance the creative output of constantly being like, “Hey, I’m over here. This is what I’m working on.” And also making sure that my soul is in a good place, not just spinning on a hamster wheel, so that I can make something that I’m really proud to stand on in my life.
I’ve heard that you are working on new music. Are you broadening your circle of collaborators?
Yeah, definitely. I’ve been reaching out to people I’ve not written with before, people I’m just fans of their music and [asking], “Hey, let’s write or let’s get together and just jam.” And then I’m in the stage [where] I’m always writing. I’m at a point where I have a lot of songs and I’m trying to just zoom out and go, “Which ones are speaking the loudest to me?” The theme for me right now is very much about betting on yourself and getting to the heart of the matter without everything feeling too heavy and serious.
I’m at the spot of taking song inventory and trying to make some new friends and keep writing, and working on what might be next.
Won’t it be wild if you have an album that is on a Canadian country chart and then in the U.S., is on Americana and folk charts, the same collection of songs?
I think it’s possible. I believe it is. I love you putting that out there. I’m declaring it right now.
The expression of music is going to fit differently in different places. And I think that’s more possible in the landscape we’re in now than it ever has been.
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Photo Credit: Lead image by Madison Rensing; inset image by Robert Chavers.
GRAMMY-nominated songwriter AmythystKiah has performed with Moby and Billy Strings and is a member of the supergroup Our Native Daughters. She joins us for a startlingly honest look at the “farce of surface-level success.” After a label debut and a whirlwind of global exposure, she found herself “barely hanging on for dear life” amidst the pressure of a rat race industry. We explore her journey to achieve detachment from outcomes, writing for sync licensing as a creative recharge, and the ancient wisdom that helped her trade the self-improvement doom loop for a slower, sustainable creative life.
Civil War albums are all too common in roots music, bluegrass, country, and Americana. Usually, these concept projects romanticize and valorize one of the darkest periods in our nation’s history, while cheerfully and cartoonishly detached from reality and untethered from the nuances of this horrifying and violent period of tumult in the U.S. Revisionism and imperialism are enacted by fiddles and banjos in loose, contrived musical period garb.
Audiences seem to devour this kind of idyllic reimagination of the Civil War and the issues that gave rise to it. Though chattel slavery and its foundational role in our economy were central to the conflict, Civil War concept albums rarely interrogate those facts, instead leaning on listeners’ love for story songs and cursory understanding of “brothers against brothers” narrative paradigms to sell records and tickets. The sketchiness of this practice is overlooked across the board, perhaps due to the sheer ubiquity of such efforts.
On February 6, artist, musician, songwriter, actor, and playwright Queen Esther released a very different sort of Civil War album, Blackbirding. Enabled by a grant from The National Parks Arts Foundation, Queen Esther worked and lived in residence at Gettysburg National Military Park in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, for a month in 2020. During that time, she communed with the land, the place, and the losses and griefs seeped into the blood-soaked soil, plumbing stories, myths, memory, and feelings to craft her 12-song reckoning with the Civil War. Original songs, songs from that time period, and fascinating covers combine into a work of roots music and theater, dramatization and storytelling interwoven with knowledge-bearing and memory-keeping.
Queen Esther being a Southern Black feminist multi-hyphenate creative is exactly why Blackbirding stands out among its peers in the curséd Civil War concept album space. There is no idealization or revisionism happening in Queen Esther’s songs. Instead, there’s a tangible humanity and an awe-inspiring alchemy of grief, loss, and crimes against humanity into beautiful, redemptive music.
Queen Esther first brought Blackbirding into the world as a piece of performance art with a staged reading in 2024. Even now, in its LP form, these songs lean forward, doing narrative work perceptible whether on stage or off, and coaxing listeners to abandon passive listening and – as all theater asks – inhabit a third, artistic, creative space together in our interaction with these compositions.
The central point of the album is made over and over again across the 12 tracks and throughout our lengthy and in-depth BGS conversation. “Blackbirding,” the 19th-century practice of kidnapping free Black folks and selling them into slavery or back into slavery, never really went away. The Civil War was not won. Reconstruction failed. Slavery itself was not abolished, but rebranded. As such, Blackbirding, whether from the perspective of its content or its genre aesthetics, isn’t a throwback or time capsule album. This is music made in the present, for the present, about the present, and it calls on all of us – again, in the present – to reckon with and consider how we each contribute to or act in defiance of the continuation of racial apartheid and imperialism in the United States.
Do not fear, though, because Queen Esther’s approach to such musicmaking is remarkably joyous, grounded, and compassionate. It’s clear she’s not only ready to engage in the conversations this music evokes, but that is exactly her purpose. And the ultimate culmination of her many talents. In this way, she yet again distinguishes herself from other such concept albums in Americana.
I’ve been a fan of yours for a few years, ever since we discovered your TED Talk. When I first watched it, it was so revelatory. It felt like you supplied vocabulary – and knowledge and expertise – that I wish I would’ve had my whole life to help describe the multi-ethnic origins of roots music and bluegrass and country. If all of this came from “Scotch-Irish tradition,” then why does bluegrass sound like bluegrass? Why does country sound like country? Why doesn’t it sound like Irish music or Scots music or music from the British Isles? It sounds different.
I just wanted to start by saying thank you for that talk – and thank you for all of the insight, feeling, and emotion that you bring to these intellectual topics that people tend to forget are about real humans, real experiences, and real music.
Queen Esther: Absolutely. I really appreciate you saying that. I think more often than not, Black people have these conversations amongst ourselves. We wait until the door is closed and then we talk. I think we should have more conversations with everyone in the room. As long as they’re willing to listen. That’s a tall order. Much more so than you would think.
I’m really happy about this album, especially because people are starting to have conversations around the songs, topics, and everything that I’m bringing up. The fact is that slavery has never ended. It was just modified. The Civil War has never ended. It just evolved. “Blackbirding” has never ended. It just got a lot more inclusive.
Those three things are standing in the way of America being America. There is the America that is on paper – the one that is in the brochure with the Statue of Liberty, the flag behind it, and mom, and apple pie, and all of this stuff. And none of it is true. It’s all a marketing ploy. The actual America that really exists, that’s the one that Black people have had to endure and survive for hundreds of years. That’s the America that turned its back on us.
You know as well as I do that there are so many Civil War albums in bluegrass, folk, string band music, and Americana. So many are built upon the revisionist history that you’re talking about. The manicured, sanitized “picket fence and 2.5 kids” version of the “American Dream.” So, normally when I get a pitch about an album like this, it just goes straight to my email archive. Knowing you and knowing your work – and especially the way that you bring theater and all of your multi-hyphenate titles into crafting and creating – I was so excited to have a chance to talk about approaching the Civil War and approaching Gettysburg as an inspiration for music.
Blackbirding is set in the present. You’re talking about how slavery never went away, how reconstruction failed, and how the Civil War was not won. You’re contextualizing this art in the present sonically, as well. Because, like you’re saying, the Civil War never ended, slavery never ended, blackbirding never ended. Can you talk a little bit about placing all of this discourse in the present and not just in period garb, as it were?
I have to say perspective is a powerful thing. As a Black woman, as a Southerner, as someone that’s two generations removed from slavery, as a creative, I never heard any of this told from a Black perspective. It was always “the lost cause”: “These Yankees came and they just attacked us from out of nowhere. We were living this beautiful life and they just ruined everything.” When nothing could be further from the truth.
They literally terrorized Black people. They tore us apart, they raped our children. They did all manner of evil constantly, under the guise of Christianity. And it was even uglier than anyone would dare to imagine. Which is why they’re struggling to hide Black history, to hide lost history, to make sure that it stays lost. To not have anyone like me turn over the rock to see what’s underneath.
At the same time, these songs from minstrelsy, these songs from not that long ago, they’re important songs. They should be rediscovered. The problem that I’ve always had is that once you have that technical prowess as a musician and once you plumb the depths with that music, no one was bringing that music forward into the present. Not unless they were … putting it in a historical context, and that’s important, but to bring it into the now [is just as important]. …
Having a sense of intellectual curiosity, it’s really important. It doesn’t matter that you’re not the smartest, but that you are curious intellectually and that you are brave enough to explore that curiosity is way more important. That’s really my bedrock. That’s where I’m coming from now.
I’m a generative performing artist. … We are the ones who generate our work and we perform that work. Some people don’t necessarily perform their work. They just write it or they create it and they’re looking for other people to do the work, to perform the work, so that they can get their work out there. Lots of songwriters like that. Lots of lyricists are like that. That’s beautiful. That’s great. …
The songs would come to me, they would just float up in my head. It’s like a patchwork quilt. You take all these different kinds of fabric and all these bits and pieces. But you’re making this mosaic that turns into this overall image that is bigger than whatever bits and pieces you brought to it in the first place.
Talking about that mosaic, it makes me think that of course we would end up at this point, with a project like this, with a conversation like this, and with a body of work that couldn’t have been made if you had tried to step outside of yourself or your own identity to make it.
Exactly. All of that fueled me. I was reaching out in different genres, not just musically, but in the world. I was doing a lot of alternative theater, I was doing cabaret. I was doing performance art, I was doing solo performance. I was doing storytelling. I’d get up on stage and I would do just about anything. That was a world in and of itself.
Now, after a certain point, when you’re a generative performing artist, you’re looking for grants so that you can develop the work in general. It takes seven to nine years to develop a musical. It takes five to seven years to develop a play. When you see someone go, “Oh yeah, my new play, it’s up.” They put in a heavy grind! That’s five years of rewrites and workshops and readings. Some theater taking them on with their theater company and developing that work until it was ready for a test audience, not even necessarily ready [to open]. It’s just a lot of hard work and a lot of heavy lifting. There are certain grants that make that possible, where you just have to go away and you have to write and create.
I found a grant that would let me do that with this album through the National Park Service. The National Parks Arts Foundation has grants to at least a dozen National Parks. You can go to the park, you can live on the park, and they will pay you.
This project is also a work of theater. What jumped out to me first and foremost in that regard is what you’re talking about – the residency, the grant, being on location. Bluegrass, roots music, country music, they all ask us to be in a place together, but not in the same way that theater does. Theater is very much created so the audience are not passive participants. It actively invites listeners and collaborators and bystanders into a space and into a place.
You are doing that with this body of work – and with your residency at Gettysburg. I thought that was one of the most fascinating things about this project. Using theater, with a capital T, to help do that work of transporting all of us to the battlefield, to Gettysburg, to the geographical place that you are evoking with these songs.
I’ve been doing theater ever since I could stand up straight. Think about the cavemen, just standing in front of their brethren and telling a story about what happened to them that day. If my grandmother were here right now and in on this conversation, she’d tell you that I was telling stories ever since I could talk. I would just make things up. She would be sitting there washing dishes and I would try to distract her by making up something wild or crazy or imaginative. I don’t know, I just gotta say something to make her drop that dishcloth or at least laugh or something. [Laughs]
What is fantastic realism? Fantastic realism is when you have ordinary circumstances and then something extraordinary just pops right in. … So the idea of theatricalizing whatever was happening around me as a little kid, [that’s fantastic realism]. If we were sitting here at a table talking, for example, and then an elephant came along and took the hat off your head – that kind of a thing. Just the outrageous Southern tall tale. Bombastic storytelling is always floating just beyond your reach, I think, as a Southerner. It’s just how we do.
And of course, like everything in the South, this is an African tradition. This is an oral tradition handed down from West Africa. West African traditions [are] something else that people have a really hard time saying out loud and acknowledging. It’s not that other cultures didn’t tell stories, but our influence as Africans, as enslaved Africans, of our African ancestors on the South and on America, is seismic. It’s time for people to make the shift however small, however great, and center that and acknowledge it. They can’t even acknowledge it. …
I’m going to tell you a story. I almost always start [performances] with, “You wanna hear a story? I got a story to tell you.” Sometimes I’ll sing it, sometimes I’ll say it with music happening around me or behind me. But this is a story that you’re gonna want to hear. And every single song on [Blackbirding] is wrapped up in a story. There’s a story that’s around it that’s historical. There’s a story that resonates into the now, and there’s a story that I bring to you as an audience when I’m performing the song itself.
I’m thinking about how there’s so much music made in these genre spaces that is also putting on a costume, or telling a story, or doing theater, but that often isn’t grounded in reality at all. It’s all construction. So where some people might interface with your art and think, “Oh, this is a musical, this is theater, this is going to be a play, this is going to be ‘make believe.’” It’s actually so much further from that.
Oh no, it’s reality!
Exactly. And to me, that’s the whole story here. The thing I wanted to talk about most about Blackbirding is the point that you made right at the top – and that you’ve made throughout this conversation. You’re not talking about something that was happening a while ago and isn’t happening today.
Look, the 13th Amendment said slavery’s over “except.” Except? That’s a gigantic loophole. Except for what? Except for incarceration. That means if you’re incarcerated, you’re a slave. What if someone said to you, “You’re fired except on Tuesdays”? Then I’m not fired. You have to come in on Tuesday for four hours. Other than that you’re fired. You don’t work here. How much sense does that make? No one would hear an employer say that and go, “Am I fired or not?” Am I free or not?
You are free. Except they had to make that exception. They had to. Why? Because when the Civil War ended, this country was in absolute shambles. And because Black people were the actual currency. There were 4 million of us and we were basically worth trillions in today’s money.
We went off and we started our own little hamlets and towns, and we started working for ourselves. Suddenly there was this massive tilt. Black people were the money and had all of these resources, energy, and power. And just by sheer force of will, we started building for ourselves, which is why they started tearing us down. Showing up to each and every single community and just murdering people, burning people [alive] in their homes. Coming up with all of these lies built on pseudoscience to justify all of the things that they did. …
But it never ended. Pulling Black people over on the road, out in the middle of nowhere for no reason whatsoever. Beating them up. Maiming them, murdering them in some instances. This has always been the way. This has always been the case.
I’m imagining you on site at Gettysburg. How do you take that sort of emotional devastation or the intrinsic triggering and challenging nature of these topics and turn them into something beautiful? Do you see them as beautiful to begin with? I’m trying to imagine how you take care of yourself emotionally and psychically as you’re doing this important work. Because I think there must be an emotional toll to it, but you clearly are built for it as well. This feels like your wheelhouse – and the way you talk about it and the comfortability you have in having these conversations.
Simple. I am not an atheist. I am not an agnostic. I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. I’m a Christian, and I know that God is with me. I feel God’s presence upon me. I feel God hovering over me, protecting me divinely. I feel that I’m walking in divine purpose and in divine order. I know that I am divinely protected, that the blood of Jesus covers me everywhere I go. …
There’s this point at which inspiration takes over. There’s a point at which you are no longer there, and inspiration is there instead. An actor prepares– the idea is that you have technique, right? Your technique is there whether you’re playing an instrument or singing or washing the dishes or driving the car.
Let’s say driving the car. I don’t know how to drive. So, every time I get behind the wheel and the car is moving, even if it’s moving slightly, I’m screaming like a banshee. I’m so excited. But when I get in a car [with my partner], he just does what he’s been doing. He doesn’t think about it. He adjusts the window here and he readjusts this here, he puts the key in, and he does all of these dozen or more motions. He just does it automatically.
That’s the idea. When you make art, when you’re on stage, when you’re performing, when you’re creating, there has to be something that takes over. Inspiration takes over. Once you’ve got the technique, set the technique, learning how to drive the car, what do you do? Something else takes over. And I’m telling you, that’s something else for me, personally, is not my ego. For me, that’s the Holy Spirit.
I remember when I got to the house [at Gettysburg], everything was explained to me, and they gave me the keys. I’m sitting there in the parlor, I’m arranging everything, and it’s still light outside. I thought, “You know what? Why not?” I took my camera and I walked to Devil’s Den. The first song that I wrote was “The Devil May Care (But Jesus Knows).” I came back and I wrote that down like I was writing someone a letter. It just poured right out of me.
I can’t even begin to explain the process. I wrote it down and I wrote down the chords. I shaped it around everything that I did and I thought, “This is a complete song.” What is that song about? It’s about Devil’s Den, the Valley of Death, which is what they called that area in between Devil’s Den and Little Round Top. These soldiers would climb into Devil’s Den, which is these hulking, gigantic rocks. There was this big snake that lived there. It was huge. They called it the devil. It was so huge, it was as big around in the middle as a grown man’s waist. There were children that liked to play around that rock, so the townspeople got up the courage and killed it.
They would climb inside of that perfect coverage for a sniper and they would shoot Yankee soldiers that they could [see] from Little Round Top and they would fall into the Valley of Death. That was a run, Plum Creek – a run is a creek – and it was so filled with blood they just called it a bloody run. From where the creek started, all the way past the house that I lived in, all the way through that valley of death, was just nothing but human blood.
To be a soldier caught in [Devil’s Den] meant that you could not be saved. Someone would have to come and get you if you were wounded. More often than not, those soldiers died, not because they were shot and they fell down and they died. They died because no one came to get them. They died because they were wounded and the wounds got infected and they just bled out or [succumbed].
That Valley of Death comes for you, not just at the end of your life. It comes for you at any given moment, at any crisis that you have. Over and over and over again.
Can you talk a little bit about how you approached genre on these songs? Because I really love that you didn’t make a “time capsule” record that’s trying to sound like it came from the 1800s. At the same time, you’re collapsing time musically and creatively so that you can draw on those textures and on those sort of old-timey elements to do that storytelling for you, sonically. How did the production process actually look or feel as you were putting this collection together?
I think that when you have a kid or when you give birth to a kid, you just let that kid be the kid. You’re not sitting there going, “I want this kid to be this,” or “I want this kid to be that.”
That’s a really good metaphor. Just let them be themselves.
And what you’re doing, really, is sitting back and waiting to see what that kid turns into. You have no idea how they got so great at math. This kid is a mathematician. You can’t balance your checkbook. This kid is just explosively running in this whole other direction that you can’t even fathom. You have no idea what your children will do, what they will become. And none of it really has anything to do with you.
It’s the same thing. These songs came to me and when they came to me, sometimes fully formed, I literally wrote down what I heard in my head. And that really is it. Each song is its own world. I just let the song be what it is, whatever it is. However it came to me, I just let it be what it is.
I consider myself to be a transcriber of the song. I’m sitting there. The song is in my head and I’m just writing it down as quickly as possible. I’m someone with a butterfly net chasing the butterfly through the jungle. I’m running after the butterfly and I’m hoping that it doesn’t get away. It’s fluttering. It’s right above my head. Sometimes I capture it, sometimes I don’t. My job as a producer is to make sure that song sounds exactly the way it did in my head.
Even the cover songs, the Olivia Newton John song, “Magic.” When Olivia Newton John is singing that, it’s one way. It’s interesting. But I’m a Black woman and I’m singing that about my ancestors, and my family, and all of us in community. It turns into a completely different song.
You have to believe that we’re magic. Nothing can stand in our way. You have to believe that because, ultimately really, Black people never thought we were supposed to survive any of this. Toni Morrison says that in an infamous speech that she gave, we were not just supposed to survive any of it. …
When the song comes, it comes as it comes. I knew that I had the goods as a producer, because the song sounded in the room the way they did in my head. That’s the best feeling. But moreover, more than anything else, you have to develop your own aesthetic. You have to know what’s good, what’s not good, and why. You have to know your own mind. You have to know your own aesthetic. And you have to have the courage and the willpower to stand on it.
Honestly, I think the reason I am a nerd about string band music is that it offers a beautiful way of thinking about how music moves – not just through instruments traveling, but also through melodies, rhythms, and ideas making their way through people and place and time.
Maybe that means across the globe, but it could mean between a dining room and a basement, whatever the dialogue. The tracks in this playlist are a winding path through a tiny subsection of this sonic world. – Rachel Meirs, fiddle, Vaiano’s Paisanos
“Rosa Negra Vals Venezolano” – Orquesta De Lionel Belasco
“Rosa Negra Vals Venezolano” comes from Lionel Belasco, a Trinidadian-Venezuelan pianist and composer whose recording career spanned five decades. This waltz is a really joyous piece recorded by Belasco’s orchestra, who recorded an incredible number of sides for Columbia Records in New York City in the late ’20s and early ’30s. An iteration of a calypso band with piano, woodwinds, strings, and syncopated rhythms that all give a hint to which version of the journey this waltz form took to arrive.
“Para Mi y Para Mi Novia (Vals Foxtrot)” – El Ciego Melquiades
“Para Mi y Para Mi Novia (Vals Foxtrot)” comes from El Ciego Melquiades, “The Blind Fiddler,” who recorded in San Antonio. It sounds like a Tex-Mex fiddle tune, since that’s the way he plays it, but the most compelling thing about it is how unintuitive it is. I could never figure out why its form and melody were so strange, but a friend recently tipped me off that it’s his take on “For Me and My Gal,” a 1917 pop song (later popularized by Judy Garland), which also made the song title make more sense.
“Rolling Mill Blues” – Peg Leg Howell
Discovering the origins of “For Me and My Gal” brought to mind this Peg Leg Howell recording from 1927. I loved his recordings with Eddie Anthony on fiddle, but when I heard “Rolling Mill Blues” I remember thinking it was beautiful and strange. Instead of Eddie Anthony’s driving country-blues style fiddle, the violin’s counter-melody takes on an almost ethereal tone. I don’t know if it is a coincidence or not how much that melody calls to mind the pop song, “Tonight You Belong to Me,” which was first recorded in 1926.
On the theme of the crazy routes music takes, I think saying that this next one, “Smart (Tango Argentino)” comes from Kostas Bezos, who led a Hawaiian band in 1930s Athens, is sufficient!
“Cariño” – Cuarteto de Cuerdo de F. Facio
Orquestas de cuerdas were small string bands that played for dances and social functions in Northern Mexico. The entire Arhoolie compilation Orquestas de Cuerdas: The String Bands: The End of a Tradition 1926-1938 is worth listening to, but “Cariño” from Cuarteto de Cuerdo de F. Facio has always stood out to me for what I think is a cello or bowed bass in addition to violins and bajo sexto. This adds a significant low-end to an already dramatic song – this one goes through a lot of emotions.
This next one comes from another compilation series I recommend for anyone looking to deep dive into this music across even more territory. Check out Pat Conte’s anthology series, The Secret Museum of Mankind (now on our label, Jalopy Records, since 2021.) Another waltz, which I named this playlist for, “Valsa Continental” comes from Abrew’s Portuguese String Trio. Composer, violinist, and bandleader Augusto Abreu led this Cape Verdean trio from New England who recorded four discs for Columbia Records in 1931.
“Abrew’s Portuguese Jazz” – Vaiano’s Paisanos
It’s hard to say, but since Abrew’s Portuguese String Trio is one of my favorite bands, and because the recordings are still hard to find digitized, this next one is our band Vaiano’s Paisanos take on “Abrew’s Portuguese Jazz.” Our version keeps the violin part, but instead of guitar and cavaquinho, we have mandolin adding harmonies and rhythm, and tenor guitar playing the melodic runs that make up the tune’s backbone and bass line.
“Quisiera Olvidarte” – Pastorita Huaracina
This style of melodic accompaniment reminds me of the relationship between a country-blues fiddle line and a song’s vocal melody (for instance “Rolling Mill Blues,” on this playlist) is one of my favorite things to hear. Maybe that’s why I have listened to “Quisiera Olvidarte” by Pastorita Huaracina so many times in a row. This track comes from another great Arhoolie compilation, Huayno Music of Peru, Vol. 1.
“Il Mio Cuore E Tuo” – Giovanni Gioviale
I knew I wanted to include a track to represent some of the Italian-American music of the era. For many of the tracks on this playlist, I have been trying to decide between polkas, mazurkas, waltzes, foxtrots, and tangos, a reminder many of these groups were dance bands. The mazurka form comes from Poland, a dance in 3/4 or 6/8. This mazurka comes from Giovanni Gioviale, a mandolin virtuoso from Sicily who recorded in New York between 1926 and 1929. “Il Mio Cuore E Tuo” features Gioviale on the tenor banjo– another marker of combined musical histories.
“Black Mountain Mazurka” – Gu-Achi Fiddlers
The next tracks have us following mazurkas to the Southwest. “Black Mountain Mazurka” is Gu-Achi fiddle from the Tohono O’odham people of Southern Arizona. This Southwest fiddle sound is made even more distinct with the addition of drums and very sweet harmonies.
“Bailando en Phoenix” – Lone Piñon
Staying nearby but jumping ahead into this century, Lone Piñon (also on our label, Jalopy Records), plays New Mexican string band or “orquesta típica” music. “Bailando en Phoenix” shows both the amazing energy and musicianship of the whole band. Their whole album is a beautiful tribute to their attention to learning, playing, and performing this musical style.
“Tarantella” – Magic Tuber Stringband
One more modern band, to remind ourselves that we are all participating in the process of reimagining music across time and space. And we will be for as long as we engage with these old traditions and continue to make music. The cross-tuned fiddle on North Carolina-based Magic Tuber Stringband’s “Tarantella” so effectively calls to mind the droning sound of a zampogna (an ancient bagpipe played in southern and central Italy), and the track fades to a fitting end for this playlist.
Welcome to another edition of our weekly roundup of new roots music! You Gotta Hear This…
First up, country singer-songwriter Erin Gibney gives us a preview of a brand new version of “Risk It,” one of the first true love songs she had ever written. In this iteration, it’s stripped back to a more simple and acoustic approach, but still with a pop country sheen and plenty of big, energetic moments. Also in country, Carly King has announced her upcoming album, Loving You Is Easy, with a lovely and tender lead single, “Three Martinis.” King wrote the song about a fated trip to New York City where she fell in love with the man who would become her fiancé. It’s full of memories, nostalgia, and lush with imagery of falling head over heels, all wrapped in a cozy and gauzy folk-country package.
In the bluegrass world, North Carolina’s Unspoken Tradition highlight their working-class bluegrass bent with a new single, “Company Man,” which celebrates and interrogates the reality of blue-collar, hard working folks in this day and age. As they describe it, “The song tells the story of a man who seems to live to work, not work to live. There’s pride in that, but also a sense of stoic sadness.” Also speaking to the social and political climate of today, folk artist and singer-songwriter Eilen Jewell has released her own version of Woody Guthrie’s important and sadly still applicable song, “Deportee.” Jewell’s rendition is twangy, honky-tonking, and plaintive, drawing inspiration from the first time she ever heard the song as a teenager. She tells us that story – and about how the number has “haunted” her since – below.
Roots music fans will also enjoy watching singer-songwriter Adam Klein perform “Burnin’ Love,” an original song, in a brand new music video. Previously released in 2015, Klein returned to the track with collaborator Adam Poulin for a simple duo, acoustic reimagination of the song, which Klein wrote while on a Peace Corps mission in Mali in West Africa. And be sure you don’t miss a brand new single – and live performance video, to boot! – from West Virginian Americana troubadour John R. Miller. “If You Could Only See Me Now” is Miller’s take on a song written by a dear friend and musical compatriot, William Matheny. It’s another two-stepping, honky-tonk ready track perfect for sliding across the shiny floorboards or leaving a tear in your beer. Miller inhabits the lyric intuitively, with languid and laid back phrasing while the lyric, fiddle, and pedal steels pull him along.
There’s plenty to listen to and love. You Gotta Hear This!
Erin Gibney, “Risk It (Stripped)”
Artist:Erin Gibney Hometown: Southington, Connecticut and Nashville, Tennessee Song: “Risk It (Stripped)” Release Date: April 3, 2026 Label: Rock Ridge Music
In Their Words: “I wrote this song after meeting my now-fiancé and it is one of the first true love songs I have ever written. ‘Risk It’ really describes the feeling of falling in love knowing that it could either end in marriage or the greatest heartbreak of your life. During the beginning of the relationship, I felt all the fears and excitement that come in the early stages of love. I brought this experience to Kipp Williams when we began working together and this became the first song we created. It was so much fun to not only try something new with my sound, but explore new themes in my music. This song is so close to my heart and I can’t wait for the world to hear this reimagined version of it!” – Erin Gibney
Track Credits: Kipp Williams – Producer, songwriter, all instruments Erin Gibney – Vocals, songwriter
In Their Words: “I first heard ‘Deportee’ when I was a teenager. I can’t recall which version it was, but I remember I was babysitting a little girl who was about six years old. She put it in the CD player, cranked it up, and started singing along loudly in a sweet and mournful tone. I could tell it really resonated with her so I listened closely and realized it resonated with me too – the grief in the sudden separation of friends, the ripping away of a shared humanity – it’s haunted me ever since. I’ve heard just about every version of it there is, searching for one as anguished as the one in my memory of that night with the little girl howling along.
“My search never yielded one that quite fit so I altered the song a bit by putting it in a minor key and choosing only the verses that felt closest to the bone. It’s disheartening to think that Woody Guthrie wrote ‘Deportee’ nearly 80 years ago and it still rings true. What can I do but join him in fighting fascism the only way I know how? With my conscience, with my guitar, with my voice.” – Eilen Jewell
Track Credits: Eilen Jewell – Acoustic guitar, vocals Jason Beek – Drums, vocals Jerry Miller – Electric guitar Matt Murphy – Upright bass
Carly King, “Three Martinis”
Artist:Carly King Hometown: New Jersey and Nashville, Tennessee Song: “Three Martinis” Album:Loving You Is Easy Release Date: March 25, 2026 (single); May 15, 2026 (album) Label: First City Artists
In Their Words: “I wrote this song about the first time I went to New York with my fiancé, who at the time was my boyfriend of one month and my brother’s best friend of 15 years. We stayed in a tiny hotel room and spent the whole day wandering Manhattan, falling in love, and ducking into dive-y music shops. I found a guitar I fell in love with and bought it and we carried it around the city all day – well, mostly he did. I remember feeling how simple and lucky everything was. Later, over martinis at the Carlyle Hotel (my namesake), guitar beside us, we talked deeply about our past, our families, and our future, and I knew I wanted to build a life with him around music. This song is the first date – it’s the taxi cab that takes you into the album.” – Carly King
Adam Klein, “Burnin’ Love”
Artist:Adam Klein Hometown: Tucker, Georgia Song: “Burnin’ Love” Album:Live at Leesta Vall Sound Recordings Release Date: April 3, 2026 Label: Cowboy Angel Music
In Their Words: “This album is a mix of previously released and unreleased songs. ‘Burnin’ Love’ was originally released on my 2015 album, Archer’s Arrow, with a full band presentation. Here, like all the songs on this new record, it’s stripped back to just acoustic guitar, vocals, and violin. But it still feels like it packs a punch. It randomly occurred to me to play it on tour in this duo format a couple nights before the session at Leesta Vall, so it’s fresh and a bit off the cuff. If the Archer’s Arrow version gave a nod to Neil Young & Crazy Horse in the sound of the electric guitar, somehow Adam Poulin’s fiddle playing here achieves something similar in its abandon.
“The song itself was written on my first full day in the village I lived in for two years during my Peace Corps service in rural Mali in West Africa. I was listening to the metal roof of my two-room mud house crackle from the blistering sunlight and questioning all my decisions – did I really want to spend two years here on my own in this curious land? It all loomed before me like a joke. I remember thinking of the feeling of solitude and emptiness that accompanies the end of love, and channeled it into this two-chord song.” – Adam Klein
Track Credits: Adam Klein – Acoustic guitar, vocals Adam Poulin – Violin, vocals
Artist:John R. Miller Hometown: West Virginia Song: “If You Could Only See Me Now” Release Date: March 27, 2026 Label: Rounder Records
In Their Words: “I’ve been fortunate to collaborate with William Matheny for a majority of my musical life at this point. Probably 15 years or so now, definitely in the widest variety of musical situations. The first time I saw him play at 123 Pleasant Street in Morgantown, West Virginia, in 2004 I passed out on a bench and somehow remembered his set that night. I’d get to meet him a few years later and we’ve been playing shows together ever since.
“William’s been playing in bands since he was in the single digits, and his body of work as a songwriter is huge and detailed, with recurring motifs and great riffs. His way of zooming in on the minutiae of viscerally familiar settings in his writing is something I have always admired, and his songs are imbued with literary and philosophical references that reward repeated listening.
“This is my take on a country song of his, one that we recorded some years back for his album That Grand, Old Feeling. I’ve always loved this song, feels like some unearthed forgotten classic country gem every time I hear it. It’s an evocative, tongue-in-cheek ode to the gutter that reads like a drunk postcard to a lost loved one back home.” – John R. Miller
“I’ve played a lot of music with John R. Miller over the years. Sometimes it was my band, sometimes it was his, and sometimes it was something else entirely. When the subject comes up, I usually tell people that we’ve been giving each other the same hundred dollars back and forth for 15 years. I say that completely in jest, of course. We’ve only recently started making that kind of money. When John played [the song] for me, I was incredibly flattered. I mean, it’s certainly not as if he’s hurting for material. On a completely selfish level, I got a huge kick out of hearing such a great singer interpret it and the Tulsa players putting their own spin on it.
“I love songs that bury the lede on the listener a little bit. Stuff like Tom Waits’ ‘Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis,’ Tom T. Hall’s ‘The Homecoming’ or ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home’ by Tom Jones. I didn’t want to let guys named Tom have all the fun, so I wrote this.” – William Matheny
Unspoken Tradition, “Company Man”
Artist:Unspoken Tradition Hometown: Western North Carolina Song: “Company Man” Release Date: March 27, 2026 Label: Mountain Home Music Company
In Their Words: “When Unspoken Tradition first started trying to find our niche, we branded ourselves as ‘working class bluegrass.’ Though we’ve grown and evolved, that is still very much who we are. ‘Company Man’ perfectly exemplifies this slogan. Our nation was built by folks just like the man portrayed in this song. I’ve known and was even raised by a few of them. I’d like to think that the men and women this song was written about would appreciate our music.
“The song tells the story of a man who seems to live to work, not work to live. There’s pride in that, but also a sense of stoic sadness. The lines, ‘Only thing waiting is a watch and chain’ and, ‘Old men are really what the company makes’ hit so hard, and could have only been written by Tim Stafford and Mark Bumgarner. These guys are two incredibly talented songwriters and we’re honored they shared this song with us. Evoking images of the hard-working people we all know and love, this song is a bittersweet reminder to work hard but not make work your master.” – Audie McGinnis
Track Credits: Audie McGinnis – Acoustic guitar, lead vocal Sav Sankaran – Upright bass, harmony vocal Tim Gardner – Fiddle, harmony vocal Ty Gilpin – Mandolin Zane McGinnis – Banjo
Photo Credit: John R. Miller by Larry Nieuhes; Eilen Jewell by Damu Malik.
Irish folksinger Joshua Burnside has always shown an affinity for expressing grief, once calling it the reason he began writing songs as a precocious 13-year-old. He’s 36 now, and that sense of grief has never felt as overt as it does on his latest music. Burnside’s It’s Not Going To Be Okay is absolutely shattering, an album that more than lives up to its title. Written and recorded in the wake of the death of Burnside’s best friend Dean Jendoubi, who died of a drug overdose in August of 2024, the album is a bittersweet requiem.
Burnside’s previous albums combined Irish folk with electronic flourishes, worldly rhythms, and elements of sonic collage. His multi-layered experimentation reached a peak with 2025’s Teeth of Time, a record that felt like a major statement and milestone. Barely a year later, It’s Not Going To Be Okay could almost be his Nebraska move – bare-bones stark with minimal embellishment, focused on unadorned voice and guitar in the service of deep, deep mourning.
It’s a state of mind where everything brings back memories of the departed, like the opening of “The Last Armchair”:
Oh, the last armchair you ever sat on Before you overdosed Is the one I sit in every morning To eat my egg and toast…
Ahead of the album’s release on March 20, 2026, we caught up with Burnside for a Zoom interview about his musical past, present and future plans.
It’s Not Going To Be Okay is quite a title. How did that come to be the name of this body of work?
Joshua Burnside: These songs are about the inevitability of pain, suffering, and death, which is what I was dealing with while accepting the loss of my friend. But it was at least a little bit tongue-in-cheek, too, such a ridiculously depressing statement to make. I thought it would be funny in a way. In Northern Ireland, we have a very strong sense of gallows humor. So I was drawing on that a wee bit. I don’t think it’s supposed to be taken literally.
Our paths crossed briefly in school and then we met playing music. Formed a band with a few other people. He and I were maybe 14 and got on immediately. Then there was a trio when we were 16. He played drums, I played guitar, and another friend played bass. We didn’t really gig, just played for the fun of it at his parents’ house. He was a great musician and songwriter himself. His music is amazing and beautiful and weird and dark, like him in many ways. He released a few EPs. The last one is called Skin Hunger and I sing on one of those tracks. Recorded in his mum’s greenhouse, our summer shed 10 years ago.
Since it’s been not much more than a year since Teeth of Time was released, when did you make It’s Not Going To Be Okay?
My sense of time has been so terrible the last few years. It was maybe a few months after Dean passed away in 2024, which is strange to say now. So, end of 2024 is when I started writing and recording and I finished it up autumn of 2025. I was recording it as I was writing it, and the last song I wrote was “It’s Not Going To Be Okay.” It was in the last month of making the record that that one happened.
Is it unusual for you to be working ahead like that, on the next record before the last one was even released?
It’s not typical. It was five years between Teeth of Time and Into the Depths of Hell. That one was a similar dark-humor title, but then COVID hit not long after I’d written those songs. That was some strangely perfect timing. So no, it’s not really normal for me to write and record this quickly. But I just felt an urgency, because one of the main ways I’ve always processed painful feelings is writing and singing about them.
The songs came quickly and easily. I had not planned to focus on just one topic, but most of what came out happened to be that. It felt natural to have them all together like this, almost like a grief journal. That’s the story. A lot of people thought some songs on Teeth of Time had been about Dean’s passing, but they were all written before that. Some of those songs seem resonant with this new record. That seems to happen to me a lot, I’ll write a song and then it seems like life imitates it. If I were not of sound mind, I’d start to worry about ever writing anything tragic or sad.
Was it your intention from the start for this one to be so sonically spare?
Absolutely. I’d been listening to Bill Callahan and Smog, A River Ain’t Too Much To Love. I love how sparse his records are – guitar and cymbal and voice – and they’re still so alive and rich. So sparse, you hang on every word. His voice is so clear. I wanted to do something like that.
Teeth of Time had a lot going on, so I wanted to go with more of a less-is-more principle. See if I could make the songs simpler, almost minimalist, and keep attention with straightforward and very to-the-point lyrics. So I challenged myself. Before that, I was almost hiding behind production and layered instruments. I’d maybe felt a little insecure. But after all these years, I’m feeling more confident.
What has the response been to this record and these songs?
It’s been interesting. I’ve already been playing a lot of these songs live, and so many people come up afterward to say how they lost a friend, dad, uncle, and how much it means to them to connect with my music in a time of grief. That’s powerful, makes me think it’s worthwhile to make music and do this at all. It’s special. I feel a great responsibility not to take this lightly.
I did send the album to Dean’s family, my family, his closest friends, to make sure it’s okay and wouldn’t upset anyone to put this out in the world. My brother and dad knew Dean as well and they told me they couldn’t finish it at first. Just too painful. It took them a while to come around to it. It’s so raw for people who knew him. A bit of an emotional whirlwind in general.
Touring with a record this intimate and personal seems like it would be challenging. Does it feel like you’re delving into difficult feelings every night?
Actors have an ongoing debate about performance technique, whether you should act an emotion or actually feel it. I think it’s similar to performing as a musician. I don’t know what’s more correct or authentic, but the main thing seems to be to stay present in the moment. Playing these songs does make me revisit those feelings a little bit. But I have to be careful with that because I only have so much emotional bandwidth. In performance, I try to remain as present as possible with the feeling of the song, the melody, sound of the words, and craft of the song, as opposed to tapping directly into the original emotion. Sometimes I’ll do that and it’s powerful. But I can’t do that the whole gig or every night, because then touring would be too much.
How many of these It’s Not Going To Be Okay songs will be in your every-show setlist this go-round?
I’ve been toying with the idea of playing all of it start to finish. I was thinking of it that way while writing these songs, how I wanted to play every track and have it hold up even if it was just me. I need to get into the rehearsal room with my bandmates to see if we can crack it. Would be nice to make some different arrangements with electric guitar and cello. We’re a three-piece most of the time.
What were you listening to while growing up?
Lots of heavier stuff, hardcore and post-hardcore, new metal, funk, grunge. Nirvana, Offspring, Fall of Troy. An endless list of screaming, shouting, loud bands, which I still love. But alongside that, I also got a heavy dose of what mom and dad were listening to – Simon & Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac, Alanis Morissette. Jagged Little Pill was a favorite of my mom’s and I still love that one. Great pop record.
You’ve often cited the experimental duo The Books as a major influence and the source of some of your experimental tendencies.
I saw The Books playing when I was a student in Manchester 15 years ago and they just knocked my socks off. It did not sound like any music I’d ever heard before. All the sampling and found-sound collaging was just eye-opening, a completely different way of making music. I loved the aesthetic, the sound, the folksiness of banjo and cello with all that. It was just inspired.
I would not think about music the way I do without The Books. I still listen to them all the time, and you can hear their influence on loads of my tracks. “Under the Concrete” has city noises I recorded in a park in Belfast, sirens in the distance. I wanted that song to have the feeling of being set in that park in that city. It felt like that’s where it had to take place emotionally.
After two such vastly different records back to back, what’s next for you?
I don’t know yet. I need a bit of time for gestation and recalibrating why I make music and to try to come at it from a different angle. I’m very excited at the prospect of making something new that goes away from what I’ve done before, something a bit more experimental. That’s where my head is at now. Maybe someplace percussive. At the moment all I’ve got are loose imaginary mental soundscapes, but that’s enough to keep me happy for now.
When it comes to fiddlers, we all know that more is more is more.
Lonesome fiddle? Great. Twin fiddle? Even better. Triple fiddle? (Who called Bob Wills?)
But with all this great fiddling, it’s hard to keep up with who is who. We are here to help. It turns out that for all the fiddlers that you may know and love, there are probably 10 more that you haven’t heard of – even if you’ve heard their playing!
Here are some fiddlers making big waves and sawin’ big figure eights who may be flying under your fiddle radar.
Ellie Hakanson
Originally from Portland, Oregon, Ellie Hakanson grew up playing music in her family band. Bluegrass fans will have heard her blazing solos as part of Jeff Scroggins & Colorado, with whom she toured and recorded for five years. She now lives in Nashville, where she plays with Missy Raines & Allegheny and Kristy Cox among many other artists.
Ellie’s fiddling is defined by its traditional bluegrass sound and deep study of the genre. The International Bluegrass Music Association agrees, as Ellie has been nominated for several IBMA Momentum Awards – in 2017 for Instrumentalist of the Year, in 2018 for Vocalist of the Year, and in 2019 for both Vocalist and Instrumentalist of the Year.
Here, she plays “Sally Goodin” with the incredible Michael Cleveland during a workshop at Cowichan Valley Bluegrass Festival in Lake Cowichan, British Columbia, in 2024.
Evan Snoey
Multi-instrumentalist Evan Snoey approaches music with a wide lens. Equally comfortable playing old-time fiddle and jazz saxophone, Snoey’s breadth of musical knowledge finds him playing with everyone from young shredders (like the Litch Brothers) to country artists (like Dylan Gossett). Originally from Seattle, Snoey’s stylistic interests include old-time, bluegrass, Scandinavian, Scottish, swing, jazz, and contemporary improvisational music.
In this video, he performs a medley of tunes – “Busta,” “Sjøvald,” and “Primrose Lass” – with Alex Wilder on piano for the Nashville Contra Dance.
Omar Ruiz-Lopez
Chapel Hill, North Carolina-based fiddler and multi-instrumentalist Omar Ruiz-Lopez may be best known for his work with folk duo Violet Bell. Ruiz-Lopez is currently making a name for himself as a sideman (playing cello, guitar, and fiddle) with artists such as the War and Treaty, Franklin Jonas, Lizzie No, and Langhorne Slim. And he has just announced a crowdfunding campaign for his first record of original music. Born in Panama and raised in Puerto Rico and Florida, Ruiz-Lopez is a bilingual singer-songwriter who brings a cross-cultural perspective to his music.
In the above video clip, Ruiz-Lopez performs “Panavueiro da Rabeca” and “Panariqueño,” an original fiddle tune, accompanied by Jamey Haddad and Clay Ross at Casey Driessen’s Blue Ridge Fiddle Camp in 2025.
Josie Toney
Soon after moving to Nashville, Josie Toney hit the road as part of Sierra Ferrell’s band, which went from a DIY van tour to a bus operation during her tenure. In 2022 she released her solo album, Extra, featuring her songwriting and guitar playing as well as extraordinary fiddle work. Originally from Olympia, Washington, Toney studied at Berklee College of Music before moving to Music City. She now tours with country star Hailey Whitters and appears often around Nashville fronting her own band and picking with others.
In 2022, she was a guest on Cameron DeWhitt’s podcast, Get Up in the Cool, performing a version of “Smith’s Reel” that perfectly shows her style.
Libby Weitnauer
Libby Weitnauer grew up in the shadows of the Great Smoky Mountains and studied classical violin in Chicago before returning to her roots in Tennessee to play old-time and country fiddle. An endlessly curious and evolving musician, she has played for Margo Price and Kelsey Waldon and has performed on Broadway in New York City, as well as founding indie band Dallas Ugly and fronting her own songwriting projects. A solo album is rumored to be on the way.
In this video, she performs “Swannanoa Waltz” for the YouTube channel The Old-Time Fiddler.
Amy Alvey
Old-time expert Amy Alvey is a fiddler from California who focuses on building community wherever she goes. In addition to recording and touring with her duo, Golden Shoals, and her indie solo project Mild Windago, she fronts the string band Hometeam Advantage, hosts a radio show on Middle Tennessee’s WMOT, and has cultivated a weekly old-time jam in Nashville. Amy is an encyclopedia of old-time tunes and sources with a wide range of stylistic ability.
Here, Hometeam Advantage includes George Guthrie (banjo), Charlie Fuertsch (guitar), and Ethan Hawkins (bass) performing “Tanner’s Farm.”
Jamie Fox
Montana-based fiddler (and pilot and aircraft mechanic) Jamie Fox grew up on the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation and is part of the Agniih and Nakoda tribes. Jamie, along with her brothers, learned Métis fiddle styles from traditional players on the reservation such as Old Fatty Morin, as well as Métis fiddlers like Jimmie LaRocque, Mike Page, and Johnny Arcand. She currently tours with her band The Fox Family Fiddlers, and as a solo performer.
This video, uploaded in 2019, showcases three reels in the Métis style performed in Denmark with Malene D. Beck accompanying on piano.
Katie McNally
Scottish fiddler Katie McNally grew up in the Boston area and was mentored by the legendary Hanneke Cassel. Her style is fierce and energetic, drawing inspiration from traditional Scottish and Cape Breton styles – as well as Scottish-American players. Katie records and tours her own music and is also a member of The Pine Tree Flyers with Emily Troll (accordion), Benjamin Foss (guitar), and Neil Pearlman (piano).
In 2024, the Pine Tree Flyers performed “Vidita” together for Seirm during Celtic Connections 2024, taped for BBC Alba. Watch above.
Austin Derryberry
As deeply rooted as they get, old-time fiddler and luthier Austin Derryberry plays with the groove of generations. Originally from Unionville, Tennessee, Derryberry’s duo album with Trenton “Tater” Caruthers focuses on the less well-known fiddling of the Middle Tennessee area. He apprenticed with legendary fiddle maker Jean Horner and now makes and plays fiddle in the region.
In this video, Derryberry is joined by his wife Courtney Derryberry and Greg Reish to perform an Ed Haley version of “Chinese Breakdown” in Ireland for the Westport Folk & Bluegrass Festival in 2023.
Connor Murray
Originally from the Chicago area, Connor Murray Ostrow polished his bluegrass chops studying with Michael Cleveland and he can currently be found gigging all over Nashville and around the country. Connor’s playing is clean and focused, with bluegrass drive and country sensibilities.
A graduate of Belmont University, for his senior recital in 2022 he performed a hot club jazz rendition of a Kenny Baker tune, “Bluegrass in the Backwoods,” illustrating the way his approach to the instrument has cross-pollinated with many styles.
Photo Credits: Lead image (L to R): Ellie Hakanson by Nico Humby; Josie Toney by Natia Cinco; Omar Ruiz-Lopez by Phyllis B Dooney, PHOTOFARM. Alternate image: Ellie Hakanson by Nico Humby.
There are no U.S./Canada border wars when it comes to John Reischman. The revered mandolin master was born in Northern California but has lived in British Columbia since the early 1990s. His longtime band, the Jaybirds, are a quartet that includes two members who are also based in British Columbia (bassist/vocalist Trisha Gagnon and banjoist Nick Hornbuckle) and two who reside in America (fiddler Greg Spatz lives in Eastern Washington and guitarist/vocalist Patrick Sauber is from Southern California).
Their latest album, The Salish Sea, refers to the body of water between Vancouver Island and the British Columbia mainland. The record is their first since 2017’s On That Other Green Shore along with being the first to feature “new” guitarist Sauber on the entire album. The song “The Salish Sea” not only serves as the album’s title, but also is part of an original “Bluegrass Concerto” that Reischman was commissioned to create for FreshGrass in 2024. The honor is just one example in a long line of accolades for Reischman, who began his career in the Bay Area bluegrass/folk scene of the 1970s (including a stretch with the Tony Rice Unit) before moving to Canada, where he started the Jaybirds as well as performing solo and in other groupings.
In recent years, Reischman has seen his song “Salt Spring” become something of a modern bluegrass classic. He spoke with the BGS from his home in Vancouver about “Salt Spring” as well as The Salish Sea, his famous Lloyd Loar mandolin, and how he got into bluegrass music.
What was the process of putting the new album together?
John Reischman: There was one venue in Washington State where we had a residency. It was in the fall, in a beautiful spot. It was just ideal. So we took the extra day, worked up like six new tunes, and then started performing them right away. I guess this was October of ‘23.
And then you recorded the album in Vancouver?
In December of ‘23, I wanted the band to check out the studio here in Vancouver, where we ended up ultimately recording. I just want to make sure everybody was cool with it. I knew I liked it, because I had used it for my solo record, New Time & Old Acoustic. They all liked it. At the end of any tour we had that was close to Vancouver in 2024, I’d book a day or two in the studio, and we’d go record two or three or four songs. We were able to perform all this material mostly before we recorded it. … And it was great, because we’d be warmed up from the tour and we’d go in and track some tunes.
This album was the first in a while, and also the first that Patrick Sauber was fully on it.
Right, On That Other Green Shore came out in 2017. That was kind of the tail end of our time with [guitarist] Jim Nunally being a band member. He was exploring other things and decided he’d leave the band. We had a few more tracks to do… and we had some dates on the calendar.
I thought of Patrick immediately, because I’d known him for many years and I thought he’d be good. So he signed on for a tour and then another tour and it was just like, “This works great.” We asked him to join and he immediately said yes. He was a great fit.
How did the Jaybirds come together in the first place?
I didn’t really set out to have a band, except for the fact that I had a solo record called Up in the Woods. There was a local festival, so I put the band together to help promote the record. Seemed like a good idea. And I liked playing with all those people and it just continued on.
It’s called John Reischman and the Jaybirds, because I conceived of it. My name was probably the most well known at the time, but I wanted to be integrated into a bluegrass band. People present stuff, and I almost always accept it. Mostly it’s a pretty democratic presentation, I think. That’s what I like. It’s not Gladys Knight & the Pips.
Can you talk about the title track and how it’s also part of a larger project?
I had been asked to write what they call a “Bluegrass Concerto” by the East Coast festival FreshGrass, and I came up with these three tunes that work together. The first tune was the first movement, which ultimately was called “The Salish Sea.” I thought this will be my contribution to the new Jaybirds record, because they were involved with the performance of the Concerto.
We performed it [at FreshGrass in 2024] and I really liked the idea of having two mandolins and I’ve always loved two fiddles. I knew Darol Anger was going to there, so I asked him if he’d play twin fiddles on it. And then Sharon Gilchrist is a good friend and great mandolinist; we’ve played a lot together, and I asked her to play a mandolin on two of the three pieces.
I’ve got to acknowledge David Grisman, because the music is influenced by his “Dawg Music.” It’s also the sound that I initially heard on his first solo record, The David Grisman Rounder Record. He incorporated harmony mandolin on a lot of it.
It must have been very inspiring and gratifying to receive this commission.
You know, I’ve written a lot of tunes and a lot of folks have learned my tunes, which is really gratifying. But to have been commissioned to write this and have the confidence of this great festival and organization, yeah it was.
I had plenty of time to work on it and the time that it mostly came together was when I think my wife was visiting family. I had the house to myself. That first piece, in particular, really developed over a period of time. The second one [“The Family’s Farewell”], I came up with the A part pretty quickly and it took a while to get a bridge for it.
The third part [“The Little River Ramble”] was similar. … The thing about the concerto format is the third movement typically has an extended solo section and it’s often a bender where it’s just the featured soloist playing solo without any accompaniment. But I wasn’t really comfortable so much with that. I thought, I’ll just have it break down and I’ll solo all through there but have it build back up.
I’m really happy with the response it has gotten. Even playing it just as the five-piece band, I think the band sounds great on it. It’s only like icing on the cake when the twin fiddles and the twin mandolins are there.
And this spring, you’re going to record the entire concerto?
At the end of March, we’re going to be on tour on the East Coast and the FreshGrass Festival has a recording studio. They offered to make the studio available, so we’re going to record that just as we performed it, with Darol and Sharon joining in. That will be part of a solo record, even though I’m using those musicians. And I have other sessions planned. I’ve done one session that will add to the whole thing. Those three tunes of the concerto will just be one component of the new recording.
“Salt Spring,” one of your older songs, has become a highly popular instrumental now in the bluegrass world. How much of a pleasant surprise has that been?
It’s kind of remarkable to me that it’s as popular as it is. I mean, I’m not complaining. It’s great. … But it’s interesting how it’s just traveled all over and people think it’s just a traditional tune in some circles. They have no idea that it was composed by me. That’s cool, too.
The Jaybirds recorded it and it came out on a CD in 2001. We were at a music camp with some folks from Colorado and they learned it. I think that’s largely the beginning of it getting circulated among other people – where they took it back to Colorado. They’re the “patient zero,” I guess.
I know that a certain generation of Berklee students were playing it a lot, and maybe a bit later – maybe 10 years later. It’s pretty cool having people play your tune when you’re not there. That CD was never available digitally until recently, but we made a video of it around 2011… and that was the source, I think, for a lot of people learning it.
And then you recorded it again with Molly Tuttle, Alex Hargreaves, Max Schwartz, and Allison de Groot on your 2021 solo album New Time & Old Acoustic.
I didn’t have all the material when I started that whole project, but I knew I wanted to re-record “Salt Spring” with some of these younger musicians who had grown up playing it.
What do you remember about writing it? And why do you think so many musicians have gravitated to playing it?
I was on Salt Spring Island [in British Columbia] staying with some friends and they had a little old turn-of-the-century Martin small-body guitar. I was just playing the guitar and I was playing out of a D chord shape, and the A part of the tune just kind of took shape under my fingers. It was memorable enough that I don’t think I had to record it to remember it. The B part was just this little phrase I would play on the mandolin, just noodling around … so I just kind of stuck it on there and it worked pretty well.
I think the thing about the tune is the basic melody is very simple, but the way I played on the mandolin, the technique I use, is not quite cross-picking. But it falls into a right-hand pattern that sort of mimics the way the frailing banjo is played with that “bum-ditty, bum-ditty, down-down up, down-down up” pick stroke. So, these extra “down ups” are drone notes and that just kind of enhance the whole overall effect. Because of that, it lays out really nicely on the banjo. Then on the fiddle, you can add drones and add to it that way. And on the guitar also, you can fall into that kind of “bum-ditty” pattern as well.
I think you can learn the tune pretty easily. It’s not super challenging like some fiddle tunes where they’re very detailed in the melody. It’s pretty straight and so I think that’s partly why people gravitate towards it.
You grew up in Northern California. How did you get interested and involved in music, specifically bluegrass music?
Have you heard of a guitar player named Robben Ford? He grew up in the same town where I did in Northern California. He was in a high school band with my neighbors. I must have been 12 or 13. They were rehearsing on a patio and I went over to listen. I was interested in music and I heard them play the Freddie King tune “Hideaway,” which Eric Clapton recorded on the John Mayall & the Blues Breakers record. My brother Steve had that record. I recognized the tune and I thought, “What? This is impossible. This sounds as good as the record!”
From then on, I was just focused on trying to play the guitar. I had taken guitar lessons prior to that, but it didn’t really work. But there were guitars around the house. So that was the thing that really sparked my interest in learning to play. But I was open to all kinds of music. I’d have access to the PBS station KQED and they’d often air Pete Seeger’s Rainbow Quest, where he’d have different folk musicians, bluegrass musicians, old-time musicians. I thought, “Oh, this is cool!” And then the mainstream presentation of bluegrass with The Beverly Hillbillies, having Flatt & Scruggs on it, and the Dillards and the Country Boys playing on TheAndy Griffith Show.
At some point, I had access to a mandolin, which I associated [with] bluegrass music, and taught myself to play it. I tuned it to an open chord for a long time, like a banjo, which was incorrect. And I didn’t use a pick. But eventually I got things squared away.
I discovered the John Hartford Aereo-Plain record. I saw them on TV as well. That was very inspiring. Then I discovered Norman Blake and Vassar Clements. I come to find out they had their own records. … That first Norman Blake record, I couldn’t believe it. I just flipped over that, and I thought, “This is so great!” And I’d heard Doc Watson at that point, so I just got really interested in it, and focused on that music, primarily.
So, was the Good Ol’ Persons your first significant band?
Yeah, it was the first real pro band I was ever in, and I was a fan of theirs before that. I [had] lived in San Francisco for a short while and saw their original lineup, which included all women. And it was exciting to get the opportunity to play with these folks. Because I was living near Eugene, Oregon, and I was just playing the mandolin all the time – a lot with my brother, Steve – but I wasn’t in a band, and I was working on a farm, just part-time. And a friend from the Oregon bluegrass scene had joined them and they needed a mandolin player. He said, “I know a guy.”
That placed me in the Bay Area, which was a great scene. There were lots of good bluegrass bands. And the Grisman Quintet was there. … But the thing that set Good Ol’ Persons apart was their original material, because Kathy [Kallick] is a fantastic songwriter. And Paul Shelasky, who was in the band, also wrote great songs. That opened the door for me to try and write tunes – because, “Oh, these guys write tunes. I’ll try it.” I wrote a few and people liked them. That just gave me encouragement to keep at it, which I have done.
So consequently, when Grisman and Tony Rice parted ways, Tony was aware of me. He’d heard me play at the local bar. He wanted to put a band together and needed a mandolin player. So, I went to the audition and he hired me.
You are well known for having an antique Gibson Lloyd Loar mandolin. What do you think makes those mandolins so special?
I guess that [mandolin] was kind of the ultimate expression of Gibson mandolins. But there’s plenty of new makers and a lot of them are using that basic design. So, aesthetically and as far as the craft of the instruments, some of these builders are way better than the Gibson mandolins were to look at, but the Gibsons have 100 years of aging and playing.
I think the playing of the instrument contributes hugely to its sound. Because, if there’s a Lloyd Loar that left the factory and went into someone’s closet and never came out for 50 years, I don’t think it’s going to sound like one like mine that has been played consistently over time.
I feel fortunate to be the caretaker for this great instrument. I think for most bluegrass musicians, it’s not only the music, but it’s the tools. These vintage instruments, like the Martins from the ‘30s and ‘40s, and Gibson mandolins from the ‘20s, and old banjos, it’s just a vibe that goes along with the music and aesthetic.
James Victore is an Emmy Award-winning artist and author whose work is held in the permanent collection of the Louvre and has been exhibited many times at MoMA (NYC). Victore has shaped the visual language of institutions from The New York Times to the City of New York. In this conversation, we explore the spiritual gravity of “staying in the pool” when creativity gets hard, discuss the incubation time of the soul, the environmental and creative toll of our want of ease, and the quiet, daily discipline of living consciously in a world designed to keep us asleep.
Produced by Aaron Shafer-Haiss. Original music written, performed and produced by Aaron Shafer-Haiss.
Photo Credit: Nick Onken
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