Everyone is making political records. Everyone is making albums that speak to āthis moment.ā Too few of them are making music that speaks to the people who inhabit this moment.Ā
Kyshona does. The explorations on her brand new album, Listen — which are synopsized neatly on the title track — by many other artists could have easily and offhandedly devolved into a reactionary, āwokeā gasp into the void. Kyshona (surname Armstrong), though, is a deft and empathetic songwriter, a storyteller with a penchant for shameless self expression and graceful introspection. Listen is not an admonishment. Itās not an imperative, or an oracle-given ultimatum. Kyshona does not implore her audience to hear her, but each other.Ā
Over ten original and co-written songs the album carries on this mission with empathy, connection, community, and spirituality (but not proselytizing.) Itās a remarkable feat that though society systemically attempts to render her and women like her invisible, assuming that theyāll stand aside or allow themselves to be tokenized, Kyshona compassionately defies those expectations and opts to design her selfhood — and thereby, her art — to interact with the world on her terms and not the worldās.Ā
BGS connected with Kyshona over the phone while she created still more music and community on the road in Los Angeles in early February.
BGS: It feels like youāre trying to hold listeners to task here, but thereās also so much grace on the record and thereās so much understanding in the lyrics. How did this idea of grace permeate the album? It feels so tangible to me.Ā
Ā Kyshona: Maybe a year and a half ago I had to come up with a mission statement for myself, to help me focus on what my point and purpose is. We all get caught up in the glamor, the whole shiny music business. That mission statement was, āTo be a voice and a vessel to those that feel lost, forgotten, silenced, and are hurting.ā There is no ārightā or āleftā to that statement. Those that might feel incarcerated — even if itās not behind bars, but by their fears, their worries, the rules that they have been taught to live by — everyone has that in common, somehow.
Ā What I tried to set forth in this album is just: Listen. From every corner that you look at it, weāre all just screaming at each other. Nobodyās really listening. The thing about āListen.ā is that itās a whole sentence. Itās the most difficult thing to do. When weāre listening to someone share their story we automatically want to relate to them, āI have a story similar to that!ā Or, āI know what I can do to help them!ā That takes us out the moment with another person.Ā
Something I learned as a therapist was how to be a reflection for someone else and weāre not really doing that [enough]. A mirror doesnāt try to fix anything.Ā I wanted this album to be like a mirror. The icky stuff, weāve all got fears weāre walking in. We all know life can get heavy sometimes. Weāre all walking around with some sort of baggage we carry with us from place to place. We all hit moments where we canāt go on.
Iām glad you brought it up, because it felt to me like the redemptive empathy — the listening — youāre trying to inspire with these songs is definitely informed by your therapy experience. How else does the music therapy filter in here?
I teach songwriting now at a womenās jail back in Nashville and when I walk into these classes with these women, they all say, āI donāt have a voice. I donāt have a story. I canāt sing.ā Thatās something theyāve been told since they were young and they believe it.Ā
When Iām writing with someone who doesnāt consider themselves a songwriter, I remove myself from the situation. I try to put their words into it. It can be very uncomfortable if I try to put something the way I would say it in there. Iām always battling myself. I have to remember, this is their story, their words. Iām just there to be a reflection. As I learned in my practice, years ago, I was always there to lead people to finding their voice, to lead people to finding their story, and to lead them to finding how their story can help others. That they can take the torch and carry it on.Ā
When people say they donāt have a story, when they donāt have a voice, I wonder if your experience as a Black woman — someone who is told by society writ large that you donāt own your own story or even have one worth telling — is that what you channel to show other people that they do? Do you feel that connection at all?Ā
Man. Yeahā¦Ā
First, I feel as though I have to walk into a room in a very specific way, because of the way I look. Especially if Iām playing intimate rooms, like house concerts. I have to come in welcoming, as if Iām not a threat: Iām kind — I promise. Iām not going to say anything to put anyone off. When I start my shows I have to find something that all of us have in common, which for me is that we all come from someone. We come from somewhere. I talk about my grandparents and what theyāve instilled in me. I feel like a lot of people — not everyone, but a lot — can relate to that. Someone in their lives has given them guidelines to live by.Ā
Then, eventually, I get into incarceration, what itās like being incarcerated, how do we bring light into the darkness. I bring in the heavy stuff. I tell stories of the places Iāve been, the people Iāve seen.
Also, as a black woman, I feel like itās expected of me to be the āoracleā thatās telling everyone– I donāt want to say itās a responsibility, but thereās an expectation.Ā
Itās almost projection, right? That black women are always strong, or magical, or spiritual guides–
Yes, and caretakers. People donāt understand even the complexity of what Iām coming in front of them with. They donāt understand all the different levels of who I am, because I can only really present this one side, which is, āI promise Iām not a threat.ā It doesnāt matter where Iām walking into, even when Iām walking behind bars I have to do the same thing. āIām not a threat. Iām not here to judge you.āĀ
I notice if I have a guitar on my back people do move out of the way, I get a little bit more respect. If I donāt, itās amazing how invisible I can be and how I am perceived by others. Carrying a tool, carrying an instrument on our backs, can change or affect the way someone perceives us, off-the-bat, right away. Walking anywhere with a guitar on my back, itās like, āHuh…ā Cause thatās not common, to see a black woman with a guitar.Ā
Itās always expected of me too, āYou must have grown up singing in the church!ā No, I did not. I was not leading choirs — people have an automatic story when they see me do what I do! — I was an oboe player and I played piano. Thatās what I did.Ā
This is actually another question I had! I wanted to ask you how gospel influences your music, but I donāt mean doctrine and I donāt just mean genre, either. Maybe the middle space between those two ideas, because thatās what I hear in your music. I hear the activist tinge of gospel, the civil rights aspect of gospel. So what does the gospel thread in the album feel like to you? I did wonder if people projected āgospelā onto you, like I did just now!Ā
I grew up in a house with gospel music. My dad and my grandpa played in gospel quartets, so I was hearing it all the time. But what I loved about the gospel music that I was surrounded by was the ideas that were given by it: Joy. Youāre not alone. The burden is not all yours. And I loved hearing voices blend. Thereās something about voices being together, creating this one sound.
My faith doesnāt come into this. My faith is in people. My faith is in the fact that we can be better. [At] shows, people walk up to me like, āYouāre a believer, arenāt you?ā Iām not here to point anyone to God or guide anyone anywhere, Iām here just to be a reflection.
I have faith in a higher power. Thatās what gets me through. But I also know that thatās not how everybody comes at life. Not everybody has the foundation that I do. Iām just here to let people know: I see you. Youāre not alone. I know it doesnāt feel good right now, but somebody is out here. You might not even know them, but they get it. And let someone else know that you see them, too.Ā
Iām glad you brought up being immersed in harmony, because I especially wanted to talk about your background singers on the album, Maureen Murphy and Christina Harrison. Youāve been singing with them for a while, right?
Yes! Well, Christina left us, she moved to Seattle, but yes! Christina and Maureen are who I started out with — like, if I could have a dream team thatās it.Ā
What I hear in the vocals is almost sibling-harmonies level tight. Youāre so in sync, on the same wavelength, and so much of that to me seems like itās stemming directly from the community you have with these singers and musicians as well. These arenāt just studio musicians to you.Ā
I consider these women my family. These are my sisters. These are women that I feel can read my looks, I can read theirs, we can say what we need to say and be done. I feel like they lift me up and support me — because Iām not a vocalist! Iām not a singer, Iām a storyteller. I donāt see myself as a singer. People say, āSurround yourself by people that are greater than you.ā [Laughs]
Outside of that, these women believe in the message that the music carries. They also know the mission and theyāre there for that. Theyāre ready to walk in it. And, both of these women wrote on the record. Maureen and I wrote āFallen Peopleā with our friend Jenn Bostic and Christina and I wrote āWe the People.ā Itās not only my voice, these are also [ideas] that theyāve been carrying around and feeling.Ā
Photo credit: Hannah Miller