Artist:Amistat Hometown: Rosenheim, Bavaria, Germany Latest Album:What We Are EP (releasing March 21)
Which artist has influenced you the most – and how?
The godfather of indie-folk, Ben Howard! When we first started out as Amistat playing and writing music back in 2012, his album Every Kingdom had just come out. It was the first time ever that we had heard a sound like his. His lyrics, melodies, especially the style of guitar tuning, and the way he used his guitar as a percussive element, captured us and had us mesmerized. It’s to this date the most inspiring piece of music we’ve ever come across and we listen to it on repeat, still.
What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?
The last hour before going on stage is holy to us and very important for us to get in the zone. We meditate for about half an hour (individually), then Josef runs through his vocal warm up routine (15 minutes). We brush our teeth (most important!) and just before going on stage we have this ritual that the entire team meets backstage for a toast – it’s actually reciting an old Irish poem. Every day someone else gets to take the lead on it:
“There are good ships and wood ships, ships that sail the sea, but the best ships are friendships and may they always be.”
What’s the most difficult creative transformation you’ve ever undertaken?
We started out as buskers on the streets of Melbourne. We did that full time for about 7 years. After that time we felt like nothing is really changing and that in order to grow we needed to change something again. We moved to Brighton, England, and wanted to try busking there. After about three weeks and 24/7 of rain we decided to move to Berlin. There we had to kind of rethink the whole busking thing and came up with the idea of putting on small house shows in people’s living rooms. That’s what we did and lived of for about two years. Then COVID hit and everything kind of stopped. During that time we honed down on the social media content and it all grew from there.
What’s one question you wish interviewers would stop asking you?
“What’s it like being twins?”
If you didn’t work in music, what would you do instead?
Jan would be a golf professional, Josef would be soccer professional.
Upon relaying my artistic moniker to people, I’m usually met with one of two reactions: 1. “Oh, weird…that’s interesting” or 2. “Oh, weird… I don’t get it.” (I guess a third option would be, “Well, that’s stupid.”)
My process of finding a moniker came out of a desire for artistic freedom in my writing, as I felt constrained performing under my government name, the far less interesting sounding “Matt Longo.” Within a moniker, my writing (in my mind) could be uninhibited despite me being, you know, the same human.
Originally, I was thinking I’d go by “Tin Ear,” as I simply liked the sound of the way the words sat together, but I quickly discovered that was already a glam band from the ’70s. Then, around the time of my name hunt, I had a very strange dream wherein I sat on a subway car across from a gaunt, regal-looking king. I awoke with the words “Thin Lear” in my head, no doubt the result of my brain privately re-working “Tin Ear” and conveniently giving me a dream origin story to go along with it.
What a journey, I know. So, to celebrate the release of my new EP, A Shadow Waltzed Itself, I’ve put together a Mixtape of some of my favorite solo artist monikers, for various reasons, all paired with choice tracks. Enjoy. – Thin Lear
“Maybe I’m the Only One for Me” – Purple Mountains
A sad and beautiful song from a modern master, David Berman. The moniker is pitch perfect; it conveys majestic sadness, like so much of his art.
“Golden Wake” – Mutual Benefit
An underrated moniker for an underrated artist, Jordan Lee. It’s off Love’s Crushing Diamond, which is really one of the finest complete albums of the 2010s, with its homespun warmth.
“Come Down in Time” – Bedouine
The thoughtful moniker of Azniv Korkejian, whose music is equally as carefully considered. Her take on Elton John’s track from the classic Tumbleweed Connection really rivals the original and wraps the melody in an achingly delicate arrangement.
“Beauty of the Shifting Tide” – Thin Lear
Oh, hey, would you look at that? It’s me. How’d that get in there?
This tune is the closing song off the new EP, A Shadow Waltzed Itself, and also the most personal, unfortunately. I had been walking along the beach in a bad mood for seemingly no reason one day, so removed from my surroundings, watching my partner and daughter enjoy themselves ahead of me. I began to envision myself as this sullen entity that was just kind of trudging behind joy – and the uselessness of that role in a family. This isn’t a place I find myself in all the time, but it happens; I wrote the song later that night as I was so disgusted with my default settings. In the song, my narrator acknowledges his envy of the tide, how it can change on a dime with all its might and that his own will “breaks in half the time.”
It sums up my greatest fears in a few minutes and is my least favorite song I’ve ever written, as I depict myself in such harsh lighting, but it felt like I needed to put it out for that very reason.
“Tyrant Destroyed” – Twin Shadow
A cool, catchy moniker for an artist who makes cool, catchy music. And what an opening track this is off his debut album, Forget. It’s such a sure-footed, fully-realized artistic mission statement to kick off a career.
“Noon” – Twain
I really can’t express why the moniker of Mat Davidson is so perfect. Maybe it’s because the arrangements and vocals in his music are so careful and delicate that the whole thing feels like it could split in two at any moment.
“Honey” – Drugdealer & Weyes Blood
Two excellent monikers for the price of one. Michael Collins & Natalie Mering doing a pitch perfect ’70s pastiche.
“Hood” – Perfume Genius
Maybe the most brilliant moniker on the list, achieving a level of poeticism we can only all aspire to with our monikers. “Hood” is one of the best songs ever written that clocks in at under two minutes, delivering a devastating gut punch in no time at all.
“The Mermaid Parade” – Phosphorescent
Matthew Houck’s music does indeed sound like a radiant glow in the dark. A killer breakup song from 2010’s Here’s to Taking It Easy.
“Only Son of the Ladiesman” – Father John Misty
Well, you knew this one was coming. Truly a perfect moniker for Josh Tillman, as it conveys a mystical sleaze and it’s funny, mysterious, and inviting.
Andrea Zonn and John Cowan have been among the hardest-working musicians around Nashville for the past few decades. Zonn has done tons of sessions both for her violin and vocal prowess as well as touring with superstars like Vince Gill, Lyle Lovett, and James Taylor. Cowan, a longtime member of the legendary New Grass Revival, also was a founding member of the country-rock supergroup The Sky Kings, has done solo projects, and currently tours as the Doobie Brothers’ bassist. However, they only really started playing together due to the pandemic. Their collaboration resulted in a band called The HercuLeons, whose debut album Andrea Zonn & John Cowan Are The HercuLeons arrives March 21 on True Lonesome Records.
Darrell Scott, Tom Britt, Greg Morrow, Abraham Parker, Gary Prim, and Reese Wynans represent the primary HercuLeons on the album, while Billy Payne, Michael McDonald, Jonell Mosser, John Hall, and John McFee number among the special guests.
Zonn and Cowan spoke separately to BGS for our feature interview all about their unique collaboration, becoming a band, and the debut album.
When did you two first meet?
Andrea Zonn: I moved to Nashville in 1986 and John I think got here two, three, four years before that. I was already a fan of his, but we met and our paths crossed over the years. Then at some point we got called to sing on a session together. I just love singing with him. We became friends and have been great friends. He’s like a brother to me, actually.
John Cowan: Our lives have been continually entwined because of our musical interests, our mutual respect for each other, and because we would get hired to do backing vocal sessions.
How did this particular collaboration come to be?
JC: Right during the pandemic, Andrea and I had gotten solicited to play on a custom project. It was like, “We’ve got three songs for you.” And we’re like, “Okay.” Well, it turns out they had like nine songs for us and we basically just went from the top of the list all the way to the bottom; we were there like 10 hours.
AZ: Then I was just about to call him on my way home, when he called me and we were both about to say the same thing, which is “God, I love singing with you.” We just decided to sort of become each other’s creative bubble during the pandemic. We were thinking we would do something sort of bluegrass-y with [mandolinist] Ashby Frank, [guitarist] Seth Taylor, and [banjo player] Matt Menefee, which was a blast. So, we did a couple of Facebook Live concerts, which is hysterical because we were playing just to the camera.
JC: These kind of young guns guys – Ashby and Seth and Matt – they’re at that time of their lives where they’re just running full speed. They’re just so impassioned and so full of music that you really can’t get somebody like that to commit to, “Hey, let’s be in a band.” By the time we got around to making this record, the personnel had just switched to basically me and Andrea and then we chose the band that we wanted to make the record with.
How did the record come about?
JC: It happened pretty organically. We were talking about making this record. We weren’t even as far as who’s playing on it, or who’s producing or what it is. But I was driving home from my sister’s house in Indiana back to Nashville one day and I heard Claire Lynch doing this song called “Barbed Wire Boys” and I literally pulled my car over because I thought to myself: “Am I hearing what I [think I’m hearing]?” The words were so unbelievably well-written. It was just stunning. I played it for Andrea and I said, “What do you think of this song? Are you just as stunned by the words as I am?” She said, “Absolutely!”
AZ: It just felt like such a timely message in this song, which is that there’s this generation of strong, stoic men who have this really soft underbelly. It feels like there’s not a place for that right now and there’s a real wistful longing for this gentle strength. We were listening to the song going, “What could we do with this?” We were just looking at it as this single standalone thing. Let’s just record this because we love it. We’ve got time on our hands. And the idea just kept growing. It’s like, “Let’s just figure out a way to make a record like this.” Also, with the pandemic [it was] a weird time to make long-term plans
Wendy Waldman produced the album – how did she get involved?
JC: We got a hold of Wendy Waldman, who’s one of my oldest friends and produced many things I’m involved with. Andrea and I made a vocal guitar demo and sent it to her.
AZ: We decided we wanted to slow down [the song], break it down, and make it more of what Wendy calls, “The prairie orchestra sort of thing.”
JC: She worked on it for us – it’s like she went away in a little hobbit in a village of stuff, she came back to us, and she’d written the most beautiful layers of mandolins and acoustic guitar tuned down low.
AZ: She’s like a shaman the way she creates. It’s like you just see glowing aura is coming out of her when she’s in that space.
The idea to do an album grew from there?
JC: That was the beginning of the record. We had that song and we started pursuing it and it would be about sharing tracks and files back and forth from California, which is where Wendy lived, and that was going swimmingly well.
AZ: Exactly. It was like, “Let’s put something beautiful in the world, because I feel like that’s our responsibility as artists.” Especially during these times we’re living in are so full of devastation and difficult things and people need healing. They need beauty. They need that balance. And so that’s where we come in. So, it just started as just this yearning to create something beautiful. And then it was just so much fun, and the chemistry was there.
The album features only 11 songs and those are mainly covers. Was it hard to decide what songs to record?
AZ: It was brutal actually picking songs, because there are so many beautiful and great songs and we weren’t really all that concerned with where the genre markers are. We just were like, let’s just do stuff we love. We’ve just been feeling our way through it. Things that we really felt like we could sing well together were sort of a consideration. It was such an organic process, and it was not a quick process.
JC: I think we got up to 30 songs that we wanted to have a stab at. We kept culling it down. So, this bushel of songs started to reveal itself to us. We opened it up a lot [like] a basket of fruit and you could see which one was going to make it and which ones might get a little too ripe.
One of the things that immediately stands out is the amazing way you two sing together
AZ: We have a lot of the same influences. You know, I call him “The Powerhouse” and I’m sort of a “Powder Puff” so [we] complement each other. He’s just so intuitive and such a great musician, such a beautiful sense of phrasing, and it’s just very easy to fall into place with him
JC: We know each other’s voice, so there’s some kind of internal resonance that’s going on there that you can’t see or feel or touch… You can’t necessarily write it out on a piece of paper. When two singers sing together like that it’s like Baez and Dylan.
The music is remarkably diverse – a vibrant mix of rock, soul, blues, country, funk, and bluegrass – but the album holds a real cohesiveness. There’s a sense of humanism and empathy that flows through the songs you picked.
JC: That’s just who we are. Andrea and I are the same. We’re the perennial man looking for a spirit greater than all of us to bond us to human beings in the world.
That seems to be spotlighted using your single “Face of Appalachia” (an old Lowell George/John Sebastian tune that Valerie Carter had on her 1977 debut album) to raise awareness for victims of Hurricane Helene. It’s a song that has many connections with both of you, right?
JC: Both Andrea and I became or were friends with Valerie before she passed a couple of years, so there’s a huge emotional connection for both of us.
AZ: We just love the song and we wanted to kind of do our little spin on it. Then when the hurricane hit, it’s like we all felt so powerless to help, so we wanted to raise awareness and direct people to organizations that are actually on the ground doing good work. I mean, John and I love the people, the region, the music that comes from there. It’s just such a meaningful place, you know, and your heart just breaks for what people are going through.
If you had to choose a song that’s a good entry point for listeners, what would it be?
AZ: You have to listen to the whole thing. You just have to suck it up and suffer through it, it’s only 11 songs! “Straight Up” would get their attention. Let’s say that it’s short and sweet and it’s just full of a lot of what we do, except for the slow pretty stuff and there’s a great message in that song.
JC: I might say “Face of Appalachia,” because there are two beautiful lead vocals on there, but they don’t appear to be lead vocals. They just appear as these two people singing together. … There’s so much about that track. How the words fit so well with the arrangement. It has shadows and light as well, but a lot of pathos.
The Gregory Porter song we do called “Take Me to the Alley,” I just think it’s a staggering song. It’s basically talking about how people are lining up all these shining things in front of their houses waiting for God to return and then he shows up and he’s like, “I don’t want to see any of this, take me to the alley, take me where the desperate ones are.”
Our partnership with our friends at Real Roots Radio in Southwestern Ohio continues as we move from Black History Month to Women’s History Month! This time, we’ll bring you weekly collections of a variety of powerful women in bluegrass, country, Americana, folk, and elsewhere who have been featured on Real Roots Radio’s airwaves each weekday in March, highlighting the outsized impact women have on American roots music. You can listen to Real Roots Radio online 24/7 or via their FREE app for smartphones or tablets. If you’re based in Ohio, tune in via 100.3 (Xenia, Dayton, Springfield), 106.7 (Wilmington), or 105.5 (Eaton).
American roots music, historically and currently, has often been regarded as a male-dominated space. It’s certainly true of the music industry in general and these more down-home musics are no exception. Thankfully, American roots music and its many offshoots, branches, and associated folkways include hundreds and thousands of women who have greatly impacted these art forms, altering the courses of roots music history. Some are relatively unknown – or under-appreciated or undersung – and others are global phenomena or household names.
Over the next couple weeks, we and RRR will do our best to bring you more examples of women in roots music from all levels of notoriety and stature. Radio host Daniel Mullins, who together with BGS and Good Country staff has curated the series, kicked us off last week with Dottie West, Gail Davies, and more. This week, we’re shining a spotlight on Kristin Scott Benson, Crystal Gayle, Big Mama Thornton, Reba McEntire, and Rose Maddox. We’ll return next week and each Friday through the end of the month with even more examples of women who blazed a trail in roots music.
Plus, you can find two playlists below – one centered on bluegrass, the other on country – with dozens of songs from countless women artists, performers, songwriters, and instrumentalists who effortlessly demonstrate how none of these roots genres would exist without women.
Crystal Gayle (b. 1951)
She’s a country music icon with signature floor-length hair and a voice as smooth as silk – Crystal Gayle!
Born Brenda Gail Webb in Paintsville, Kentucky, Crystal Gayle stepped out of the shadow of her legendary sister, Loretta Lynn, to carve her own path in country and pop music. She scored her first Top Ten hit in 1975 with “Wrong Road Again.” However, her major breakthrough came in 1977 with the GRAMMY Award-winning “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue,” a crossover hit that topped the country charts and even made waves on the pop scene. It peaked at Number Two on the overall Hot 100, setting Gayle up to be one of the premiere crossover artists of the era.
With 18 Number One hits, Crystal Gayle has the fourth most chart-topping songs for a female in country music history, even more than her older sister. She became a defining voice of the late ’70s and ’80s, blending country with soft pop for her signature sound. Who could forget those long, flowing locks – almost as famous as her music! A member of the Grand Ole Opry and the Kentucky Music Hall of Fame, she even has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in addition to scores of other awards, honors, and accolades. Crystal Gayle is still shining today, proving that true talent – and great hair – never go out of style!
Before Elvis shook his hips and Janis wailed the blues, there was Big Mama Thornton. Born Willie Mae Thornton in 1926, this powerhouse of a woman changed music forever.
Thornton’s deep, growling voice and raw emotion made her a legend in blues and rock and roll. She recorded “Hound Dog,” which was written specifically for her, in 1952 – years before Elvis made it even more famous. It sold over half a million copies and reached the Top Ten on the Billboard R&B charts. Her recording of “Hound Dog” is regarded as a pivotal recording in the birth of rock and roll, and truthfully, her female perspective makes the song make a lot more sense.
Like many Black artists of her time, she never saw the wealth or credit she deserved. Big Mama wasn’t just a singer – she played drums, harmonica, and wrote music, influencing generations of artists. Janis Joplin’s hit “Ball and Chain” was written by Big Mama.
As a blues icon, she toured the United States and Europe, worked at many prestigious folk, blues, and jazz festivals, and even recorded an album with Muddy Waters. Sadly, her life was cut short after years of alcohol abuse, passing away at the age of 57 in an LA boarding house; Big Mama was buried in a potter’s field.
Big Mama Thornton paved the way for rock and roll, blues, and soul, and was posthumously inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2024.
A South Carolina native, Kristin Scott Benson is a six-time IBMA Banjo Player of the Year and an absolute force on the five-string. She was a mandolin player as a youngster, but caught the banjo bug at nine years old when she saw Doyle Lawson & Quicksilver in the 1980s with their exciting brand of bluegrass – and a young Scott Vestal on banjo. She joined the all-female bluegrass band Petticoat Junction when she was just a senior in high school, moving to Nashville in 1994 to attend Belmont University.
Unknowingly, she made history during her sophomore year in college when she was hired by The Larry Stephenson Band. She is viewed by many as having “broke the glass ceiling” in bluegrass, by playing in a male-dominated professional bluegrass band, without being married to, dating, or being related to any of the other members – she was simply a powerful picker. Kristin worked two different stints with The Larry Stephenson Band, in addition to working with Larry Cordle & Lonesome Standard Time. She joined The Grascals in 2008, where she has remained for over fifteen years.
Pointing to Sonny Osborne as her banjo mentor, she has fit The Grascals’ sound like a glove with their heavy Osborne Brothers influence. (It was actually Sonny who recommended her to The Grascals for their banjo job.) In addition to kicking tail on stage and in the studio with The Grascals, in recent years Kristin has formed a recording duo with her husband, mandolin master Wayne Benson of Russell Moore & IIIrd Tyme Out. Together they are simply known as Benson.
Kristin Scott Benson received the Steve Martin Prize for Excellence in Banjo & Bluegrass in 2018, and was inducted into the American Banjo Hall of Fame in 2024.
She was bold, she was brash, and she helped shape country as we know it! Rose Maddox wasn’t just another singer, she was a trailblazer.
Born in Alabama and raised in Modesto, California, Rose and her brothers – The Maddox Brothers and Rose – became pioneers of the “hillbilly boogie” sound. Performing on radio as teenagers, their career really took off when Rose’s brothers returned from World War II, anchored by her powerhouse vocals. One of the first hillbilly bands to come from California, The Maddox Brothers & Rose cut a wide swathe, touring across the country, performing on the Louisiana Hayride, and making smash records.
With wild outfits, high energy, and Rose’s infectious laugh, they were country music’s first real rock stars, known as America’s most colorful hillbilly band. In the 1950s, The Maddox Brothers & Rose parted ways and Rose pursued a solo career. She broke barriers as a female country star, scoring over a dozen Top 30 hits like “Sing a Little Song of Heartache” and inspiring legends like Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris. She also recorded several popular country duets with another legend with ties to southern California – Buck Owens. In 1962, she released the first bluegrass album by a female artist, Rose Maddox Sings Bluegrass, joined by Bill Monroe, Don Reno, Red Smiley, Donna Stoneman, and more.
She would continue to tour and record, even recording an album with Merle Haggard & The Strangers as her backing band. The Hag always pointed to The Maddox Brothers & Rose as one of his influences. Maddox also performed on stage and in studio with California bluegrasser Vern Williams, and even received a bluegrass GRAMMY nomination for her Byron Berline-produced album $35 & A Dream, shortly before her passing in 1998 at the age of 72.
Honky-tonk, bluegrass, rockabilly – Rose did it all and she did it first! So next time you hear a fiery female country singer, tip your hat to Rose Maddox, the original queen of country sass.
From the heart of Oklahoma, one voice has echoed through the decades, captivating fans with her powerhouse vocals and undeniable charm. Reba McEntire, one of the true Queens of Country Music, has been breaking barriers since she first stepped onto the scene in the 1970s.
Her big break came in 1974 when country & western singer Red Steagall saw Reba perform the National Anthem at a rodeo event in Oklahoma. He then helped her land her first record deal. But she was hardly an immediate success, working to find her footing in the music industry and after four years, she scored her first Top Ten hit, “(You Lift Me) Up To Heaven.” After that, she hasn’t looked back!
Reba topped the Billboard country singles chart for the first time in 1983 with “Can’t Even Get The Blues,” the first of her many Number One hits. With over 40 chart toppers and a career spanning more than four decades, she’s done it all. From mega hits to her legendary TV show, Reba, she’s not just a country icon, she’s a cultural force. However, Reba’s most iconic hit only reached #8, from her classic 1990 album, Rumor Has It. A song she learned from Bobbie Gentry, that has been a signature song of Reba’s ever since, it has been certified double-platinum, selling over 2 million copies: everyone loves “Fancy.”
Known for her fierce spirit and down-to-earth personality, Reba’s music continues to inspire generations of fans. Whether she’s singing about love, heartbreak, or resilience, one thing’s for sure – Reba’s voice is timeless. Reba McEntire, a true legend and a voice like no other.
It’s been a decade since Doni Zasloff and Eric Lindberg became musical and life partners, melding her background in musical theater and singer-songwriter music together with his blues, jazz, and banjo-picking roots. Now, with a new double album, Beacons, their band Nefesh Mountain dives deep into the myriad ways music can serve as a light in dark times.
The album’s eighteen tracks across two discs convey not only a ferocious command of numerous roots styles, but also a level of compassion and empathy lacking from so much topical music.
“We’re always trying to … walk that high wire between trying to provide an escape … and not neglect[ing] what’s so clearly happening day by day to all of us, as we watch the news and look at our phones and feel this fear and anger and depression,” says Lindberg. The news, he adds, has become “this thing that we can’t run from.”
For many artists on the folk/roots continuum, this desire to comment on the state of the world might mean focusing entirely on our current political leadership. For Nefesh Mountain, though, it means relating with their audience on an even more personal level than usual.
“That’s really part of our job, I think, as artists right now,” Lindberg says.
This echoes a message of “revolutionary love” that many other artists have gotten behind, courtesy of author Valerie Karr.
“Wonder is where love begins,” Karr wrote in her 2020 memoir, See No Stranger: A Memoir and Manifesto of Revolutionary Love. “When we choose to wonder about people we don’t know, when we imagine their lives and listen for their stories, we begin to expand the circle of who we see as part of us.”
This notion is what inspired Ani DiFranco’s 2021 album Revolutionary Love and seems to be echoed on Beacons, with Nefesh Mountain’s determination to weave radical love into their approach to progressive bluegrass and Americana music. Indeed, Beacons seems to strive toward illuminating our common humanity.
Granted, this mission of “radical love” began with the name Lindberg and Zasloff chose for their band in the first place. “Nefesh” is a Hebrew word denoting life force, the sentience that pervades all living things. Radical love requires as much vulnerable expression as it does being open to the array of scary, emotional, dark trepidation so many people have in common. Among the topics Lindberg and Zasloff breach on Beacons: coming clean about a history of substance use, discussing the hard truths around their seven-year fertility journey, and their shared determination to maintain a sense of wonder in a world that can feel relentlessly staid. (“If we’re looking for some heaven, babe/ There’s some right here on the ground,” Lindberg sings in “Heaven Is Here.”)
The first disc of Beacons features a deft exploration of the group’s Americana tones. Though Lindberg and Zasloff are from the Northeast, their Nashville connections and twang-centric improv skills deliver a set of songs that could play just fine on say WSM, the radio home of the Grand Ole Opry.
The set begins with “Race to Run” – a radio-friendly country song about overthinking the struggles of the creative life (“I’m tired of trying to stay out in front/ But you remind me … it’s your own race to run”). “What Kind of World” is a rumination on a sense so many folks share these days, of powerlessness in the face of climate change. (“Is it just me? Can you feel it too?”) But, the song’s lyrics extend into geopolitics and the sense of divide that leaves so many feeling unstable.
Asked about the song’s vulnerable and rather personal honesty, Lindberg notes: “Remember, it was a year and a half ago when the fires from Canada kind of made their way down. We live in the New York area … so the line in the song is, ‘I saw the golden hour at 11 a.m./ They say it’s from the fires, it’s not us or them.’
“Now, a year later or so,” he adds, linking last year’s fire headlines with those of 2025, this time in California. “We had to sing this in Orange County a few weeks back while they were [still seeing smoke].”
As Lindberg’s proverbial camera pans out, the song considers the role of the average citizen in the face of such behemoth powers as climate and politics. “What’s it all for if we’re not all free,” the lyrics ask, shifting from fear about climate disasters to a purpose of climate justice. This ability to move from complaint to action item in a single verse, all couched in infectious twang, is what sets Nefesh Mountain apart from many others in the country space.
The Americana disc’s finest moment, however, is “Mother,” a song written by Lindberg that addresses so many of motherhood’s side effects. “I’ve lived many lives,” Zasloff sings. “…It’s all part of the job as a mother.”
Zasloff notes that her first two children – from a previous relationship – were practically grown when she and Lindberg began trying for a child of their own. What ensued was a seven-year fertility process that echoes what so many women encounter when they discover becoming pregnant is not always as easy as it seems.
“I burst out crying when [Eric] first shared [‘Mother’] with me,” she says, “because it was so personal and so empowering and beautiful for my husband to write that about me.”
In addition to the way the song tackles their infertility journey, it also reckons with Zasloff’s history with alcohol – something she chose to leave behind in order to become a mother. “I decided in that moment of having that song come into the world,” she says, “that I was wanting to talk about something personal that I had never talked about publicly, ever. Which is the fact that I am sober. I’m an alcoholic and I just celebrated 20 years of sobriety. And I actually became sober to become a mother. It’s part of my whole story.”
Livin’ with that drink, Lord, Always left me wanting more But I was saved When I became a mother
After that high point, the group moves into the traditional “Keep Your Lamp Trimmed and Burning,” which Lindberg notes has long been a part of their live show. “We’d always mess with the arrangement,” he says. “I kind of just called it in the studio. We had a little bit of extra time. I didn’t know it was going to be on the album, but it’s one that the band knew when we were down in Nashville and we kind of arranged it on the fly.”
“We’re all New York guys and jazz players,” he adds. “So we wanted to lean into that a little bit and bring this real Americana spiritual into a different sonic space, really let improvisation take over, and help that add to the obviously beautiful meaning of the song.”
Nine tracks in, Beacons switches to bluegrass, bringing in giants of the form to round out the band. Of course, anytime Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas, Stuart Duncan, Rob McCoury, Cody Kilby, and Mark Schatz come together in any room, the sound is bound to slap. Toss in Lindberg, whose pre-Nefesh background is jazz improvisation, and something truly special crops up.
“Regrets in the Rearview” opens this second disc, feeling like a bluegrass answer to the Americana set’s opener, “Race to Run.” Its instrumental section sets a high bar for the rest of the collection, as the band hands around lead duties, featuring some of the finest bluegrass instrumentals in the biz.
But it’s “This Is Me,” coming in at bluegrass track number three, that delivers one of the double album’s finest moments. Capitalizing on the band’s commitment to building connections and “radical love,” “This Is Me” tells the bluegrass side’s most personal story.
“A question that’s been thrown at us for years now, and especially to Eric,” says Zasloff, “is: How did a Jewish kid from Brooklyn get into bluegrass? … He came to me and he said, ‘I think I wrote a response song so that people will stop asking me that question.”
“I was thinking about it,” Lindberg says. “How did I get into bluegrass? [“This Is Me” is] more about if we’re lucky enough to find that thing that really makes us come alive and makes our soul kind of catch fire –whether it’s writing a song … or painting or sculpture or any trade anyone does. If that’s the thing, then it doesn’t matter, geographically, where we’re from.
“I’m of the belief, nowadays especially, with what we’re trying to do in the roots world, [that it’s important to] try to break down all the barriers,” he continues. No matter where people are from, he adds, “there are people that find this music and go, ‘Wow, that is lighting me up!'”
With that, Lindberg hearkens back to the title of the album. That music might be a light in dark times is, of course, no new concept. (Consider “This Little Light of Mine.”) But the fact that the idea has been floated before doesn’t mean it’s not worth mentioning. At a time when so many folks feel powerless to the onslaught of news and information coursing through the internet and the real world alike, it can be easy to feel like none of us are enough to meet the moment. But Beacons is a reminder that there is no darkness without light.
“No one knows how we become who we are,” Lindberg says, before offering a word of advice. “Everyone just be yourself –regardless of the questions you get or the pain or the hate that you see. You’ve just got to stay true.”
Rose Cousins and Edie Carey‘s friendship has blossomed for over two decades. On the occasion of Rose releasing her new album, Conditions of Love – Vol 1, the pair appear on Basic Folk to discuss the new music. They reflect on their early days and their first meeting as well as the ways they’ve influenced each other’s careers and personal growth.
To witness Rose’s new album through the eyes (and ears) of her best friend feels like a huge privilege, a front-row seat looking into what the human heart and mind are capable of. Edie prompts Rose to expand on the challenges of balancing love and freedom, the complexities of navigating midlife, and why the piano is her soulmate. With humor and depth, they tackle the big questions of life, love, and the creative process, revealing the layers of their artistic identities.
“I just had a really moving, hilarious, enlightening conversation with my best friend Rose Cousins,” Edie reflects. “We talked about vulnerability, middle-aged gardening, accidentally putting in one another’s eye contacts, and befriending our own mortality. We also talked about her stunning new record, Conditions of Love – Vol 1.”
Explore more of our Artist of the Month coverage of Rose Cousins here.
The traditional path of a musician’s career would say that gaining a record label’s approval reflects a certain level of accomplishment and stature. That’s a good thing, right? It can be, but what makes for the right fit to a musician’s career – whether with a label or as an independent artist – largely depends on how a person wants to navigate the ebbs and flows that come with making music for a living.
Just over five years removed from her fourth full-length album, 25 Trips, the aforementioned fork in the road is exactly the juncture at which Hull recently found herself. Now bearing her fifth full-length album, A Tip Toe High Wire, the Nashville-based mandolinist and songwriter decided that the extra work of an independent release didn’t scare her.
In fact, Hull is someone who keeps busy – “I’m not good with time off,” she says – and A Tip Toe High Wire may turn out to be her most true-to-form album to date. From her collaborators – Béla Fleck, Tim O’Brien, Aoife O’Donovan, Lindsay Lou, Ronnie Bowman, Justin Moses, Ethan Jodziewicz, Geoff Saunders and more – to her co-writers, to production, arrangements, and underlying theme, every aspect of the record evokes Hull’s concentrated instincts as a musician, composer, and experienced public artist.
These songs let the rest of us know just a little more about the “who,” “how,” and “why” behind the music and how it fits into Hull’s life and of the lives of those she holds dear. It’s a multifaceted expression of individualism and independence while also being nowhere near a display of isolated work – truly a balancing act of coexisting contrasts.
BGS spoke with Sierra Hull by phone ahead of a packed tour, about the significance of going independent, embracing new ways of songwriting, how her perspective of making music has changed, and more.
How would you describe where you were creatively, between the release of 25 Trips and leading into this new independent recording?
Sierra Hull: Part of it is that I didn’t really have the opportunity to go out and tour 25 Trips. When things were starting to open up [after the pandemic shutdown], I put together this band that I’m touring with and was able to think about what I wanted the music to feel like on the heels of [COVID]. I tried to think about songs that would would feel fun to stand on a stage and perform, you know? And I think some of the context of moving into [A Tip Toe High Wire] was thinking about that.
[25 Trips] was also my last record as part of my Rounder Records contract. A Tip Toe High Wire just felt like this new chapter. And having fresh songs that I had started to write, having been inspired by the time off the road to write music, I kind of leaned into that. I was loving playing with this band and I felt like I had the freedom to not necessarily have outside chatter in my ear about what the next thing needed to be. It felt like an opportunity to just make music that I felt excited by and capture it. At first I wasn’t sure if it was going to become a record, or a single, or what it might be. But the further we got into it, I would just continue to book sessions that we could get in the studio and record in between all the touring.
I feel like [being independent] gives me more of an opportunity to have a direct offering and connection to my fans in a way that maybe I couldn’t have in another scenario, and it feels really important for me to have that in this moment.
How has your perspective of the music and album making process changed? What kind of goals did you set for yourself in this new career chapter?
I don’t know if my goals felt different, because the goal for me has never been to try to chase a particular thing or to please a certain kind of entity. But at the same time, when you’re independent, you get to call all the shots, you know? You decide when you’re recording, how you’re recording, when the music gets released, how it gets released, all that kind of stuff. It’s kind of like a difference of me deciding what’s on the puzzle pieces and then figuring out how to put the puzzle together, rather than just somebody handing you a puzzle and the picture is there already.
I often say, “If I was only making music for me, I could do that anytime I want.” I can sit at home in a room by myself and enjoy music that way. But I think that we as artists and performers, we create and we make stuff because we want to be able to share with people. We want to be able to share a common emotional experience with people. It’s the struggle between trusting yourself, and being vulnerable enough to receive the good things and knowledge that other people around me have to offer.
In deciding, “I’m going to do what I want to do,” it almost prompts the question, “Wouldn’t she have that figured out already?” It’s a nice reminder that there’s no timeline to connecting with self-discovery.
It’s funny, because I feel like it’s one of those things with every album I’ve made. [People say,] “She’s finally coming into her own” – it’s like that every chapter! But the truth is, that’s the human story at any level. You can be coming into your own your entire life. you know? It looks different at 16, and it looks different at 20, it looks different at 25, and it looks different now in my 30s.
There is a certain amount of weird calm that I feel about more things in my life and I think part of that is when you work hard throughout your 20s and there’s such a grind taking place. For me, I love the grind. I live for the work part of all this. Like I said, I’m not really good at just sitting around doing nothing so I’d rather be working than not. But at the same time, I need to not clench my hands too tightly around the thing that is my art and my career. So much of this is out of my control. People will like it or they they won’t and it’s about trying to find some peace and asking myself, “Do I feel like I’ve done my best?” And how much that really matters, instead of being as validated by the praise one receives. We all long for that – I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, too. But I think there’s just a little bit less worry about that. It kind of feels like age gives you that.
What about your songwriting approach did you change for A Tip Toe High Wire?
I think songwriting is always such a journey. This was the first record that has been primarily made up of my touring band. Some of the songs were written and then performed live before we even recorded them in the studio – not all of them – but a good chunk of them have been road-tested, which is an interesting way of [developing a song]. “Lord, That’s a Long Way,” I wrote that tune because I literally was imagining in my mind the way it would feel to play this live with this band. It’s a different kind of approach when you’re thinking that way. I imagine one instrument kicking it off and then another one joining in on that same riff and kind of building the opening. In this way, sometimes you can almost hear it and feel it in a live experience before you’re even finished writing a song.
“Muddy Water” is a beautiful song with an equally beautiful sentiment about staying true to oneself. How does this mentality applies to your experience as an artist?
I think part of it is about trying to not become jaded by [the life of a musician]. If you’re doing something over and over and it kind of becomes your world, it’s easy to get burned out. I’m always trying to make sure that I don’t get burned out and am finding ways to be inspired. So much of that is about keeping a positive mindset and trying to keep an open mindset to the inspiration around us. The other thing that I’ll say is, I’ve gotten to do so much collaborating over the last few years. That’s been a big part of my musical world and I feel like it’s been really broad-reaching too, in ways that I’m inspired.
Stepping out on tour with Cory Wong – that’s a fun time. It’s way different than what I do, but it’s a fun time. Going to make music with Béla Fleck – that’s about really getting in the weeds and rehearsing and working hard on incredibly complex instrumental music. Getting to go join Sturgill Simpson on something, it’s about not over-rehearsing the songs and making sure there’s something about the freshness of maybe one or two takes in the recording studio. That’s why I love collaboration. Being part of something that’s not yours, but you’re kind of part of it so you’re getting to learn and grow and experience and have that excitement rub off on you.
Several of the songs on A Tip Toe High Wire – “Red Bird,” “Haven Hill,” “Spitfire,” “Lord, That’s a Long Way” – nod to the matriarchs of your family. How would you describe where and how music fit into their lives and shaped each of their relationships with you and how you remember them?
Music was part of everyday life. My whole family is very much rooted in the backwoods of Appalachia, the boonies of Tennessee, as far back as I know. Not a lot of money, no college degrees, but such smart, strong characters and people with a wealth of knowledge and grit and toughness and all that. I think music was a way that they were able to cope and have it be part of their way to pass the time. More a way of life than trying to dream of being a performer.
I remember my Granny singing when I was a kid, hearing her sing in church, and I know [my husband Justin Moses’s] family background was much the same. So certainly a different kind of musical experience. But music has always been a big part of both my family story and Justin’s family story. And I was lucky enough to get to know all of his grandparents – he’s since lost three of them – but I was lucky to get to know them and my grandparents too. Not everybody gets that. So I feel super lucky. And yeah, I think inevitably those stories kind of wind up weaving their way into my songwriting.
How do you balance so many different but interconnected objectives – especially finding space to let out parts of yourself through your music?
I’ve been able to say yes to a lot of things, because [I’ve chosen] to say no to some other things and that feels rewarding because normally I’d be stressing out. So trying to think ahead and find the balance as a human, asking, “How can I be focused in the moment, not stack too many things on top of each other, and instead carve out the balance where I do have time to write, I do have time to record, and I do have time to tour?” Because I love all those things. In a perfect world, you make them exist in a cohesive way and that can inform what the art becomes on the other side of it, because I’ve given myself space to enjoy all these things in their own way, instead of just the constant chaos of trying to do five things at once.
One day, as a favor for a friend who was building a recording studio, Rose Cousins wandered through a piano showroom. She had no intention of buying anything for herself, but then she came upon a 1967 Baldwin baby grand. She asked the salesperson about it and was told it already had a buyer. She asked to put her name on a waiting list, though, just in case.
“A few days later,” she said in our recent Zoom interview for BGS, “they called me and said, ‘It’s become available.’ So then I went [back to the store] … and they pulled it into a room so I could play it. I spent a couple of hours with it and then freaked out over the next month. And then ended up buying it as my first real piano.”
Piano had been an early acquaintance for Cousins, when she was first finding her voice as a musician. Growing up on a Prince Edward Island farm, the second of five children in a tight-knit family, Cousins was both poet and athlete. The piano was an early friend to her empathic insides as she began to find her voice amid the bustle of a busy household.
More than twenty years and nine releases into her JUNO Award-winning career, Cousins has long since migrated to Canada’s mainland. Based in Halifax, Nova Scotia, she is one of her country’s finest contributors to her generation of singer-songwriters. Across her career, she has mostly recorded her own songs, often on guitar, but the piano has been a constant presence, both in the studio and her live performances. She has turned to it for pulling the feelings forward in cover songs like Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind” and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” She has relied on it for original songs that are especially emotionally demanding, such as the devastating “Go First” from 2012’s We Have Made a Spark and “Grace” and “Like Trees” from GRAMMY-nominated Natural Conclusion (2017).
Now, Cousins has reached her tenth release, Conditions of Love – Vol. 1. For it, she has laid her Martin acoustic guitar to the side. From the album’s opening instrumental overture, “To Be Born,” to its final rumination, “How Is This (the last time),” we hear Cousins playing that beautiful old Baldwin. Taken in its entirety, Conditions is a collection of songs that is even more deeply vulnerable than usual, with good reason.
“The sensation of playing a full, real piano of my own and having it in my space,” she says, “it’s kind of like a zone I go into. It’s a very intimate relationship.”
These are strong words coming from an artist who has sold T-shirts at her shows that read “Feelings Welcome” and “Rose Cousins Made Me Cry.” That there might be some deeper well of emotion available to her than she has been willing or able to access on previous projects, might make some listeners nervous. But there is no need for a wellness warning on Conditions of Love – Vol. 1.
Once the listener is “Born” into this album, the first song with lyrics is called “Forget Me Not.” It’s delivered in list form, an ode on spring and, perhaps, a nod toward rebirth.
In 2020, Cousins says, the pandemic lockdown saw her moving neighborhoods. “I got a dog, and that meant I was walking outside multiple times a day. I was walking through, particularly, the spring and summer.” Free of the administrative tasks that pile up when she’s planning for another show or tour, she adds, “It’s like my peripheral vision widened and my top vision heightened and my noticing was so much sharper. I was just noticing things blooming – and when they were blooming. It seems ridiculous, because I’ve lived many, many springs, but I actually haven’t experienced spring in the same place multiple times in many, many years. And here I was experiencing it. … It really was this, like, holy shit [moment]. Like oh, snowdrops are the first thing you see. You see them come up and there’s still snow on the ground.”
For an artist – a poet – who had grown up on an island roaming the woods and the beach and playing outside with her siblings, this return to the city oddly necessitated a return to nature. As the rest of us watched YouTube videos of mountain goats and bears roaming urban neighborhoods the world over quiet from COVID lockdowns, Cousins was developing a kinship with those wild things reclaiming their natural environment, even if just for a moment.
“Sweet fern and knapweed,” she sings. “Lavender and rosemary.”
Perhaps an accident, perhaps a nod to the album’s theme, the flowering plants come in pairs. There is some kind of partnership between, say, the “buttercup and poppy,” though it would take a gardening expertise beyond this writer’s own to specify why. And yet, the casual observer, rekindling a relationship with the earth, can sense it.
“Forget Me Not” shifts when Cousins begins listing trees. “Dogwood and gingko,” she sings as the lyrics evolve into sentences. “The poplar leaves clap as the wind blows.” Nature is spreading its roots and branches. There is more space for more observations, more developed ideas, more potential.
The blossoms open. The bees arrive. The eye draws upward.
By the end of the song, Cousins is simply imploring, “Don’t forget me,” but there is a sense that she is not speaking to a lover or even a friend. This is a dialogue with the earth, with the seasons and sky. She is speaking for and to them as much as she is speaking for and to herself.
“Dogwood was one of the trees that I absolutely fell in love with,” Cousins continues. “I planted one on my property two falls ago. The fall dogwood. I just couldn’t even believe how beautiful it is. … I probably would have seen the dogwood before, but didn’t know that it was called dogwood, you know. I didn’t have a relationship with that tree.” But now she does.
Perhaps one condition of love is first knowing what it is.
Here is where the idea of love’s conditions immediately turns. After all, love is one of the most commented upon musical subjects. Contemporary music typically focuses on the romantic sort – particularly brand-new or just ending. But that is not all Rose Cousins is here for. (The album is not called Conditions of Romantic Love.)
From the first set of lyrics on this album, we are handed an implicit definition of love: It is small and big. It is colorful and everywhere. It is where you may not expect it. It is of the self and of the earth. It emerges at the right time. It withers and hibernates and invisibly readies rebirth.
Perhaps love is always – even when it is not. Yet it can feel so elusive, so impossible to pin down. “Love makes us insane,” Cousins says, while discussing the album’s third track and its first single, “I Believe in Love (and it’s very hard).”
“We’re kind of told that we want it. We kind of do want it. We get into it. We struggle with it. It’s ridiculous. … And it’s like, ‘I want to have this. I’m doing my best out here to try and have this love thing.’ … But then [there’s] the choice between being in a relationship with somebody and working through all the ridiculousness – or being wild and free.”
Which brings us back to the mountain goats and bears wandering cities during lockdown. Back to Cousins walking her dog, noticing flowers and trees. Reacquainting with oneself is part of love, whether it comes in the throes of a long connection with another human, or after such a relationship has come to an end.
Indeed, this juxtaposition between endurance and ending is among the running themes on Conditions. In reality, love does not have a beginning, middle, and end. It is not a story we tell as much as it is an ongoing pursuit of life itself. “There [is] a cycle to every relationship where you come in close, and then you move back, [and then] you come in close,” Cousins says.
“Denouement” is another sort of list song. “Dissonance,” she sings in its final verse. “Elephants. Vigilance. Grand defense.” And as she lists these rhyming words, the inclusion of “Elephants” feels so ridiculous. She is recounting a lovers’ spat, which ends with “dinner mints” as her protagonists presumably leave the restaurant together.
All kinds of love relationships can turn on what we tend to call “elephants in the room.” There are the things we decide to not bring up over dinner – with our families or our lovers or our friends. The times we hurt one another, the grief and fear, the secrets between us. The willingness to hold these things, to let the elephants stand as we take our dinner mints and move on, that gives love room to persist.
“There’s this movie I watched on an airplane on my way back from Calgary in 2023,” Cousins recalls. “It’s just this small Canadian independent film called Wildhood. … There [were] a couple characters who come from tough homes. One of them says, ‘Love has conditions, I guess.’ … And I was like, fuck, it’s exactly that. Does it ever, you know?”
Cousins is careful to clarify that she doesn’t understand her album’s theme as merely a push-and-pull between conditional and unconditional love.
“Conditions, in all of the definitions of ‘conditions,’” she says. “It’s like – what is the weather in this relationship today? What are the guises under which I’m going to be loved and that I belong, or that I will be accepted, or, you know, that I can be vulnerable? There’s no one [condition]. There’s just so many.”
While many of the songs are clearly circling around an understanding of romantic love, there is also the love that exists within a family of origin. Love that is perpetual and yet can feel as though it rests on one or more people behaving a certain way. This love can feel more like a barrier than a connection. Like reaching toward a wall, unable to even see whether the person on the other side is reaching too.
The places where this image resonates most – “That’s How Long (I’ve waited for your love),” “Wolf and Man,” “Borrowed Light” – come in the second half of the disc. If we are to take Conditions as a birth-to-death exploration of love, these are the songs that come with middle age. When we have the same amount of time behind us as we do in front. When we begin to wrestle with familiality and community and our own identity in relation to both. The balance of love between self and others.
“I am borrowing light from the moon, who is borrowing light from the sun,” she sings in the album’s penultimate track.
Perhaps another condition of love is connection and disconnection, the way we use each other, the choice to depend upon another body.
“As we age,” she adds, “if you choose it, there’s a lot of facing oneself that can be really fruitful and deeply painful. And I think that the pandemic did that for me. As glorious as it was to have the ‘Forget Me Not’ experience of … [a] revisited relationship with nature. It also was really arresting in the way that it was holding up a bunch of mirrors.
“Like, where are all these mirrors coming from? I was able to kind of ignore [them before], or didn’t know that they were there, that I needed to look into them, because I was just so busy with work and motion and the next thing. So, as painful as that was, it was a rich ground for growth. And growth is most often painful. I definitely learned a lot about myself during the last four years.”
Cousins pauses before continuing: “I don’t really know how to talk about this.”
Fair enough. The music she’s created, as usual, speaks plenty.
Photo Credit: Lindsay Duncan
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