The Americana Music Association has announced the nominees for its 24th annual Americana Honors & Awards. This year’s nominations were revealed by Brandi Carlile, Kashus Culpepper, S.G. Goodman, Jim Lauderdale, Kacey Musgraves and Molly Tuttle in a social media announcement.
The winners will be announced during the Americana Honors & Awards on Wednesday, Sept. 10, 2025, at the historic Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. The celebrated program is the hallmark event of AMERICANAFEST, which returns for its 25th year on Sept. 9-13, 2025.
A full list of categories and nominees for the Americana Music Association’s 24th annual Americana Honors & Awards is below the video player.
ALBUM OF THE YEAR:
Lonesome Drifter, Charley Crockett; Produced by Charley Crockett & Shooter Jennings
Foxes in the Snow, Jason Isbell; Produced by Jason Isbell & Gena Johnson
Manning Fireworks, MJ Lenderman; Produced by Alex Farrar & MJ Lenderman
South of Here, Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats; Produced by Brad Cook
Woodland, Gillian Welch & David Rawlings; Produced by David Rawlings
ARTIST OF THE YEAR:
Charley Crockett
Sierra Ferrell
Joy Oladokun
Billy Strings
Waxahatchee
DUO/GROUP OF THE YEAR:
Julien Baker & TORRES
Dawes
Larkin Poe
The Mavericks
Gillian Welch & David Rawlings
EMERGING ACT OF THE YEAR:
Noeline Hofmann
MJ Lenderman
Medium Build
Maggie Rose
Jesse Welles
INSTRUMENTALIST OF THE YEAR:
Fred Eltringham
Alex Hargreaves
Megan Jane
Kaitlyn Raitz
Seth Taylor
SONG OF THE YEAR:
“Johnny Moonshine,” Maggie Antone; Written by Maggie Antone, Natalie Hemby & Aaron Raitiere
“Ancient Light,” I’m With Her; Written by Sarah Jarosz, Aoife O’Donovan & Sara Watkins
“Wristwatch,” MJ Lenderman; Written by MJ Lenderman
“Sunshine Getaway,” JD McPherson; Written by Page Burkum, JD McPherson & Jack Torrey
“Heartless,” Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats; Written by Nathaniel Rateliff
Photo Credits: Charley Crockett courtesy of the artist; Gillian Welch & David Rawlings by Alysse Gafkjen; Waxahatchee by Molly Matalon
In 2022, punk-blues innovator Sunny War moved into her late father’s house in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and began making repairs. There was no heat that first winter and the house needed a full electrical rewiring. By winter 2023, she had the money to heat the place, but as the temperature rose each night, Sunny felt a strange impulse to patrol the house in the dark, swinging her grandfather’s machete at the ghosts inhabiting the top floor.
At the start of our Zoom call interview in January, Sunny recounts the bizarre magical realism of the weeks she spent living with an undiscovered gas leak. I ask enough follow-up questions to be reassured that my friend is not still being fumigated in her own home before I allow myself to belly laugh. “I have to fix everything,” she sighs.
Sunny goes on to explain that by the time the city discovered and fixed the problem, the mood had already been set for her forthcoming album, Armageddon in a Summer Dress. I would describe the results as psychedelic and subtly dangerous.
My friend Sunny can be a little hard to read, a fact which she mentions at one point during our call. We first met at Americanafest in 2019. It was my second year traveling from New York to Tennessee for the annual roots music conference and festival. That summer I had made up my mind to bring Black artists together during the festival for our own unofficial day party. I booked Dee’s Country Cocktail Lounge, cross-referenced names on the festival poster with Google image searches, and sent out a few invitations. Sunny agreed to perform, as did Tré Burt and Milwaukee folk duo Nickel & Rose (featuring Carl Nichols, the artist soon to become Buffalo Nichols). One after another we played our songs then stepped out onto the Madison, Tennessee, porch, most of us meeting for the first time. It was the greatest number of Black people I had ever been around in a professional space since releasing my debut album in 2017.
It was clear to me even then that Sunny was a star. Carl, Tré, and I were on ascendant career arcs of our own, but Sunny was out ahead somehow. She was already well known in songwriter circles for her inimitable movements on the guitar and for her punk rock roots, but it was the intensity of her stage presence that stood out to me most on that first meeting. I watched her suck in the air and light around her as she sang, quietly commanding the audience’s attention. Songs like “Drugs Are Bad” and “Shell” became spells when sung in War’s almost-effortless, warmly breathy style. She appeared peaceful in her own creative world amidst the restless energy of the festival.
2019 was also the year that Sunny founded the downtown Los Angeles chapter of Food Not Bombs, a national network of community groups addressing hunger. In interviews about the movement she was candid about having experienced houselessness herself and how she noticed the disproportionate presence of veterans on the street. She organized weekly meetups in which volunteers made meals and shared them, potluck-style, with their unhoused neighbors on skid row. When COVID hit they switched to burritos and sack lunches. On “Deployed and Destroyed,” one of the outstanding tracks from Sunny’s 2021 album, Simple Syrup, she invites her listener to spend three minutes and 54 seconds in the shoes of a 26-year-old unhoused veteran experiencing PTSD. When I listen to her sing “I still love you/ We’re still friends” I feel like I am sitting beside her. This is what Aristotle and contemporary Marxists call “praxis.”
Sunny is fearless on stage. Six years into our friendship I remain awed by the way in which she commands attention without ever seeming contained by it. Her presence has a kinetic power that you can more easily get lost in than describe. We met up in Chicago on a winter night in early 2023 when Sunny was on tour and I was in between tours. Both of us were depressed, I think. Wide, wet snowflakes were beginning to fall outside while we caught up over drinks. We bribed the DJ into letting us jump the line for karaoke and then launched into a formally unconventional performance of Destiny’s Child’s “Jumpin’ Jumpin’.” The mostly-white crowd of beer-drinking twenty-somethings were amused at first and then bored. I gave up. Sunny stayed the course, winning the audience over with mischief in her eyes.
Later that year Sunny released Anarchist Gospel on New West Records to well-deserved, unanimous acclaim. The album featured Americana heavy hitters Allison Russell, Dave Rawlings, and Chris Pierce. She also toured with Mitski, broadening her fandom to include more indie listeners. I cheered my friend from afar, mostly on Instagram, as her star continued to rise.
When I ask about her memories of that album cycle, Sunny enthusiastically recalls the younger audiences who discovered her music. She expresses gratitude that a 14-year-old at a Mitski concert, someone who “actually is into music for the first time in their life, in the way that you are when you hate your parents and all you have is music” would become a fan. A lot of journalists described her as an “emerging” artist or a songwriter soon to be one of the most beloved in Americana. But for those of us on the fringes of the format, Sunny had been the best around for a minute and the momentum of her career spoke for itself.
Sunny’s latest album, Armageddon In A Summer Dress, comes out on February 21. I ask her to describe the new record in her own words. “Silly,” she responds. I ask if there is a genre descriptor for her music in general. She says, “No.” I am going to follow the artist’s lead and not do her album the disservice of describing it too much. I will say that Armageddon In A Summer Dress is her seventh full-length effort and contains her most inspired vocal performances yet – and some of her finest lyrics.
There is a haze hovering in the top layers of some of these tunes. The winding guitar melodies often weave themselves into the vocal lines, but sometimes they go their own way. I ask her if audiences are reacting to the Black anarchist content of her songs differently than they did the last time she released a folk album with transparently leftist politics. “I don’t feel like people pay that much attention to my lyrics,” she responds. Her primary musical concern, she reflects, is playing the guitar. And in any case, the best way to metabolize these songs is by listening to them repeatedly.
Sunny, Carl, Tré, and I have remained loosely intertwined in the years since that first Americana kickback. We have toured together. We run into each other at festivals and in thrift shops. Tré and Sunny were roommates for a time and in the summertime can be seen riding bikes like cousins in Sunny’s recent music video for “Scornful Heart.” I interview my friends periodically.
We all continue to embody aspects of the blues tradition while resisting categorization. Sunny continues moving patiently through her own cycles of living, transforming, creating in darkness, and then telling the story. She leaps unexpectedly from now to the future and then doubles back to sample tradition, inviting you to keep up. Her lyrics are disarmingly empathetic. Like all great artists, Sunny moves in her own time, less concerned with debating the canon than she is with creating the future. She looks back on the nights she hunted ghosts with her grandfather’s machete joking, “That wasn’t me!”
There is great integrity in Sunny’s storytelling, which means that no matter how long it has been since we last spoke, she will catch me up quickly when we meet again. I ask her who the narrator of “No One Calls Me Baby” is, trying to signal that I am a feminist who recognizes women writers as authors beyond the world of autobiography. But she quickly tells me that the narrator is her and fills me in on the past few months of her life. She has been single for over a year, and has been learning to enjoy the alone time in a house she owns. We commiserate about being single, but we are both leaned back by this point, looking down on loneliness together. “No one calls me baby anymore/ I hold my own hand now…”
One of my favorite things about Sunny is that whether she’s playing a dive bar or a sold-out theater, everyone walks away dazzled. She is just as warm and entertaining sitting across from you in her home. She accompanies herself.
Our next band featured on Out Now is the Accidentals, a group that I met over a decade ago, tucked under the oak trees in Northern Michigan at Interlochen Artist Academy. Interlochen is a hub for music and arts education. Katie Larson and Savannah Buist (founders of the band) attended the academy at the same time I did. I’ve admired their artistry and dedication ever since. I remember listening to Interlochen Public Radio, hearing a song they wrote, and thinking these artists were going somewhere. Spoiler alert… they have already gone everywhere, touring all over the U.S.!
Before they attended Interlochen, Katie and Savannah were already playing together in an orchestra and exploring their musical chemistry. The pair are creative, dedicated individuals, curious souls, skilled instrumentalists, and incredible writers. They built a successful career while still very young, touring and playing festival stages in their teenage years. Both turned down college scholarships to hit the road instead. After high school, they added Michael Dause to the band as their percussionist. In 2023, Michael parted from the band; they now play as a trio again with Katelynn Corll.
The Accidentals just released their latest single, “What a Waste.” It’s an honor to highlight this phenomenal band on Out Now. Learn all about their plans for the future, why they create music, and about their incredibly creative minds in our interview with Katie Larson and Savannah Buist.
You’ve been playing together since high school. What has it been like for you to create, write, record, and travel together for the past decade?
Savannah Buist: All of those processes – creating, writing, recording, and traveling – demand different parts of us, and all of them have changed and grown over the years. Creating and writing used to be a more solitary process, and yet [now] we find ourselves collaborating and co-writing with some of the people who inspired us to become songwriters in the first place. Recording went from being solitary, to with producers, to us becoming engineers and recording many of our own projects, to recently joining forces with producer Mary Bragg for a collaborative record. Traveling together used to mean 250 days on the road, sleepless nights living on the opposite schedule of everyone we loved – and now, we ease into it, take our time with it, and the number of people in the van seats, their names and faces have changed over the years.
But the thing that remains true is the constitution of our friendship and our trust. I lean on Katie more than I’ve ever let myself lean on anybody before. She’s the reason why I constantly challenge myself to do better, not just musically but as a person too. She’s a natural listener; she’s observant and deep-thinking. She’s the kind of person who would make an incredible documentary carefully examining both sides of a complex situation and reaching some inevitable core of truth. It’s been incredible watching her grow and change, too, just like all the processes that we engage in together. I think the growth and change I’ve undergone is just as dramatic and important. It’s what keeps us open to each other and supportive of our many interests and endeavors.
Adding Katelynn Corll to the band a couple years ago was like picking up a golden retriever to tour with. She’s always positive and brings balance to the band with her ability to see the big picture, ask good questions, and amp up the energy on stage. She’s got both our backs all the time. It’s a no-ego dream band reality.
Katie Larson: Some days, 10 years sounds like a lifetime and other days it feels like a drop in the bucket. Think about how much change people go through from their late teens to late 20s, then add in the inevitable ups and downs and major transitions you go through in the music industry. What a privilege to have someone by your side who has known your heart since day one. Not only that, but a friend who’s a true collaborator, business partner, and salsa-making science geek who’s always ready to dive into philosophical rabbit holes and will fiercely have your back no matter what. We take a lot of inspiration from the Indigo Girls, a few years ago we got to watch Ann Powers interview them during Americanafest. They’ve been playing music together for almost 40 years now and are still true friends.
Your early success, including playing at various festivals, is impressive. What were some of the most memorable moments or experiences from those early days of touring?
SB: I’ve kept journals for many years and those have sort of fallen into the digital world via Tour Blogs, which we write weekly on our Patreon. Cataloging our experiences has given us a plethora of perspectives. There are times I look back through those journals and blogs and think to myself, “How are we still alive?” From busted trailers to stolen gear to pedalboards lighting on fire from faulty power, playing in caverns and drained swimming pools and stages so tiny we stood shoulder-to-shoulder trying not to poke each others’ eyes out with our bows; farmer’s markets and people’s dogs and their bookshelves when we crashed at their houses, and the strangers who became family along the way. It’s literally too much to recount, because that’s thousands of memories stacked into some neural Jenga of nostalgia. I will say that the early days are like the later days in that we’ve never stopped learning, and never thought we were incapable of learning more.
KL: As an introverted teen, I remember being shocked by kindness from strangers. It still amazes me, but back then it seemed crazy that music could be a catalyst for people making us a home-cooked meal, letting us stay in their homes, or giving us boxes of books to read on the road. One time in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan a man handed us an entire smoked salmon after our set. On another tour in Colorado, we kept accumulating homemade pumpkin bread wherever we went. It wasn’t just gifts – music was also a fast pass to personal conversations with fans at the merch table or with our hosts who became family.
I remember playing a coveted electronic festival called Electric Forest the summer after we graduated high school. Playing folk rock in our dorky dresses (mine covered in pop art chickens and Sav’s covered in cats), we were probably the biggest outlier on the bill, but our artist badges gave us all access. We could go to any stage and watch Lindsey Stirling and Phantogram and Skrillex perform from behind the curtain. In the artist lounge there was this huge juicer, and the women there made me this juice concoction with beets and apple and fresh garlic, and they laughed and said I was glowing. I couldn’t believe we were there.
What was it like for you to start touring and building a career at such a young age?
SB: It was a lot. We thought we were just having fun playing some music with each other and it took on a life of its own. Sometimes in the early years it felt surreal, like a plane taking off and you’re running down the tarmac trying to get on it. I think having a team early was key. We’ve always had the support of our respective parental units – both our moms and dads are musicians and singers and songwriters, so they understood our ambitions and goals and sought tirelessly to lift us up. Having a parent that understands the industry and was willing to support us full time was a lot of the reason we were able to be full-time musicians from a young age.
My mom took us on a brutal “trial tour” in the summer of 2012 – she booked 30 shows in 27 days with radio shows a lot of those mornings, to convince us to go to college. It didn’t work. It just solidified that Katie and I were compatible on the road. At the end of that tour, Katie and I knew we wanted to do this music thing to the extent of both of us [gave] up scholarships to college. My mom agreed to manage/tour with us and we signed our first deal right out of high school. She buffered a lot of the stigma attached to young females playing in clubs they weren’t old enough to be in and took a lot of the verbal abuse that comes with this industry and recording with people you don’t know very well and we watched her handle it.
We learned to start with respect – even when it isn’t mutual – but stand up for ourselves when necessary. We learned to compromise when we could and if we couldn’t live with it, hold our ground. We were made acutely aware of the power of “core base, fans, supporters, road family” and FAMgrove, the fanclub was born. They have kept us going through all the hardest parts.
KL: It was eye opening for a lot of reasons. We had an amazing support system and we were eager to learn and become better musicians. A lot of artists and people in the industry took us under their wing and I learned so many life lessons from those who treated us with mutual respect. There were times when people assumed we put ourselves on a pedestal and didn’t know how to use our gear or hold our own, because we were young. We learned quickly that being alone in the wrong place at the wrong time could be very dangerous and relied on our tour family to keep each other safe. Contradictions can be true. I think touring made us more independent, and also more dependent on each other. It made us more self confident, and more self-conscious.
You founded a nonprofit organization, Play It Forward, Again and Again, to empower youth and provide better access to instruments, lessons, and mentors. What led you to that kind of work, and do you have plans and hopes to continue? What is your vision?
SB: We do a lot of workshops for kids all over the country – songwriting workshops, improvisational workshops, alternative styles for strings workshops. When we were in high school, a duo called the Moxie Strings came to our school and did a performance playing electric violin and cello. That was so monumental to us; it showed us that it was possible to take those instruments to a contemporary world and succeed and it also showed us that there were women out there making it happen. We started doing workshops for exactly that reason – to perpetuate that cycle of inspiration and encouragement; to allow people of any background to have the opportunity to express themselves via music.
It’s hard to do that when budgets for music programs are typically the first to get slashed. Many schools we traveled to had only a choir or a band program, if any program existed at all. The underprivileged areas we visited often contained extremely talented kids who were naturally gifted, but lacked access to the tools due to financial constraints. Instruments can be incredibly expensive, especially in the orchestral world, and it keeps them from being accessible to kids who could use them for therapeutic purposes, who could change the world with them.
So, that led to us establishing a nonprofit with the goal to get instruments into those kids’ hands. Not only that, but we want to establish a support system for them to get follow-up lessons from a musician local to their area. This allows them not just the tools for self-expression, but also instruction on how to use those tools, too. We wanna connect schools with bands that are touring through and provide funding for the band and school to show kids that it’s possible to make a living doing something you love.
For anyone reading this who might not be out of the closet, were there any specific people, musicians, or resources that helped you find yourself as a queer individual?
KL: I’m still figuring out where I identify on the LGBTQ+ spectrum, so one of the most helpful things for me is to talk to friends about their experiences. It allows me to sort through things I resonate with and gives me a safe space for self-reflection. I’m not always the best communicator, but since I was a kid I always thought I had a good understanding of myself. That makes it hard for me to acknowledge that there are still parts of myself I’m learning about. It helps to hear other people I admire doing the same thing at various points in their life. These are a couple articles I’ve read that come to mind: Lucy Dacus on coming out and Amelia Meath of Sylvan Esso talking about her identity.
Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?
SB: I think it’s important to clarify that many artists and bands have LGBTQ+ members without being an “LGBTQ-themed” band, per se. It’s hard for me to definitively know if a band with LGBTQ+ members or an artist who lies somewhere on the LGBTQ+ spectrum wants to be considered an LGBTQ+ artist or band, unless they’re specifically writing songs about their queerness – otherwise it leads to assumptions that I don’t think it’s my place to make.
I think identification can be both empowering and entrapping. We contain multitudes and we are so much more than who we love. It’s a big reason why I don’t always talk about my queerness. That being said, there is an important aspect to identifying with your queerness and resonating with it that creates a safety net for others to be themselves and I am all about that kind of inclusion.
There are artists of the LGBTQ+ community paving the way for inclusivity every day: Ani DiFranco and Brandi Carlile were the firsts for me, then I had a writing session with Maia Sharp and it opened up my world. She was the first person to tell me that I was OK. Then I met Crys Matthews, Heather Mae, Ethel Cain, Spencer LaJoye, and I felt safer talking about it. There is space for queer artists to create art about their queerness and queerness as a whole, and there’s also space for queer artists to create art that’s not about their queerness, at least to themselves. My favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands write all kinds of music, while staying true to themselves – whether they are out of the closet or still deciding how to verbalize how they feel.
What is your ideal vision for your future?
SB: We made a pie chart at the beginning of ’24 and we each decided how much time we wanted to give to each project. My ideal vision for the future is balance. Right now I’m feeling pretty good about playing as a side artist with Lainey Wilson and still sitting in with artists like Ashley McBryde, Hannah Wicklund, Beth Nielsen Chapman, and Kim Richey. Katie and I played strings (and other instruments) and sang on 40+ other albums this year and we loved that. So we’re always down for more session work.
The Accidentals are touring less in ’25 to make room for other projects and that was the plan that came out of the pie chart conversation. We’ll put out a couple albums in ’25 that we’ve been working on for two years, a TIME OUT 3 album (first single just dropped), a children’s album written with Tom Paxton, and a Christmas album with Kaboom Collective Studio Orchestra. We’ll tour those albums, but not much aside from that. We’re also looking at a “Michigan and Again” children’s book deal.
As far as long term, I’m one semester away from my bachelor’s in biology so I’ll likely finish that when time allows. The takeaway from all that is we are in love with the process, the learning, the growing, the becoming. We find gratitude everyday for the opportunity to explore all those things and become the best version of ourselves.
For years, Jett Holden dreamt and dreamt about making a living through music, but everywhere he turned he was met with doubt, subtle prejudice, and closeted racism that left him running on empty and searching for something new.
Following a journey to rock bottom, Holden is back stronger than ever on The Phoenix, a 10-song collection that catalogs his rise from the ashes and spotlights the community that embraced him when it seemed nobody else would. Told through a mix of countrypolitan, rock, punk, metal, and R&B sounds, the record is proof that there are no boundaries to who, where, and what good music can come from – and that we all benefit from everyone having a seat at the table, sharing their stories and perspectives.
“This album reflects who I’ve been throughout my entire life,” Holden explains to Good Country. “It’s been really cool to look back on when and where my different influences come from while bringing these songs to life. For example, ‘Karma’ is definitely Paramore meets Stapleton, while ‘West Virginia Sky’ harkens to my Tracy Chapman and Jim Croce influences.”
Fresh off a move to Nashville, Holden spoke with GC over the phone about the doubt and prejudice he’s faced along his musical journey, his work with the Black Opry, using music to heal past trauma, and more.
There’s a lot going on in your song ‘Scarecrow,’ from exploring your family’s reaction to coming out to masking the crippling weight of other’s doubts of what you’re capable of – along with a slew of Wizard of Oz references to the scarecrow, tin man, and cowardly lion. Mind sharing how all those ideas coalesced into one?
Jett Holden: It’s the first song I finished for the album. I wrote it back when I was 25, and at that point my family and I didn’t really have a personal relationship. It had gotten to the point where I came out 10 years earlier and wasn’t sure where I stood with them. I wasn’t disowned, but I also didn’t have anyone to turn to – they all pretty much told me they didn’t want to hear about it. I didn’t want to keep living in limbo, so a few years later I skipped town and moved to East Tennessee, which is where [Black Opry founder Holly G] found me in 2021.
You also had a brief stint living in California around this time that left you on the brink of quitting music for good. What all transpired out there?
I moved out to Long Beach after dropping out of community college. I was in talks about a development deal and during the “get-to-know-you” phase I let it slip that I was gay and they responded by saying that I wasn’t marketable as a Black, gay man doing the kind of music that I wanted to do. Things fell apart from there, which is why I left California and moved back to Virginia before eventually relocating to Tennessee.
Aside from that moment, were there any other circumstances that contributed to you feeling so defeated about your music prospects?
When I first moved out West, there was a very steep trajectory that isn’t common for most people, but it quickly deteriorated after I mentioned being gay, making for a really high peak and a really low low. When I returned to Virginia things got stagnant and didn’t progress at all, even moving backwards at times. It was a frustrating time of trying to figure myself out that culminated in the move to East Tennessee where I was roommates with a close friend before coming home one day after she committed suicide.
Another of my friends got cancer around the same time and just recently passed too, so those were very traumatic years for me. By 2020, I just couldn’t do it anymore, so I started going to therapy right before the pandemic hit and the world shut down. Suddenly [music] was just too much to deal with, so I stopped making it. Being online was toxic so I shut down, got a stay-at-home job with AT&T, and accepted that as my future, working my way up in the company.
Then Holly — and the Black Opry — came around?
Exactly. I’d already called it quits when she found me on Instagram through a video I’d posted of my song “Taxidermy.” I only had that and a couple other covers posted, but it was enough for her to take interest and slowly pull me back into the industry. A couple months later she launched the Black Opry as a blog and it’s crazy to see where things have gone since then.
Within a year I’d gotten to tour all over the country, appear on The Kelly Clarkson Show, and I recorded my first single and EP through a grant I received from [Rissi Palmer’s] Color Me Country. Holly has made so many things possible that had been unavailable to me for my entire career until then, fighting for me in ways nobody else had before. She took chances because she wasn’t an industry person, but rather a flight attendant who was just a fan of country music and wanted to feel connected to it and the artists she was listening to, which is something a lot of others were in search of as well.
When I went to the first outlaw house she threw at Americanafest in 2021, I was expecting a bunch of Black country fans to show up, but it was also the queer community, the Latin community, and the women in country music that didn’t feel like they were getting a fair shake of things. Everyone who felt “othered” in country music showed up and it felt like immediate family. Seeing the excitement around that is what drew me back in.
Speaking of your song “Taxidermy,” I remember you being brought to tears while singing it during a Black Opry panel at Americanafest that same year. What’s that song meant to you, both in its message and what it’s meant to your career?
That song relaunched my career essentially, because I wasn’t chasing music when I wrote it. In fact, when I posted it online I only had one verse and the chorus. Despite it not being complete, Holly still sent it off to Rissi Palmer and got me the grant and I finished writing it the day we recorded. It’s a song of frustration that I didn’t expect many people to watch when I posted it, but Holly really connected with it, spread it around, and helped it blow up into something bigger than I ever imagined.
I was just singing about my frustrations with what was going on around our country at the time concerning police brutality, which was a big reason why I quit social media and music altogether in 2020. Instagram was the [only] online account I had when Holly found me. That song allowed me to vent about those things, but it also helped me gain the community I needed to break myself out of the news cycle that we were constantly absorbing, because we had nowhere to go. The song came about out of all that negativity, but had a huge positive impact on me that I never expected.
In addition to the support you’ve received from the Black Opry, you’ve also got a helluva team behind you for this record including the folks at Thirty Tigers, [producer] Will Hoge, and collaborators like John Osborne and Charlie Worsham (“Backwoods Proclamation”), Cassadee Pope (“Karma”), and Emily Scott Robinson (“When I’m Gone”). I imagine that, after everything you’ve been through, having folks like that working alongside you is incredibly validating?
Definitely! Emily was the first person I asked, since she was a very early supporter of the Black Opry. We both connected over “When I’m Gone” and our similar stories [around] suicide, so it was a no-brainer to have her sing with me on it. Holly ended up reaching out to Cassadee after I mentioned wanting someone similar to Hayley Williams featured, and she nailed it. It’s very cool seeing all these people I’ve looked up to legitimately wanting to work with me. I still haven’t met Charlie or John, but it’s wild knowing that they’ve heard my song and wanted to be involved in it.
Regarding “When I’m Gone,” is that a reference to your friend in East Tennessee that you walked in on after committing suicide? If so I’m sorry for your loss, but I love how you used the song to memorialize them and bring attention to the plight of suicide. It’s an awful thing to experience, but putting your feelings from it to song is a great way to bring beauty to an otherwise unimaginable situation.
You’re completely right. When I play songs like “When I’m Gone” or “Scarecrow” live I always have people coming up to talk to me about them afterwards, whether it’s someone who’s come out, dealt with religious trauma, or a person who’s just lost somebody close to them. There’s something very cathartic and heavy all at once that’s led to a lot of crying, but more importantly a lot of growth. It’s been great feeling like I’m not going unheard – which I did for over a decade – and having interest in what I’m doing where there wasn’t any before.
We’ve talked about a lot of the trauma captured in these songs, which brings me to the album’s title, The Phoenix. Is that reference meant to reflect how your life — specifically your musical dreams — have been reborn in recent years?
That was the intention. It was about the resurrection of my career, plus I also referenced the phoenix in “West Virginia Sky,” so it felt appropriate. Then, weirdly enough, just after recording the album I had a friend, also named Holly, give me a phoenix bolo tie for Christmas. It was a very kismet occurrence and a sign that that was the correct title to move forward with on the project. It makes for the perfect project, one where I have creative control and wrote every song (besides co-writing “Backwoods Proclamation”). I put my heart and soul into it, and am really excited for people to hear it.
If you could go back in time to speak with yourself when you were about to call it quits, what would you tell them?
Prioritize the relationships you build, because those are the people that will help you get to where you are supposed to be.
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Sitting in a Nashville hotel room one recent morning, Tim Heidecker is awaiting his Americanafest showcase. It’ll take place later that evening at 3rd & Lindsley. And Heidecker’s dreading the gig. Not because he doesn’t enjoy the act of performance. It’s simply the format in which the show will be set up: solo.
“It’s not my preferred way of presenting my songs,” Heidecker says. “I just came off the road with my band. Playing every night for two weeks. I’m a little road tested and warmed up. But, these songs benefit from other people playing them with me.”
That sense of vulnerability and, perhaps, a slight fear of what may or may not lie just around the corner of the grandiose ether surrounding all of us are core themes at the heart of Heidecker’s latest album, Slipping Away.
Though many may know Heidecker for his comedic brilliance – as part of innovative comedy duo Tim & Eric, on an array of beloved TV shows or across the big screen in major Hollywood films – he’s also been a lifelong singer-songwriter. And a damn fine one, too.
Now 48, Heidecker offers Slipping Away (available October 18 via Bloodshot Records) as a genuine snapshot of a human being wrestling with middle age and the intricacies of daily life. Just like many of us in the same boat of age and awareness.
Sonically, Slipping Away straddles psychedelic alt-country, surf rock, and indie folk. The ethereal attitude and lyrical ethos flows in the same river as Pavement and Wilco, with hints of Guided By Voices and They Might Be Giants felt throughout.
In an era of doom and gloom, Heidecker’s humor and zest are much needed – the notion that sometimes all you can do is laugh in pure amazement at the absurdity of what’s outside your front door.
“They say that Jesus Christ is coming back some day/ But if I were him, I think I would stay,” Heidecker sings during “Bows and Arrows.” “Up in the clouds, hanging out with dad/ Cuz things down here, things are going bad.”
In truth, much like his comedy, Tim Heidecker’s music is aimed at the idea of connectivity. Finding common ground with you and me. And his constant yearning to expose the lunacy and mysteries of one’s existence within the cosmic universe is why we’ve come to turn to Heidecker for comfort and solidarity in uncertain times.
I replayed the album this morning while having coffee with my girlfriend. And, in a good way, I started having existential thoughts. It made me think, “This is an honest snapshot of someone on the cusp of 50, who’s looking at the chaos of their youth in the rearview mirror and looking at the unknowns of growing older through the windshield.”
Tim Heidecker: That’s beautifully put. Can I use that? [Laughs] I mean, yes, I agree with that. It’s funny, you writers, critics and journalists are always better at vocalizing what I’m trying to say than I am. And I appreciate it. These things come from such a subliminal place for me that it’s nice to hear how it’s received or how it’s perceived. A lot of the writing of this record came right after the pandemic. There was this real, palpable feeling of an apocalyptic kind of mentality happening.
It still feels like that every day, though. That’s the world we live in now.
Yeah, for sure. And it was very crisp in 2020, 2021, 2022. In my comedy, I’ve tried a few different times to write shows about that. I’ve had a couple of projects that didn’t go very far, that were sort of about the end of the world. So, it’s been on my mind for a while and I wanted to do a record with that sort of concept or theme. And I started writing songs, letting the record be this way of getting those ideas out of my head.
With the title, Slipping Away, is that a reference to how fast time goes?
Picking the title of a record is always a pain and challenge to crystallize it. But, to me, there’s two meanings. The first half of the record is maybe a little more upbeat and positive and there’s this feeling of being content or being happy. Then, it can also mean things falling apart and disintegrating [in the second half]. There’s Slipping Away Side A and there’s Slipping Away Side B.
There’s also a very ethereal vibe to the album, too, where it’s like a dreamlike state.
Mm-Hmm.
With the song “Hey, Would You Call My Mom for Me,” was that a real encounter you had with somebody?
It was. We were on tour up in Vancouver. They have a big area of Vancouver that’s kind of been surrendered to addicts. They call it “Zombie Town.” I was walking around there and a kid asked me that. It was early in the morning and it took me off guard. I gave him 20 bucks and was like, “Sorry, I can’t.” I just couldn’t get involved. But, I came back to that line of, “Hey, would you call my mom for me?” Especially after the pandemic and living in Los Angeles, seeing a lot of people on the street. I felt like I wanted to capture that moment. Little journalistic songwriting there.
I’ve read that you’re an atheist/agnostic. And I wonder – with the pandemic and just life in general – if you’ve started to have maybe a crisis of faith or identity as you’ve gotten older?
I wouldn’t say crisis.
Recalibration, maybe?
Recalibration is fair. Honestly, I’m fairly firm in my agnosticism. I wouldn’t consider myself an atheist. I think it’s kind of an irrelevant question for me [about] what’s going on outside of reality. But, I’ve started therapy and working on some personal issues, health issues and stuff this past year. I don’t want to say midlife crisis. But, it’s this feeling of like, “Alright, I’ve been kind of coasting on my instincts for a long time. And it’s gotten me to where I am, which is a pretty good place. But, I’d like to figure out how I’m going to spend the rest of my life here – maybe a little happier, a little less anxiety-ridden, easier to be around.”
It’s been a couple years of taking the old car into the shop and getting it adjusted for long-term use. I mean, I’ve been touring with this band for the past couple years. And part of me is like, “Man, love this so much. How many more of these am I going to get to do? How many more of these runs where you’re just on the bus and you’re playing every night?” It takes a lot of work to get to that place where things are going well.
There’s the line on the record – I think it may be my favorite line on the record – [in the song “Something, Somewhere”] that goes, “There is a feeling I get, when things are going good but it’s coming to an end.” You’re at that place where things are working, something you’re working on or a project where you see the end. It’s that end of summer melancholy feeling. And I think you can zoom out and look at your life a little bit that way, too.
I couldn’t find much about your early music years. And I was curious about where music begins for you, and as somebody like yourself who came of age in early 1990s Pennsylvania. Was music just something that was always there?
Yeah. I came from a very musical family. My grandmother was very religious. She could play piano and she could play by ear. So, she could sit at the piano and figure out songs. My mom loved music and my dad was a big classic rock guy. He had a great record collection, then he updated his record collection to tapes as we were driving around in the ’80s. He would play the golden oldies and the best of the Beatles, [those] red and blue compilation [albums] a lot. I was always very performance driven, dressing up and doing shows and playing from as far back as I can remember. We had a piano in the house, and eventually a guitar came around. It was just something my parents really encouraged, I guess. My sister took piano lessons. It was just part of our education. I went to Catholic school, so there was a lot of singing. Just a lot of music around all the time.
Eventually, that led to bands being formed. My cousin had a hardcore punk band. And I gravitated towards those kinds of people who were also into music. I had an uncle who had really great taste in music and turned me on to all kinds of artists in the ’80s and ’90s [like] Billy Bragg. I remember him being a big fan of [Billy]. And it was fairly easy to put a band together. We all wanted to be on TV or make movies or create stuff. But, the band was the thing that you could put together after a good Christmas of getting a practice amp and a starter guitar. Your friend has a drum set and you could go into a basement and make something. We used to rent four-track tape recorders from the music store and make demos.
I hear a lot of influences on Slipping Away – indie rock, folk, alt-country. I hear a lot of stuff, too, that I grew up in the ’90s loving. I hear some Pavement influences. With Pavement, they always came across as a band where you could do whatever you wanted, and a song can be whatever you want it to be – something I always loved about them.
I loved Pavement. In fact, they’re a really important band for me, because when I was in high school my head was really firmly in the classic rock ’60s and ’70s world. I didn’t really connect to anything modern. I didn’t like pop punk music. I mean, it was okay. But, I didn’t really like the hardcore scene, the emo scene. I found it really boring and exhausting to listen to, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I didn’t like a lot of hip-hop. Whatever was happening in the early ’90s, I was not connecting with it.
And then I heard [Pavement’s] Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain record. I remember hearing the drumstick in [opening track] “Silence Kid.” And I was really into Exile on Main St. by The Rolling Stones, so it was a connection, a through line from the Stones to Pavement, where it felt like, “Oh, these guys are happening now.” That opened me up to Guided By Voices, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Yo La Tengo, and that Matador Records scene. I was like, “Oh, I am of my age now. I’m of my time.” [Laughs]
When you’re touring, is it weird people may have preconceived notions of what to expect and expectations that aren’t accurate?
Yeah. I mean, that’s diminishing a little bit now. I think people are getting the message. There’s still people that are confused. They’re waiting for the punchline to drop. It took me a while to figure out how to behave as a performer when I’m doing my music. I’ve found this little sweet spot, where I can still be funny and I can still be myself. I don’t have to pretend to be this pretentious singer-songwriter, because I’m not. I’m just me. I don’t want to keep it too serious, so I lighten the mood enough where people get a little bit of both – they get the full picture, they get the full version of me.
One of the songs on Slipping Away is “Dad of the Year,” where you sing about how you had all these expectations growing up and conquering the world, as we all do. And now you’re in your late forties and you’re like, “Well, that didn’t really happen. But, in this other way, I’m actually really happy with where I landed.”
For sure. The goal is to get to that place where you’re content and satisfied with wherever you are. And in the way the world is, it’s very hard to not compare yourself to everything else that’s going on, to people you don’t know. Why do people care about Ben Affleck and J. Lo? [Laughs] When I see a picture of them, there’s this intrusive thought of, “Why aren’t they taking pictures of me?” And if you really are honest, I think everybody has varying degrees of that. And that’s the battle of life – to find ways of knowing how to be happy with where you’re at. But, don’t squash ambition, because ambition is very important, too.
To that, it does feel like you’re in a good place right now.
I’m in a great place. I’m in Nashville. I’m excited for the record to come out. I hope people sit with it. Some records you just need to sit down and listen to. I mean, Slipping Away is only 30 minutes. [Laughs] This isn’t coffee shop music.
Though she downplays notions of fame and exposure, vocalist, songwriter, and bandleader Shemekia Copeland qualifies as a genuine star.
Among 21st century blues artists, she’s right there with Christone “Kingfish” Ingram, Gary Clark Jr., Robert Cray, and Eric Gales as performers whose audience outreach and cache extend far beyond the restrictive circle of specialty radio shows and festivals, where far too many fine performers in that genre are confined. From profiles in The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, New York Times, Philadelphia Inquirer, CNN, and NPR to coverage in such journals as Rolling Stone and No Depression, Copeland’s ascendency as a performer, her maturation, and her poignant and important vocal and compositional force are consistent and impressive.
It’s accurate, if a bit cliched, to say Copeland was born to sing the blues. The daughter of the legendary Texas shuffle blues great Johnny Copeland, she grew up in Harlem and was accompanying her father as an eight-year-old on the stage of the famed Cotton Club in New York. A decade later she signed with Alligator Records and began a career that’s done nothing but soar since the release of her first album for the label, Turn Up The Heat, in 1978.
Her two most recent LPs, 2018’s America’s Child and 2020’s Uncivil War have cemented her stature. America’s Child featured a rousing version of Ray Wylie Hubbard’s “Barefoot In Heaven,” the personalized romantic tune “Fell In Love With A Honky,” and a tough cover of “Nobody But You,” a tune immortalized decades before by her father. Uncivil War reflected a major happening in Copeland’s life – the birth of a son – and also included memorable numbers once again addressing contemporary issues. America’s Child won both the Blues Music and Living Blues Awards as Album of the Year. Uncivil War won the same honor from not only Living Blues, but DownBeat and MOJO magazines, too. Copeland’s earned multiple Blues Music honors and GRAMMY nominations to date.
Yet many, Copeland included, feel the best is yet to come. Evidence of that can be heard throughout the 12 songs on her newest Alligator LP, Blame It On Eve, which was released August 30. This latest effort again superbly combines social insight, humorous reflection, and tremendous musical numbers. The results are a dynamic presentation of the ideal combination of modern studio technology, distinctive personal commentary, plus the lyrical flair and expressiveness that’s characterized great blues since its inception.
Blame It On Eve, also recorded in Nashville, is her fourth project produced by Will Kimbrough and Copeland gives him high praises for his continuing contributions to her music.
“With Will it’s always magic and the ideal collaboration,” Copeland told BGS during a recent interview. “He really understands my music and how to get the best out of what I’m doing in the studio. No matter what I bring him, he finds a way to improve it, to make it better, and make it work. He’s really been a huge key to the success that I’ve had, and I also really love working in Nashville.”
Kimbrough utilized a host of outstanding special guests for the session. They include Alejandro Escovedo, Luther Dickinson, Jerry Douglas, DeShawn Hickman, Charlie Hunter, and Pascal Danae (of Paris-based band, Delgres).
While Copeland has never shied away from addressing social issues on her albums, she doesn’t like or embrace the notion she’s being “political.” Instead, she prefers the term “topical,” while freely acknowledging that she sees it as important to discuss a variety of subjects, topics and ideas in her music. “I don’t want to be labeled or pigeonholed in any fashion,” she says. “But at the same time, I’ve always felt that my music should speak to contemporary things, to the things that I see and experience. If you want to say that I do cover topical or current issues, that’s accurate. But I don’t see it being political so much as I see it being real, being willing to talk about things that are important to me as a woman, a blues musician and a Black artist.”
From that standpoint, the title track’s forthright dive into the issue of women’s reproductive rights is a prime example of Copeland’s willingness to express herself on thorny and controversial topics. Douglas brings his superb skills on Dobro to a song about Tee Tot Payne, the 20th century Black musician who tutored Hank Williams on the blues. “I was really glad to do that one,” Copeland adds. “There are too many people who don’t know that story or haven’t heard about Tee Tot Payne. If I can inform them about who he was and why’s he important, then I’ve done a service.”
Hickman’s stirring sacred steel contributions enrich “Tell The Devil,” while Copeland took on a special challenge with the song “Belle Sorciere,” singing the chorus in French with the tune’s melody supplied by Danae. “Hardly,” Copeland laughs when asked if she’s fluent in French. “I really tried to make sure that I had the correct words and sang them the right way. I’ve always wanted to do songs in other languages, and I really enjoyed doing that one but it wasn’t easy.”
The release also has its share of fun tunes, notably “Wine O’Clock” and rollicking strains of “Tough Mother.” Copeland also has a pair of excellent cover numbers. One is a heartfelt version of “Down on Bended Knee,” previously done by her father, and an equally compelling rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “Heaven Help Us All,” which serves as a fitting and dynamic closer to a marvelous LP.
Interestingly, when asked how much she enjoys her stature at or near the top of the blues world, Copeland discounts that contention. “In my mind, I’ve still got a long way to go in terms of how far and where I want to see my music go,” Copeland concludes. “I don’t think I’m at the stage of some of the blues rockers like Jon Bonamassa. I’m still aiming for higher places and peaks artistically. You should never be satisfied or settle for things, but keep pushing and striving for excellence. I learned that lesson early and that’s how I’ve continued my career and plan to keep on striving and pushing.”
Nashville audiences will get the chance to hear Copeland in multiple settings this September. She will be featured during AmericanaFest on September 17 at 3rd and Lindsley. The next day, her showcase at Eastside Bowl will air live on Wednesday afternoon, September 18, on WMOT-FM (89.5) Roots Radio. It will also be video streamed on NPR, filmed for NPR Live Sessions, and recorded for NPR’s World Café’s “Best Of AmericanaFest” feature to air later.
Madeleine Kelson blends traditional folk, country, and Americana. She played Queerfest and took part in AmericanaFest this year, has been featured multiple times on NPR, and was a finalist in the Kerrville Folk Festival’s New Folk Competition.
Madeleine is from Chicago and based in Nashville, where she lives with her partner. Her single, “The Way I Do,” displays her relationship with her partner through a lens that shows how ordinary queer relationships can be: Drinking coffee every morning, coming home for dinner, and falling asleep beside each other every night. The hook declares, “God has never loved a woman the way I do.” It’s an iconic LGBTQ+ anthem, and in my opinion, it’s one of the most compelling songs about queer love and pride.
We’re proud to promote this dedicated and creative up-and-coming coming artist. Our Out Now interview discusses why Madeleine creates music, her favorite LGBTQ+ artists, her release and touring plans for 2024, and more.
Why do you create music? What’s more satisfying to you, the process or the outcome?
Making music has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. When I started playing and singing as a kid, it was a way for me to connect to the people around me – at first by singing around the house with my mom and my sister and then by playing music with my friends. That’s still a big part of it now, but starting around my teenage years music became a way for me to process big emotions and give them somewhere to live outside of my mind.
As far as the process versus the outcome, I don’t tend to think of making music as having an outcome. A song gets written, and maybe that’s the outcome of songwriting, but then it might get arranged, or performed, or recorded. Even after I stop playing a song at shows, people still listen to it and it grows and changes with them. I’d say the most satisfying part is the impact, whether that be for me or for someone else.
What’s the best advice you’ve ever gotten?
I love this question! I couldn’t pick just one piece of advice, so here are a few:
One from my mom: “No is a complete sentence.”
Some from my grandpa: “Shoot for the moon. You might surprise yourself and get it.” “Follow your passion. If you love what you do that’s what you will do best.“ And “Treat others with respect. The way up can be a hard slow journey but the fall can be very fast and you meet the same people on the way down as you did on the way up.”
I’ll throw in a good Yiddish saying too: “When you have a lot to do, go to sleep.”
Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?
Oh man! Here’s a big long list, because it’s so hard to choose!
Brandi Carlile (I will always look up to her), Freddie Mercury (I listened to a lot of Queen in high school), Indigo Girls, Linda Perry, Allison Russell, Brandy Clark, Aaron Lee Tasjan, Katie Pruitt, Amythyst Kiah, Celisse, Boygenius…
Also want to shout out some amazing local artists that I love: Purser, Autumn Nicholas, Jobi Riccio, Becca Mancari, Denitia, Jaimee Harris, Liv Greene, and Julia Cannon.
For anyone reading this who might not be out of the closet, were there any specific people, musicians, or resources that helped you find yourself as a queer individual?
I was really lucky to grow up in a very liberal city in a very liberal family. When I came out, I knew the people around me would be supportive. Any apprehension I felt had to do with the people outside of my circle and my life beyond Chicago. That being said, I still didn’t really know I was gay until high school. I think the things that helped me find myself were the people around me – having friends who were out, seeing queer couples, going to pride parades, watching shows with queer characters, going to concerts or other events that I knew lots of queer people would attend.
Seeing what that part of my life could look like in other people helped me make sense of who I could be. Coming out is something you don’t do just once, but constantly for the rest of your life. At some point it changed from something I dreaded doing to something that has brought me comfort, joy, and community.
What are your release and touring plans for the next year?
I’m currently releasing singles off of a four-song EP that will be out mid-February. I’ll be on tour with Alaina Stacey supporting that EP, through the Midwest and Northeast starting February 16th in Chicago. Touring is one of my favorite things, and I can’t wait to see everyone at these shows! Seriously, show up. I want to see you!
You’ve done a lot this year, from touring to playing several festivals, including Queerfest, AmericanaFest, and Perseids Music Festival. What’s that been like for you?
It has been so much fun! There are few things that bring me more joy, or make me feel more like myself, than being on stage. It’s such a rush and so emotionally gratifying, even to play sad songs and feel things so deeply with other people. There’s really nothing like it. It’s been a busy year, and one in which I have definitely overcommitted myself, but I’m grateful for every part of it.
In 2022, you released your debut album, While I Was Away, on Olivia Records. Can you share some of the key inspirations and themes behind the album?
While I Was Away was actually my college thesis project! The idea was to write and produce an album that musically pulled from the different building block genres of Americana (folk, rock, country, etc.), and lyrically spoke to the years since I moved away from home. It’s a real time capsule of my life from 18-22. It’s about leaving home, being gay in the South (oy), growing up, watching the kids I babysit grow up, my dog, so many things!
You were also a finalist in the Kerrville New Folk Competition. Could you tell us about that experience?
Kerville Folk Festival was incredible. I had no idea what to expect going into it. I applied on a whim and when I heard that I got in, I could never have imagined what it would be like. If you haven’t been to a festival like that, it can be hard to imagine, but essentially there’s a big piece of land in the middle of Texas and for three weeks every year it turns into a city of stages, tents, RVs, and so much good music. It’s home to the most respectful and outstanding song circles that carry on through the night, and quite possibly do not ever end. Playing and competing was an honor, but the real privilege was to be around so many phenomenal songwriters whom I’m happy to now call my friends.
Could you share the creative process, inspirations, and the significance behind your song ‘The Way I Do’?
“The Way I Do” started as a line that floated around in the back of my mind, honestly probably for months before I knew what to do with it. The line was, “If I don’t get to heaven for loving her true, God has never loved a woman the way I do,” which ultimately became the hook of the chorus.
Growing up, I was very aware of homophobia, but it wasn’t something I experienced personally in any significant way. That really changed when I moved to Tennessee. And I say that not to generalize or condemn the South – there are a lot of amazing people here who are deeply involved in fighting inequality. In my experience, it’s a more tangible and pervasive issue here, and if anyone is going to make a difference, it’s the people here who are fighting that fight every day. I think growing up with the experience of feeling entitled to confidence and comfort in my sexuality made me that much more pissed off when I was faced with intolerance. Especially the virulent brand of “Christian” homophobia that the South is so well known for. That, I really didn’t and still don’t understand.
The thought behind the song is kind of a sarcastic, “If your god knew how great it is to love a woman, he/she/it definitely wouldn’t hate me for it.” It’s definitely a “fuck you,” but it’s also an honest reflection on how easy and natural it is to love someone who happens to share your gender.
Artist:Thunderstorm Artis Hometown: Born on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii; lives in Nashville, Tennessee Song: “Scared to Love”
In Their Words: “Working with the From One to Tenn crew was such a breath of fresh air, they created such a beautiful space for me to be able to express myself in such a positive way in such an iconic venue.
“‘Scared to Love’ is my most vulnerable and transparent song yet. I wanted to write from a place that just felt raw and real and then I began to write this song. It’s easy to fall in love with someone, but the real work is found in the staying in love part. And in the beginning stages of my relationship with my wife, I was truly afraid of sharing all of my baggage with her. I was truly scared that if she knew the broken man I used to be, maybe she would have chosen a different life.” – Thunderstorm Artis
“I love this music and this is my favorite thing to do. Seeing things unfold through the lens of a camera while we experience a private concert a few feet away is incredible. When it’s happening, it’s the best place to be on Earth.” – David Allison, Pilot Moon Films
“In venues like this, I have filmed a lot of big Broadway-style shows with lots of activity, lights, and people running all over the place. It was so special to have this wonderful space to focus on the simplicity of these intimate performances and to actually hear how the instruments and voices fill this room.” – John DeMaio, Pilot Moon Films
Video Credits: Filmed by David Allison, John DeMaio, and Joel Malizia, Pilot Moon Films / Islander Entertainment Audio captured – Brett Blandon Mixed/Mastered – John Kelly Special thanks to Helene Cronin & Victoria O’Campo
Photo Credit: Video stills courtesy of Pilot Moon Films
Artist: Autumn Nicholas Hometown: Born in Fayetteville, North Carolina, living in Nashville, Tennessee Song: “Baggage”
In Their Words: “To be able to share our music in such an incredible, intimate way, in such a breathtaking setting was pure joy for us and we hope that comes through with the recordings. We are grateful to From One to Tenn. for including us in this series and are excited to share our music as part of the program.
“We’ve had the pleasure of working with Pilot Moon on a few other projects and it’s always an amazing experience, they are uniquely able to capture emotion in a raw, unfiltered, and honest way.
“Opportunities to help lift and amplify our music, such as the One to Tenn. series, are invaluable to us as artists and humans, as it allows us to connect more broadly with new people in a very compelling way.” – Autumn Nicholas
“John, Dave, and I have been coming to AmericanaFest for a few years to sit back, relax and enjoy the music. Last year, we decided that, in 2023, we would set something up that’s fun, helps musicians, and benefits the AMA. It was important to us that we dream up something big that would inspire the musicians and offer them an opportunity that doesn’t come around very often. Once the Schermerhorn [Symphony Center] agreed to rent us the venue, we knew this series was going to be special.” – Joel Malizia, Pilot Moon Films
Video Credits: Filmed by David Allison, John DeMaio, and Joel Malizia, Pilot Moon Films / Islander Entertainment Audio captured – Brett Blandon Mixed/Mastered – John Kelly Special thanks to Helene Cronin & Victoria O’Campo
Photo Credit: Video stills courtesy of Pilot Moon Films
There was a time when “Western” influence was a pillar of what we knew as country music. Now, the genre’s center of thematic gravity has shifted to the Southeast, and with that shift the Western influence has waned – but artists like Colby Acuff still uphold this mantle.
The thing is, Acuff’s version of “Western” life may not be what you envision.
A native of Idaho, Acuff is more at home in the craggy hills, tall pines and high-mountain streams than out on the open plain. The trails he sings of are often logging roads, and the dust on his clothes comes from mining operations. But the mystique of the Western U.S. is still just as intoxicating, especially to a back-east audience.
For years Acuff balanced regional tours with a side gig as a fly-fishing guide, but these days, the bait he’s throwing is old-school country and what he’s catching is some nationwide, early-career momentum. One of the few major label Nashville artists with a traditional sound and style, this year has seen Acuff release his debut album (Western White Pines), make his Grand Ole Opry debut, and tour with fellow breakout artists like Charles Wesley Godwin – paying his van-life dues along the way.
In mid-September, Acuff added six more tracks to the album with a deluxe edition release – every bit as rootsy and Western as the initial project – and next year he’ll hit 13 stadiums with superstar Luke Combs. While he was in Nashville for this year’s AmericanaFest, BGS caught up with Acuff about his growing platform and why he’s all about a view of the American West most people have never seen.
How are things going on the road? Your world looks pretty exhausting at the moment, but also a lot of fun – and I dig the gas station food reviews. What do you think you’ll remember most from this season of paying dues?
Colby Acuff: Well, hopefully all of it. I mean, I think it’s kind of like anything else – the things that stick with you are either the really good things or the really bad things, and fortunately, we haven’t had any really bad things. I think I’ll just remember the good times. Driving almost 65,000 miles this year in a van with six or seven guys? What’s not to remember? [Laughs]
We’ve been really, really fortunate to where every year it just seems like it’s getting a little bit bigger. For me just being a kid from Idaho, I don’t know if I ever saw it getting out beyond the county line, so I’m very happy and very pleased.
You made your Grand Ole Opry debut this summer. What was that experience like?
That was surreal. It’s still crazy to me that I got to do it. I’ve always said I’m typically the last person who you’d invite to anything. I mean, we don’t get invited to too many things – we just keep doing our own thing, and that’s great. But it means anytime we do get invited to something like that, I’m always pretty shocked. To have the first one out of the gate be the Opry, who not just included us but also include us with such kind words and open arms, it was an amazing experience.
It is interesting they were one of the first institutions to recognize you – but then again, it makes sense. You have a style very rooted in traditional country and Western sounds – even some bluegrass. That kind of clashes with the modern scene, right?
Everything we’ve done has a ton of grassroots, a ton of bluegrass influence in it, but it is really country/country folk. Our biggest thing is we haven’t really ever been defined – and I don’t know if anybody actually really knows where to put us! My whole goal is to make music that’s different and that’s good, music that means something, and we’ve found fans in that. I wouldn’t tell anybody that we’re a bluegrass band by any means, but I would say that if you’re a fan of bluegrass, there’s definitely stuff in our catalog you will enjoy.
The new deluxe version of the album has six new songs, for a total of 16. You’re singing about nature and Western life, but also chasing dreams – and even what happens when you catch the dream. Where did these new songs come from?
I think this whole record is Western music, and a lot of times people think that’s cowboys and that kind of situation. But I’m not a cowboy. I am from the West. I grew up in a very Western household from Idaho. But I’m from a mountain town, not from the plains. There’s cattle and stuff where I’m from, but it’s mostly loggers and lumber and paper mills and mining, and it’s a totally different side of the West that I don’t think a lot of people realize is up there. I mean, the neck of the woods I’m from is very similar to Kentucky, just more pine trees. It’s big on fly fishing and a lot of rivers, big lakes and big trees. And that’s a side of the West I want to represent, so I tried to basically form an entire record around it. This is potentially unknown to many people, but this is where I’m from.
“Movin’” is such a feel-good, timeless country track – where did that track come from?
My favorite part about “Movin’” is definitely the fact that it’s super easy on the ears, and at face value, it doesn’t seem as deep. But really the song is super deep to me because it’s about everybody who has decided to chase the dream with me. It’s a lot to ask somebody, to chase a dream with you. And not only myself and my girlfriend, but my whole band and their families have all moved to Nashville to do that. Don’t let the rear view make you sad. We’ll get there, we’ll figure it out. That whole thing is based around the fact that we’re all going and we’re looking forward, not backwards.
Speaking of dreams, tell me about “Livin’ Too Close to the Dream.” What’s this one about?
When we started out, before I even moved to Nashville, I’d go out to the local bar or whatever in Idaho with my friends and I’d run into people who’d be like, “Man, you’re really doing it. Congratulations, blah, blah.” They’d be like, “You must be out there living the dream.” And I’d be like “Wellll, I’m really close.” And then it turned into a joke where when you’re living too close to the dream. You’re living in limbo, you’re trying to climb up the mountaintop, but the road conditions are shitty. … We’re living too close to the dream now. [Laughs]
You’ll be touring with Luke Combs and doing some stadiums next year. That’s got some living the dream potential, right?
Oh God. I mean, I can’t thank Luke enough. I just couldn’t believe we got the phone call. There’s not a bad time to go play 13 stadium shows.
Are you guys going to work up a special stadium sized set, or how does that work for a roots band?
We will go out there and wave our flag. We’ll do our thing. Every single stage that you play, you got to earn that stage. I don’t care what it is. If it’s a sold out a stadium or some empty bar, you don’t walk on stage owning that stage. You got to put that set in to earn it and they got to give it to you. So we’ll do that just like we do every night.
Are you still getting time to fish?
Not as much, obviously. I mean, shit, my quota used to be 120 days on the river. Now I might get 15 or 20. We did a run with Charles Wesley Godwin, and he was kind enough to set up a fly fishing trip, and to invite me. We went out in Wyoming and caught a ton of fish, which is super nice. I’m fitting it in when I can.
A lot of cool stuff has happened to you this past year, but there’s still lots of people getting to hear you for the first time. What do you hope they take away from Western White Pines (Deluxe)?
I just hope they like the music, really. I hope it does something for ’em. I think for me personally, I never got into this because I wanted to be famous. I got into this because I wanted to make music that truly helps people. So I hope that they like it.
Photo Credit: Matthew Berinato
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