Even before The Bluegrass Situation was its own entity, pre-dating the existence of this website, we’ve been proud to call Los Angeles home. From our co-founder Ed Helms’ original shows at Largo, or our first, homespun blog, Bluegrass LA, or our debut festival, the LA Bluegrass Situation, to today – boosting and presenting shows across Los Angeles County, building our new variety show, the Good Country Goodtime, and beyond, staying connected with the myriad of folks who make this place so special and vital – Los Angeles has been the perfect cradle for growing our worldwide roots music community.
Last week, we watched anxiously with the rest of the world as an rare wind event in Southern California turned into one of the most devastating series of wildfires in the nation’s history. Many of these fires are still burning, causing the destruction of thousands of homes, structures, and businesses and torching countless acres, so many precious landmarks, and irreplaceable memories. While we are incredibly grateful our team members who are based in Los Angeles are safe and sound, we’re acutely aware that so many of our neighbors, loved ones, and community members have not been so lucky.
We spoke to musician, singer-songwriter, and Mipso member Jacob Sharp – who recently moved to Altadena – about his own experiences over the last week, as his and his partner Cate’s neighborhood burned down around their home.
“I’m from a tiny town the western North Carolina foothills,” Sharp explains via email, amidst phone calls with FEMA and filing insurance claims. “I’m obsessed with cities with expansive music communities only rivaled by their even more expansive food scenes. I couldn’t believe it when I found out there are tiny towns in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains on the edge of America’s most-difficult-to-navigate city where the true wildness of nature meets the beauty of urban chaos. Altadena felt like the best kept secret in California.
“We moved out to the hills a few months ago inspired by the current creative community that calls it home, by the insane music and food hangs that casually happen here on a daily basis because of it, by its historically diverse intermingling of racial worlds (there are more historic Black homeowners in Altadena than basically anywhere else in LA), and by the ease with which you can fade from the urban landscape into some of the best hiking in Southern California. (We have friends who see a bear in their yard literally every day).”
“It was everything I’d ever wanted in a community,” Sharp continues. “I’d drive back from other neighborhoods and feel my shoulders relax as the mountains came into view. Today I drove back to our still-standing but currently-unlivable home crying, seeing those same mountains now devoid of their greenery and smoldering in the hazy morning light and replaying the sequence of events that altered our little world forever.
“We could see the Eaton fire from our backyard well before the emergency notifications came rolling in. We grabbed a go-bag with a headlamp, change of clothes, toiletries, all my instruments, some comfort items for the pup, and we rolled down the hill towards safety. We spent the night in the downtown Pasadena Hilton, where we were cruelly upgraded to a ‘mountain view’ room perfectly situated for watching our neighborhood burn to the ground overnight.
“My partner Cate is a therapist. Between her community of therapists and mine of musicians we have only two friends out of 16 who live in the neighborhood that still have a home. And, we have our health. We are so, so lucky. But with smoke damage making the house currently unlivable and the National Guard standing watch on every cross street starting half a block from us, we’re realizing that whether your house is standing or not, we all have one loss in common: our beautiful community.
“We had space in our car as we evacuated, but no desire to stick around and load more,” Sharp describes leaving behind so many of their earthly possessions. “It was clarifying how easy it was to say goodbye to our physical things. They’re all replaceable.”
“Altadena was such a magic community we delayed our move back to the East Coast by a few years so we could have a kid here. We knew our neighbors, saw friends on every walk, and if you forgot your wallet while picking up coffee you could always pay them next time, because they knew you and knew you’d be back. It was that type of place. After traveling the world on tour the past 13 years wondering at every stop along the way, ‘Could I call this place home?’ I’m realizing what’s irreplaceable is having finally found that place. We’ll find our magic again, but it’s going to be a long road. There are so, so many people who could use your help if you have resources to give – below you can find some I’m giving to.”
Los Angeles is a city of makers. Of creators and dreamers, of actors, singers, writers, and poets. So many of those directly impacted by the fearsome power of these fires have been folks in our immediate roots music circles. From Altadena and Pasadena to Pacific Palisades and Malibu, this disaster has not discriminated. Whether well-known and well-loved superstars or pickers we know from the neighborhood jam, publicists and publishers and agents and managers alike; the flames burned through homes, livelihoods, histories, and futures with zero regard for name or notoriety.
Luckily, that same collective of creators and makers are a vibrant and robust community – and just as we watched the fires destroy, we’re watching the people of Los Angeles rebuild in real time. There’s much to be done and there are seemingly endless needs to meet, but solidarity, mutual aid, and togetherness are not in short supply.
“It’s hard to put into words what I and so many other Angelenos are feeling right now,” BGS executive director Amy Reitnouer Jacobs shares. “It waffles between shock, anxiety, despair, and exhaustion as we watch our friends lose everything and our city burn. But amidst those feelings of grief, there is also an immense welling of hope. People are showing up for each other in unprecedented ways.”
That’s what it’s all about. As the climate crisis worsens and we re-enter an exceedingly unpredictable political reality, this kind of community action will become more and more vital. We’ve seen this is true over the past decade, through periods of racial reckonings, police violence, unrest, and growing political activism. Community-centered collective action is what will get us through. In bluegrass, in roots music, and beyond.
“I have never been so proud of this place and have never loved this city as much as I do right now,” Reitnouer Jacobs continues. “Los Angeles will always be home for me, for BGS, and for our amazing musical community.”
Below, we’ve collected a few resources from our artistic communities in Los Angeles and from mutual aid and community organizations working on the ground in southern California. If you’re able, we encourage you to donate, to volunteer, to show up however you can and whenever you can for our friends and fellow roots music lovers who have had their lives permanently altered by these wildfires.
All we have is each other, but when we support and care for each other – no matter what – that fact is always enough.
Support the Music Community
Local on-the-ground organizers have compiled THIS LIST of fundraising pages, resources, and urgent needs for musicians, instrumentalists, producers, and artists in the Los Angeles area. As of this writing, it has raised more than $6,000,000 across its various fundraisers and donation pages. Hundreds of families and individuals have been affected and are listed in the spreadsheet. If you’re looking for a way to directly support, this is a great collection of options.
Need support? Eachof thesedirectories includes instructions for submitting your own fundraiser, if applicable. Giving support? Find countless fundraisers and offer direct support here, here, and here.
The LA Times has put together a lengthy and exhaustive list of local organizations working on fire relief. From dog and pet rescue orgs to the American Red Cross to the California Fire Foundation. There are plenty of options and plenty of missions to support.
The Guitar Center Foundation has announced that they will accept applications from musicians to replace gear and instruments lost to the fire:
“Have you lost instruments and gear?” The foundation asks via social media. “If you’ve been impacted by this week’s fires, please visit our website for information and to request instrument replacement assistance. The Guitar Center Music Foundation is committed to supporting our music community in times of need.”
Those impacted by the disaster will be able to apply for grants of replacement instruments and gear until February 28, 2025.
Mutual Aid LA has been collating and disseminating shelters, resources, and relief programs for folks actively in crisis and for folks looking for a way to give and help. You can find their spreadsheet of resources here, but you can also find more information and learn how to participate in mutual aid on their website.
MusiCares has long been an indispensable program of the Recording Academy with a mission of supporting music industry professionals in crisis or in periods of hardship. They’ve already begun dispensing emergency funds to music industry folks in need, as well as collecting donations specifically to support those impacted by the fires. You can donate to support MusiCares here. You can find ways to get help from MusiCares here.
Sweet Relief Musicians Fund is a non-profit founded in the ’90s that provides financial assistance to musicians and industry professionals who are struggling to make ends meet. They’ve already begun accepting donations and applications following the LA fires.
Geared more towards actors, performers, and film industry and entertainment workers the Entertainment Community Fund (formerly The Actors Fund) has compiled a list of resources and organizations working on fire relief here. Entertainment professionals impacted by the wildfires can apply now for financial assistance and through the ECF can already access a variety of programs and aid.
Journalist, author, and cultural critic Ann Powers released her latest book, Traveling: On the Path of Joni Mitchell, in June of this year. A thought leader in pop and pop culture criticism – and an occasional BGS contributor – Powers considers this legendary figure in folk and American music with deliberation and intention. Traveling isn’t merely a biography or a retelling of well-known and oft-repeated Mitchell lore; instead it’s a careful consideration of the artifice and sincerity, publicity and privacy, myth-making and universe-building of this iconic musician, songwriter, and celebrity.
“I wanted to think about how Joni Mitchell became JONI MITCHELL,” Powers relays in her conversation with BGS executive director Amy Reitnouer Jacobs. “How she fought against that in her own life, and how she reinforced the legend as well.”
And how well-timed is this book and conversation, with Mitchell’s mythos at perhaps its lifelong peak? With Brandi Carlile’s assist, Mitchell has been enjoying a “Joni-ssance” of late, with jaw-dropping public appearances over the past couple of years after an extended hiatus and star-studded Joni Jams delighting fans and acolytes from the Gorge in Washington state to Newport Folk Festival in Rhode Island.
Fresh off Mitchell’s headline-grabbing appearances at the Hollywood Bowl on October 19 and 20, we’re sharing our recent conversation with Powers about Traveling, its inception and writing, and how a truer telling of Mitchell’s life and creative journey requires a degree of skepticism – and may just result in becoming an even deeper fan of the one-and-only Joni Mitchell.
Right off the bat, I really connected with your hesitation to write this book, because I find that I have a complicated relationship and love of Joni, and I’ve never been able to put it into words. So when you start your introduction with that exact sentiment, I felt that really deeply. What was your thought process in committing to the book?
Ann Powers: Well, Amy, you understand more than most the thorny relationship we as writers and as lovers and supporters of music have with not artists in particular, but kind of the edifice around the art, or as Joni herself says, “The star-making machinery.” I’m very aware of how artists exist in one space and then there’s like a room where the artist lives, and in between is this space where a lot of misconceptions can happen. A lot of fetishization can happen. I was kind of trying to walk between those rooms and think about her as a public figure, as a legend.
And then, also what I could know of her from a distance. I say from a distance, because I did not interview her for this book – which is not unusual for biographies, by the way – but I foreground that because I wanted to say, “Look, I’m also a stand-in for maybe not the average Joni fan, but for those of us who are kind of considering these people that we’ve made immortal through our love and adulation.”
I wanted to think about how Joni Mitchell became JONI MITCHELL, how she fought against that in her own life, and how she reinforced the legend as well. That was the strong thread for me and an attraction to the project. My hesitancy was that I wasn’t going to be able to overcome the legend.
You say multiple times in the book how you’re not a biographer, but despite the chronological order, the book felt almost like a guide to being a critical fan. How have you developed as a fan in this writing process? Are you still a fan?
I’m definitely more of a fan than I ever was before. I would count myself among those people who took Joni Mitchell for granted before I was approached to do this book. And part of it, I think, is my self-styled “outsider” status. That’s a weird thing to say, but [I say it] as a misfit or someone who came from punk. When I was at the right age to have my “Joni phase,” my idols were Kate Bush, Debbie Harry, Chrissie Hynde, women who I now realize were deeply influenced by Joni themselves, but at the time who seemed almost like an alternative to her and Dylan and Neil Young.
The ’90s [were] the natural time for me to go through another Joni phase and then I did. I did get to see her at that amazing show at the Fez [in 1995] with Brian Blade. I had some prime Joni moments and definitely was listening more than I had in the past, but that was sort of like that moment when Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, PJ Harvey, and so many amazing artists were breaking through the Lilith Fair generation.
And here’s Joni in the press, bad-mouthing them or saying, “I don’t want to have anything to do with them.” So again, I’m like, “Oh, who is this person? Why is this person so hostile?” It’s like all these moments that would have been the one where I stepped onto that path turned me away from it – until much later, when I had an occasion, this book, to go beyond the surface of my fandom. Then I just went completely, fully in. So deep. And every step I took that was closer to her actual music and her actual words, not just her song lyrics, but interviews she’s given or the circumstances of her life, I became more and more of a fan.
In that way, this book is the story of me becoming that defender in the end, even if I’m still a skeptical defender, but I believe that that is something Joni teaches us to be – to yourself and as a skeptical defender of those people she admires.
The funny thing about Joni is that she took every step she could to stay off of that pedestal throughout her career. Sometimes I think her desire to not be encased in amber came from her own anxieties, like her own unhappiness with what fame wrought. It’s a very delicate thing.
This is such an important part of her music and her songs as well, especially an album like TheHissing of Summer Lawns, which is basically a critique of Hollywood. She’s living in Bel Air. She’s hanging out with Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty and the glitterati. She is of the glitterati. But then she’s also the one who runs away, who goes, “I’m living a monk-like existence outside Vancouver for a while.” Or, “I’m getting in my car by myself and driving across the South and using aliases and checking into hotels and hanging out with whoever’s in the lobby.”
This is something she kept doing in order to check herself and check the mechanisms around her and not become complacent with where she was. Same in terms of her collaborators. Instead of just doing what you’re advised to do in the music industry, which is just stick with the formula, she just kept blowing things up. She’s like, “I want to play with these jazz guys. I want to bring in like Brazilian percussionists.” That’s her curiosity, as I say in the book, but it’s also her refusal to be a conventional pop star. She’s always kind of trying to keep that at bay.
There’s something that you mentioned about the women you did look up to. When I think about Kate and Chrissie and Debbie, these women stand on their own; holding their own in a male-dominated scene and being surrounded by male collaborators and bands, but not necessarily lifting up other women. I’m trying to think of a female collaboration that Kate Bush ever did and I can’t think of one.
Well, when we look historically at the place of women, particularly in rock, there were labels attached to women who primarily collaborated with women – “women’s music,” right? That was lesbian music. And I think there was a lot of fear, and frankly, internalized homophobia, among a lot of women and people in general in the more mainstream music business.
So you didn’t want to be associated with too many women or people might think you don’t like men, you know? Read any interview with a woman star from 1967 to probably like 2020 and you’re going to see that phrase. “I love men,” you know, “I like male energy,” all this stuff. And there’s no shame in liking to work with male collaborators, but it’s amazing how fearful so many women and their teams – the people guiding their careers – were of female collaboration and female affinity. It was like a forbidden zone.
Of course, I also love the Go-Go’s and the Bangles, but girl groups were [their] own kind of zone. They were taking on these personae. These are great musicians, why did they have to dress up like ’50s pin-ups? It’s like they’re saying “Look, don’t worry! We’re real women! We can play instruments, but we can be girls too!” And despite what we think, that’s still so alive and well today. Though I do think there’s been a shift in the mainstream recently with artists like Chappell Roan and boygenius. There’s definitely younger millennials and Gen Z fighting against being confined by gender roles.
I have also noticed that younger artists are more eager to welcome their women heroes on stage and older women are more comfortable embracing it. Olivia Rodrigo is constantly pulling her heroes on stage. Katie Crutchfield from Waxahatchee is like, “Where is Lucinda Williams? Let’s bring her out.” And that was something you actually didn’t see even during the Lilith Fair years. It didn’t happen. You didn’t really see older artists on the lineup.
I loved the line in the book, “A map maker must be open to new routes.” Were there any new routes that surprised you, or unexpected people that came out of the woodwork?
Definitely the whole Florida thing. When I found out she had spent time down there and met Bobby Ingram – who’s since passed away. And, I didn’t really know there was this whole kind of mirror folk scene in Florida to that in New York.
But I also didn’t know about how diverse the early folk revival was. This is something [for which] I give a lot of credit to Dom Flemons. He’s been doing the work on this, but it’s still so under-explored. When Joni started out, she wasn’t just seeing Pete Seeger wannabes. She was also seeing Caribbean musicians and people doing musical theater and jazz rock or jazz folk, and although it was still a predominantly white scene, there were very important nonwhite artists on that scene.
In my early days [of writing], I just wanted to write a book about that. Uncovering the stories of other musicians who we forget when we only talk about Guthrie or Seeger or Dylan or whatever. It’s like, how white and boring can it get? If it’s just that, it’s that same story every time and yet it was so much deeper and richer and more interesting. And it’s so important to understanding Joni’s music, because her music was never pure folk.
Somewhere in the last seven and eight years of putting this book together, Brandi Carlile kickstarted the “Joni-ssance” as you put it. How did that change your process?
I thought Brandi would stop at her Blue concerts [at Carnegie Hall and Walt Disney Concert Hall in 2021], but suddenly it was like, “Oh wait, there’s so much more!” It’s been such an exciting story in and of itself that goes beyond music. It’s really the story of recovery, healing, and having this epic return. So on that level, it’s a like beautiful human story that’s been edifying to watch.
But I made the choice to stand apart [from the Joni Jam concerts] so I could continue to keep my perspective focused. Now with the book out, I can finally just enjoy this woman who gave us so much and is receiving her accolades. There’s a world of elders – and especially women elders – that I want to continually acknowledge. And if this project could be helpful in that, then I’ve done something positive for the world.
We’re live at sea! Our hosts Lizzie No and Cindy Howes recorded this episode onboard Cayamo, which is a singer-songwriter, Americana cruise that’s been sailing yearly since 2008. It’s one of the best music festivals we’ve attended and it’s another edition of FOLK DEBATE CLUB.
This time it’s “Community vs Capitalism.” Our panel features Jenny Owen Youngs (musician and co-host of Buffy the Vampire Slayer podcast, Buffering the Vampire Slayer), Amy Reitnouer Jacobs (co-founder/executive director of BGS) and Natalie Dean (director of events at Sixthman, which presents Cayamo). We talk about both of these concepts through the lens of folk music and the music industry at large. Community building amongst folk artists and fans in authentic and unique ways will help drive your passion. Organically finding community through event production, online presence, or music promotion is at the core of folk culture. Community trust and cultural diversity are key in ensuring that folk music artists will thrive in our capitalistic society.
How do you build that trust among your audience in a way that allows them to build trust with each other? How do you stay true to your values while being able to pay for your life? How have musical community leaders cultivated their particular communities?
Capitalism is our current reality, but it historically has not mixed well with community. Clearly, one must be pursued vigorously, moreso than the other! Or does it? Is there a way that these two can live side by side in folk music?
If you are listening to this or reading this right now, I can make this assumption: You want to support music financially and with your heart. Music is something that sustains our lives, but it’s also a profession and something people consume. Don’t worry, we “figure it all out” in this episode of FOLK DEBATE CLUB AT SEA!
BGS is proud to announce the launch of a new brand in 2024: GOOD COUNTRY. By this point, you may have seen or heard mentions of Good Country on our site, at our events, and on our socials feeds as we prepare this exciting new expansion for our readers and fans.
Launching in mid-January 2024, Good Country is a curated, bespoke email newsletter that will highlight all good country from across the roots music landscape. Every other week, GC will deliver high-end country music reporting, long reads, playlists, videos, and exclusive content from your favorite country artists direct to your email inbox. As you scroll, you’ll dive into the deep and broad world of Good Country, from gritty and raw Americana to glitzy and glamorous radio hits, from bluegrass supergroups to southern rock ensembles and swampy string bands. Sign up for Good Country now.
“Good Country is a brand new horizon for BGS,” says managing editor Justin Hiltner. “But, at the same time, it’s nothing more than a reinforcement of our values as a media company and roots music community. Country – like its family members bluegrass, folk, and Americana – is more than just music, it’s a lifestyle, an identity, a way of being. There’s so much good country being made out there right now and we know our audience agrees. Whatever ‘good country’ means, you’ll know it when you hear it. And you’ll hear plenty of it in this newsletter!”
Each issue of Good Country will center features, think pieces, and interviews penned by the best writers and thinkers in country music highlighting not just the biggest names in the genre, but new and upstart artists as well. Exclusive newsletter content will live alongside deep dive playlists, sonic explorations, and thoughtful examinations of what country is, who makes it, and to whom it can belong – everyone.
BGS co-founder, actor, activist, and musician Ed Helms, will be featured in each issue as well with “Ed’s Picks,” artists and bands selected by Helms himself, direct from his own listening.
“From the very beginning, BGS was forged on a foundation of celebrating the full spectrum of roots music fans and artists,” explains BGS co-founder Amy Reitnouer Jacobs. “This community has never been one thing, nor has it been static. It’s a diverse, expansive, and ever-changing art form. The same can and should be said for country music. And that’s why now is the perfect time to create a more representative media landscape. It’s time for Good Country.”
Good Country’s first issues will feature music, art, and content featuring Zach Bryan, Sierra Ferrell, Amanda Fields, Veronique Medrano, Shania Twain, Chris Stapleton, Vincent Neil Emerson, Brittney Spencer, and so many more. No matter your entry point to this music, with our new brand and newsletter you will find endless Good Country to enjoy. Interact with content in your email inbox, on our website, and on our social media – wherever you are, Good Country will meet you there.
Good Country isn’t about deciding what is or isn’t good country music. Good Country is a place. It’s a way of looking at the world, a way of enjoying music. If you think it’s good and you think it’s country, then you’ve found Good Country.
(Editor’s Note: On Thursday, September 28, 2023, BGS contributor, musician, songwriter, and bluegrass industry leader Jon Weisberger presented BGS with IBMA’s Distinguished Achievement Award at the organization’s annual business conference. Below, enjoy Weisberger’s award presentation speech, adapted for print, and photos from the Industry Awards luncheon.)
The International Bluegrass Music Association’s Distinguished Achievement Award was created as the organization’s first honor, just a year after its 1985 founding. Among the first recipients were Bill Monroe, gospel songwriter Albert E. Brumley, and (now-BGS contributor) Neil V. Rosenberg.
After 1991, when the Hall of Honor (now the Bluegrass Music Hall of Fame) was established, the DAA became a way to recognize a variety of accomplishments — a lifetime of achievement for many recipients, but also activities taking place in more compressed timespans, as when the Coen Brothers and T Bone Burnett were recipients in 2001 for the singular act of creating the film, O Brother, Where Art Thou?, and the accompanying soundtrack album. And while most of the recipients are people, some are entities, like WSM’s Grand Ole Opry (2000), the Station Inn (2003), and Bluegrass Unlimited magazine (2016).
Country Gongbang, of South Korea, perform during the IBMA Industry Awards Luncheon. (Photo by Rob Laughter)
Either way, the award criteria direct the selection committee to consider those who “have fostered bluegrass music’s image with developments that will broaden the music’s recognition and accessibility.” Further, the award criteria state, “Their contributions should be unique given the relative period of time in which they were made and should embody the spirit of one who pioneers or opens new possibilities for the music.” These are descriptions that fit the Bluegrass Situation perfectly.
Having celebrated its 10th anniversary just last year, this site contains an extensive amount of material that recalls a multitude of highlights from that first decade. So rather than recount them, I chose, when presenting the award—an invitation for which I’m deeply grateful — to recognize what Ed Helms, Amy Reitnouer Jacobs, their dedicated staff and many contributors have done to broaden the music’s recognition and accessibility and open new possibilities for the music is to look at why these things are important and how they have met the challenge.
For more than 50 years, bluegrass music has been dependent, for the renewal of its audiences and of its musicians, on exposure beyond its cloistered garden. From The Beverly Hillbillies through the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s Circle album through the mainstream success of Ricky Skaggs and Alison Krauss to O Brother and, more recently, artists like Molly Tuttle and Billy Strings, our music has needed not only community-building institutions that cater to those already familiar with it, but a plethora of vehicles that expose new audiences to this music.
BGS executive director Amy Reitnouer Jacobs reacts to Jon Weisberger’s DAA presentation. Justin Hiltner, managing editor, looks on. (Photo by Willa Stein)
This is how many people, including many in the IBMA, first became aware of bluegrass, and in the past decade, no one has done more to introduce this music to new audiences than the Bluegrass Situation. By covering the broad range of roots music under its “bluegrass” rubric, and by insisting on presenting the full range of bluegrass music and musicians in all their diversity, the Sitch has invited hundreds of thousands into the fold — and the same is true of the events the Bluegrass Situation has organized and sponsored.
Indeed, one of the Sitch’s distinctive contributions has been its dual role as a chronicler of the broad array of bluegrass and related musical artists and as a presenter, bringing the artists and the music they make directly to audiences. Especially through its curated stages at major music festivals, the Bluegrass Situation has introduced thousands — tens of thousands by now — to artists like bluegrass Hall of Famers Ricky Skaggs, Del McCoury, and Sam Bush.
Amy Reitnouer Jacobs speaks to the Industry Awards Luncheon audience. (Photo by Dan Schram)
In this way, the Sitch has spent more than a decade devoted both to the important work of bringing a wide variety of roots music to audiences across the country and around the world, and to the important work of bringing the whole array of bluegrass artists, from Larry Sparks, Junior Sisk, Michael Cleveland, and High Fidelity to the Infamous Stringdusters, Leftover Salmon, Molly Tuttle, and Billy Strings to the attention of those attracted to the Sitch’s website and events by its coverage and presentation of all the other roots music artists within their purview. So, someone who visits the site to read an Allison Russell feature has an opportunity to learn about Lynn Morris, while another who attends the Bourbon & Beyond festival to see The Black Keys might have their ear caught by the sound of Dan Tyminski or The Cleverlys performing on the Sitch’s curated stage.
These are the kinds of connections — and the kind of day in, day out, year in and year out work — that, in the words of the Distinguished Achievement Award criteria, “broaden the music’s recognition and accessibility.” These are the ways in which bluegrass is able to draw in new generations of fans — and new generations of musicians and industry activists, too. For more than 10 years, now, Ed Helms, Amy Reitnouer Jacobs and the Bluegrass Situation have been doing the work, and all of us in the bluegrass community have benefitted from their efforts. It gave me great pleasure to present them with this award.
L to R: Justin Hiltner, Amy Reitnouer Jacobs, Jon Weisberger at the 2023 IBMA Industry Awards Luncheon. (Photo by Willa Stein)
Photos by Rob Laughter, Dan Schram, and Willa Stein as noted; Lead image of Hiltner, Reitnouer Jacobs, and Weisberger by Dan Schram; All photos courtesy of IBMA.
The International Bluegrass Music Association announced the nominees and recipients of their 34th Annual International Bluegrass Music Awards today at the SiriusXM headquarters in downtown Nashville. Hosted by Bluegrass Junction DJs Joey Black and Ned Luberecki and featuring performances by nominee Lonesome River Band and brand-new Hall of Fame inductee Sam Bush, the ceremony also included announcements of this year’s IBMA Distinguished Achievement Awards, the second highest honor the organization gives out.
Italian bluegrass forebears Red Wine, banjo player and “Duke of Drive” Terry Baucom, promoter and festival organizer Carl Goldstein, and author and picker Tom Ewing were among this year’s Distinguished Achievement Recipients. Rounding out the field in the Industry category is BGS – The Bluegrass Situation – the world’s foremost online community for bluegrass and roots music.
“Of course, what we do is never driven by a need for accolades,” says BGS co-founder and executive director Amy Reitnouer Jacobs. “However, to be recognized by our peers and community is a humbling honor nonetheless.”
In 2022 BGS celebrated its tenth year of operation, marking the milestone with special anniversary content, articles, shows, and activations throughout the year. What began as a blog for bluegrass fans in Los Angeles – co-founded by actor and musician Ed Helms and Reitnouer Jacobs, who would quickly become a power player in the music industry – has since grown into a national and international community, with hundreds of thousands of followers across platforms and around the world.
“We are so honored and humbled by this recognition,” says BGS managing editor Justin Hiltner. “Bluegrass is all about community, and to have our community – the genre that built us – recognize our efforts in this way means the world. What Ed and Amy have created and brought all of us into is something truly special. Thank you to IBMA, the organization and its membership, for this award.”
BGS has produced and presented stages and concerts at some of the world’s premier events, festivals, and venues, including Bonnaroo, UK’s Long Road Festival, Bourbon & Beyond, MerleFest, Stagecoach, the Theatre at the Ace Hotel in downtown LA, the Irish Arts Center in NYC, and IBMA’s World of Bluegrass. In 2020, their online series Whiskey Sour Happy Hour, hosted by Helms, raised tens of thousands of dollars for frontline healthcare workers and personal protective equipment and, in 2016, BGS founded Shout & Shine, bluegrass’s first ever showcase celebrating diversity, inclusion, and representation in bluegrass, which ran for five years and became a column and video series.
During the presentation of the Distinguished Achievement recipients, IBMA had this to say about the outlet and media company:
The Bluegrass Situation, or more simply “BGS” or “The Sitch” has arguably been the preeminent online media source for bluegrass and roots music for the last ten years. Founded by Ed Helms and Amy Reitnouer Jacobs, The Bluegrass Situation has quickly grown into a national and international home for millions of readers to discover new artists and material, both traditional and progressive, read in-depth interviews and feature articles, and learn the history of bluegrass music. BGS has also been an important event promoter and sponsor in LA and around the country at major festivals such as Bonnaroo, Bourbon & Beyond, and IBMA World of Bluegrass. Members of the BGS team have also been impactful participants in helping the industry, including numerous IBMA education panels and the IBMA Bluegrass Music Awards Show.
The Distinguished Achievement Awards will be presented during a luncheon ceremony as part of IBMA’s World of Bluegrass conference in Raleigh, North Carolina ahead of the International Bluegrass Music Awards show on Thursday, September 28. Tickets for the conference and awards show are on sale now.
BGS is so grateful, honored, and humbled by this recognition handed out by our peers, colleagues, and community. While the musical and editorial scope of BGS has always been broader than just bluegrass, it’s this genre that built us – and it’s the people in this community who we have to thank for all of our successes.
Stay tuned for more announcements to come regarding BGS’s involvement and activities at this year’s IBMA World of Bluegrass conference.
(Editor’s Note: This conversation between Black Opry co-director Holly G and BGS executive director Amy Reitnouer Jacobs was moderated by journalist Jewly Hight and marks the culmination of our Artist of the Month coverage of Black Opry. Find more on Black Opry here.)
“I just wrote this down, because I need to look at this every single day,” Amy Reitnouer Jacobs informs Holly G while scribbling on a sticky note: “Your name’s on there. You get full credit.”
Holly G, the creator of the Black Opry, has just dropped a gem of practical, principled wisdom that she’s developed through dealing with event organizers, entertainment companies, and institutions who expect her to lend them her presence, while withholding her critiques of the racial biases baked into how they operate. Her hard-line posture? “My participation is not an endorsement.”
Even in a matter as small as pinning that sentence to her wall, an act we observe on the Zoom screen, longtime BGS leader Reitnouer Jacobs knows well the importance of receiving proper credit, and compensation, as a persevering music industry dreamer and doer who’s also a woman.
These two founders of influential, community-shaping music platforms have crossed paths on plenty of occasions, but they’d never before stopped to compare notes. Their work addresses the insularity of music scenes in different ways, Holly G’s taking aim at country music’s exclusion of Black performers and Reitnouer Jacobs’ at bluegrass’ fierce protectiveness of perceived threats to its purity. Still, the similarities between what they’ve experienced, how they’ve responded and who they’ve paid attention to pile up rapidly in our Zoom conversation.
By the time we’re through, Reitnouer Jacobs signing off from her Los Angeles home office and Holly G abandoning her laptop to check on guests she’s invited to a Black Opry mixer at a rented house in Nashville, they’re feeling a significant overlap in their labor and making plans to actually, some day, do something together.
Jewly Hight: You both had careers completely outside of music and then your own fandom drove you to start blogs and put your stakes in the ground in the digital space. I was thinking back to the crossroads moment that you each must’ve reached where you were starting to get a response and see other ways that you could decide to get involved in those musical spaces. What really mattered to making the decision to expand each of your missions?
Holly G: I don’t feel like it was a decision for me. I’ve never consented to any of this. [Laughs]
I feel like it really, really shifted right after you interviewed me for the first time, and that article went up on NPR. That’s when everybody was like, “Oh, this is serious.” And because what we were actually doing was so vague, because I didn’t have a plan, people were just asking me to do everything; I had never said what I could or couldn’t do. By the time people started asking me for heavier lifts, I had already met these artists and I was so invested in the artists and seeing how hard they worked. I was like, “I’m never gonna say ‘No’ to anything. What could be good for them? What could push them forward?” A lot of it just went over my head, ‘cuz I was just saying “Yes.” And then I was like, “Oh shit, how did we get here?”
Amy Reitnouer Jacobs: That actually really resonates, when you said once you started meeting the artists that suddenly you saw where the needs were. That was a huge shift for me. I mean, I got into this as a fan, but I really didn’t think about writing about this community, this genre until I started to become friends with the artists that were involved and get to know them and become kind of part of their circles.
I think there was definitely a moment of, “Oh wait, you’re not being served? We’ll work on that. We’ll start covering that. Wait, you also are not being represented over here? Let’s cover this, too.” I’ve had to learn how to say “No” over the years, but my immediate instinct is always to say “yes” and then figure it out.
HG: My rule is if it’s not gonna negatively affect my mental health, then I say, “Yes.” That’s where I draw my line at. As an outsider, when you come in, you see the gaps, but then you also see how easy it would be to fix them. Sometimes people don’t know or they’ve just never been asked to do the right thing. But if you can have somebody [involved] that’s not an artist, they’re like, “There’s no ulterior motive.” Nobody thinks that I’m asking for Black people to get on stage so that I can go sing, ‘cuz we all know I can’t.
JH: It changed everything when you each were put in close proximity to artists who were working toward things, and had ambitions and scenes that they were part of or wanted to be a part of. What did it actually look like to turn your desire to help into strategies?
ARJ: When you’re actually given real responsibility that you have to show up for and deliver, suddenly it all becomes a lot more real. I had to go through a perspective shift.
I would say producing the IBMA Awards was a really big thing, because it was suddenly very, very real. It wasn’t just me being like, “What the fuck, IBMA? Come on, get your shit together.” It was like, “Now they’ve handed me something that I can make a change in, and I have to do it and I have to do it right. And I have to do it to not only to an industry standard, but to the personal standards with which I wanna move forward and I wanna see this industry move forward.” So that and doing a [BGS] stage at Bonnaroo, doing a lot of the curatorial stages, like what Black Opry does as well. I think when you suddenly are putting this out in a packaged way for everyone to see, it kind of makes it all a little bit more real.
HG: It’s really cool to hear your perspective, because as you know, there’s not a lot of people who have journeys that are like ours.
When you say going from yelling about it to being in the room and they’re asking you what to do about it is a very weird feeling. Especially because I wasn’t criticizing [the country music industry] with any intent for anybody to ask me any questions. It’s like going into somebody’s house and you’re like, “I hate this wall color.” And they’re like, “Okay, well paint it.” And I’m like, “Well, I’m just giving you my opinion.” You know what I mean?
JH: There’s a big difference between critiquing from a distance and being handed a thing and asked to work on changing it. That raises the stakes.
HG: I was speaking before I knew what I know now, but as a fan, you’re not thinking about how the industry works. You’re just seeing the flaws and you’re like, “Well, this doesn’t make any sense.” But you’re not ever thinking with the expectation that you’re gonna have to be the one to fix it.
When we started booking shows that we were actually getting paid for, as soon as money started coming in, I was like, “Whoa, that always feels like a big responsibility to me.” Because it wasn’t a career aspiration of mine, not in any real substantial way. Once money started coming in, I’m like, “Number one, this needs to be distributed fairly.”
It took me a long time to take money from shows. My agent would yell at me all the time. She’s like, “Why aren’t you paying yourself?” And I’m like, “Well, because I wanna make sure the artists get paid.” And she’s like, “This is a business. You’re doing work. You have to pay yourself.” Finally, after exhausting myself and realizing that the exhaustion was because of the work that I was putting into it, I’m like, “Okay, I’ll pay myself.”
ARJ: Holly, that really struck a chord with me, what you said about the money. When those stakes came in, it was like, “Oh, this isn’t just a blog anymore.” There is something on the line and there’s someone investing in me and in this idea, too, and they’re investing with the trust that I’m gonna do the good work.
It took me over five years not to start necessarily paying myself, but to start prioritizing myself and considering myself part of that package, rather than just putting everything I had into it, at the sacrifice of personal life and sometimes physical and mental health and financial choices.
HG: I wouldn’t have made it that long. But you know why, though? I got to that point so much quicker, only because a lot of the things that people were asking me to do were so emotionally draining, like to constantly go through racial trauma and explain myself. That shit is so exhausting. I very quickly was like, “What am I getting out of this?” I do not mind taking money from that at all.
I still don’t think that I’ve seen the changes I would like to see overall – in any facet of the industry. But what I have seen is individual artists’ lives completely changed. They can tour in a different way because of the way that we tour. Our tour minimum is $400 per show. So they can go out and play a show with us for $400, and that means that they can go to that area and play a couple other bars where they might not really get paid anything, but they’ve gotten something to get up there to help them get a little bit of a leg up.
JH: You were talking about learning how things work in the industry. I imagine that part of that involved coming to understand the established pipelines that exist in country music, in bluegrass, and in roots music, how they work, who they work for, and who they don’t work for. Realizing that they are not built in a way that is meant to serve everyone. You didn’t just accept that those established models are the only options. What kind of relationship do you each have to the industry? And where do you place your trust?
HG: I don’t trust anybody. My mission is to serve the artists. My personal feeling is that we need to build systems outside of what exists and so that we can build it in a better way. Because you’re not gonna go into an institution that’s been around for a hundred years and fix things that have been wrong for a hundred years. It’s not gonna happen, especially not gonna happen quickly.
However, it is not my right or privilege to tell an artist that they shouldn’t participate in the industry. So that being said, I have to work in parallel. Yes, I’m building things, but I also have to interact with the industry in a way that I can advocate for the artists that wanna participate in that.
And so when I do interact with the industry, it’s basically like, “What can I get out of you?” Because I know this is how they look at me. And so my first thing is, “What do you have that I can get that will serve me, that will serve my artists, that will serve my mission and my brand?” If what I can get from you feels like it’ll be worth whatever it is that you want to take from me, then I do it. But if I can’t get something back, that’s gonna make that exploitation worth it–because that’s what the whole industry is, exploitation–then I just move on.
ARJ: It took me a while to realize that, when I was talking about not prioritizing myself and not paying or taking care of myself, that in doing so I was actually falling into the trap that so many of these institutions had established of not paying women the same amount, not paying us what we’re worth.
I know that there are industry standards of not paying Black women what they’re worth, even less. I thought for a while that just by being part of this panel or whatever, I’m doing the right thing, ‘cuz I’m there and I’m representing something new and different and fresh and modern.
But by accepting an honorarium that I would find out later was less than some of the male names also appearing at a conference, I was falling into the same trap. It still enrages me, still gets me mad and so I feel like now I can be in, but not of a lot of these institutions. I’m happy to work with them if they’re gonna pay up and have us there for a reason, but I’m not going to serve them. I am not going to help, assist or fix what is institutionally wrong.
That’s partially why I’m really proud that BGS has continued to be independently run and owned this whole time, because we don’t answer to anybody, and nor do I plan to.
HG: I’ve pissed quite a few people off, ‘cuz I’ll work with them, but then after it’s over, they do something else. Then I criticize them and they’re like, “But wait, you came and did a panel for us.” And I’m like, “My participation is not an endorsement.” My presence does not mean you are off the hook for everything that you have done or going to do in the future. And so it has been interesting to watch them fall apart as I continue to criticize them and to see which ones come back after that. And that’s how I can tell whether or not they actually wanna do the work. If I criticize you and you come back for more, that tells me how you wanna do the work. That’s been a really good filtering tool for me.
JH: Even with the healthy skepticism that you’re each describing, you’ve managed to execute really massive events and partnerships. How do you make those decisions about what powerful people or institutions are worth partnering with?
HG: There’s no science to it, I feel like, because the other thing is there’s good people at bad places and that’s across the board. If I can find the good people at the bad place, then I’ll work with those people. And that’s just kind of how I do it.
I’ve gotten to the point now where I tell them that part up front: “This does not absolve you from anything that you do. I’m still gonna speak up.” One of the things that I’m afraid of happening is for people to look at what I’m doing and be like, “Okay, well she got in the room now, so I guess everything’s fine. She’s not speaking out anymore.” I don’t want it to look like I’ve closed the door behind me. If you can’t handle that, then we don’t have any business together. And as long as you find those good people, they’re gonna understand that and they’re gonna push forward anyway.
And sometimes because of that, I’ve had people tell me, “Please continue to criticize us, because that’s the only way I can get my bosses to do [anything] is when you won’t shut the fuck up on Twitter.”
ARJ: For the most part, I find that there are really good people on the ground, doing the work and for me, a lot of it just comes down to – I don’t know – intuition. It’s not necessarily a financial thing. It’s not necessarily a visibility thing. I think that’s kind of my unofficial business strategy, which is probably not something that they teach you to do when you have an MBA. But I never planned to get into this job to begin with, so I just go on intuition and I work with people I love. I return to things that I love and places that take care of our artists and take care of our community and take care of us. Those are the people that I will continue to invest in and go back to.
JH: Bluegrass, Americana, roots, and country are so often spoken of as though they are strongholds of authenticity insulated from commerce, to an extent. But we know that all of these spaces are inherently commercial if anyone’s trying to make a living off of them. So as people who are very invested in building community where it doesn’t exist in the ways that it needs to, how do you hold those two things next to each other?
HG: I do not. I think that also the whole conversation about authenticity is bullshit. It’s a way to move the goalpost, so that they can keep the people they want in and keep the people they want out out: “That’s not real country. That’s not real Americana.” It doesn’t fucking matter, because what makes it real is usually who makes it. If they look at somebody and they recognize that person as somebody that they want in that space, they’ll accept anything. It doesn’t matter what it sounds like if it comes from the right person. It’s a tool that they use so that if somebody comes along that they don’t feel like fits in because of their gender, their sexuality, their color, whatever it is, they can then say, “Oh, well then it’s not real X, Y, Z,” and they can get away with it.
JH: I also want to get at how you’re acknowledging that this is commercial, but also insisting that building community matters. How do you do both at the same time?
HG: Very easily. ‘Cuz you do things where you bring people together behind the scenes when you know everybody’s in town. That’s what we do. We get a house and we make sure everybody has somewhere to come together. But when you ask me to show up at the thing, I’m gonna ask you for a check. You’re gonna pay me to have official participation, but behind the scenes, we do things that build community. I feel like that’s all relative, right? So I’m not gonna go to a festival that’s just starting up and be like, “We need $20,000.” But if you’re paying everybody, make sure you pay us what’s fair in relation to what you have. So it’s just figuring that part out, but also always making sure you’re asking for it. I’ve learned to ask upfront, “What’s your budget?” Because that way I know where the conversation is gonna go.
JH: That’s sort of like reverse gatekeeping, in a sense. When you put together events or decide to gather artists to participate under the name of Black Opry, some of those things are for the public, outward-facing performances. Then there are things you do, like rent this house and invite who you want to be here, where you’re creating a safe, private space.
HG: The way that I curate the shows is more community driven. I try to pair up artists, especially if they’re traveling for a tour, that I feel like their personalities either mesh or there’s something in their story that I know would [connect] with each other or like things like that. It doesn’t matter if two artists’ music would sound great on the same bill, if those people don’t connect. I mean, I can put people together that sound completely different. I’ve had Jake Blount and Kentucky Gentlemen on a show together before, and they all were so excited to be with each other. The best part of our shows is usually the green room. That’s kind of a private, intimate space.
ARJ: You keep saying a lot of parallel things to what we do. I didn’t realize how parallel some of our experiences have been, and it just makes me love you more, Holly.
So much of what we’ve done over the years, it will never be public facing and the public will never even know about, because it’s not why we do it. And I think it’s what makes artists continue to come back to BGS events or wanna be covered on the site. Artists that, 10 years ago, I would’ve never thought I’d ever get the time of day from will say “Yes” to things because we put them first and we have given them a safe and fun and communal space to be together.
When I started BGLA originally, and then BGS, I wanted it to be this place for modern fans, for younger fans, for all fans that I didn’t think were being served or represented. I think for a while I was really susceptible to this yarn that they were spinning of, “There’s just not enough women in bluegrass. There’s just no Black people in bluegrass.” And I’m like, “Wait, I don’t know if that’s right.” And then the more you dig and the more you get involved, you’re like, “These communities have been here the whole time.” This is not only about creating community, this is about connecting community. This is about bringing communities together, representing them, and, and connecting the dots, whether it’s a digital community or artists in a green room or in a house to hang out for a jam.
HG: It’s so funny, like how the parallels keep coming up. Cause people have asked me a lot recently in interviews, “How do you feel about this revolution in country music?” And I’m like, “It’s not a revolution. It’s recognition.” This has been here the whole fucking time.
JH: There are deeply entrenched perceptions about what the country fan base looks like that are based on the continual and artificial segregation of the industry. And there are equally entrenched perceptions of what a bluegrass fan base looks like, based on the fervent reverence for the models laid down by the first generations of musicians. How have you developed ways of speaking to audiences within audiences, those that have gone unseen and overlooked?
HG: I’m telling you, I thought I was the only one when I started Black Opry. It was more like a search and explore mission than it was like an intentional, “I’m gonna find these people.” Because as a Black person that loves country music, I promise you, anytime you tell somebody that, you get looked at like you just fell out of a UFO.
I was equally surprised when I found artists. I didn’t think there were more than five artists. I was like, “We got Mickey, Jimmie, Kane and Darius.”
There was so much passionate relief when people started seeing you and feeling seen. It still surprises me. And I’ll be honest: We still haven’t gotten to where we need to be as far as the fan base with country music. There are a lot more queer fans simply because there are a lot more white, queer people that like country music. So we’ve built up a really, really big white, queer fan base.
A big priority for me this year is how do we connect with Black fans? Because the Black publications and the places that Black people go to for music typically don’t interact with country music.
But I will say, every show that we’ve had that I’ve been to, there’s at least one Black person that comes up to me and goes, “I thought I hated country music, but I saw the word Black in front of it, so I came just to see what it was. ‘Cuz it sounded weird. And I loved all of this. If I knew country music was like this, I would’ve known I liked it.” We’re trying really hard to figure out how we get to those people in a more broad way and get more of them. We need our audiences to look like what we want our stages to look like.
A lot of the places I’ve been to, regardless of how kind the organizers have been, it doesn’t always feel safe. And so there’s no part of me that wants to advocate for Black people to come into some of these spaces, because I can’t guarantee they’re gonna feel good. At Newport [Folk Festival], we felt good, even with being all white people. It’s just the type of people that they attract; they’re good people. And so we’ve really, really been interested in seeing how we can figure that piece of it out, where we get more Black people to these spaces. But, I can’t consciously advocate for too much of that yet, because I need to see the institutions doing the work to make it safe.
JH: So it’s still very much an open question of how you find, reach, and speak to Black country fans.
ARJ: Something that we asked ourselves very early on was not how do we reach other Bluegrass fans or where do we look for other Bluegrass fans, but where are we not looking? Who are we not reaching? What’s gonna be unexpected in that crossover Venn diagram of fandom?
Because like you were saying, you felt like you were the only one. I felt like I was in a minority of young, urban dwelling, West Coast, female fans that didn’t grow up in the South, you know? I started the whole thing from a need to connect with other people. I mean, it really stemmed out of loneliness. But I realized that my online demographics wouldn’t have made me a targeted fan if I were launching BGS. Like, any advertising or any kind of targeting we would’ve been doing, I myself wouldn’t have been found.
I think we just realized within our first three, four years, we have to turn ourselves outwards and reject everything that we’ve been told of who fans are and who communities are. And we have to be looking elsewhere, and we’re continuing to do that. It’s a question that we’re constantly asking ourselves, and I think it’s something that you’re never done searching for because there’s always someone else who feels like they have been excluded or that they are alone in this, whether they’re a fan or a player, or they don’t know what they are yet.
I remember one of the first meetings that I had with some IBMA folks. They were like, “You keep putting up all this like modern stuff and this isn’t real bluegrass.” And I’m like, “You’re gonna tell me if a kid walks in to McCabe’s guitar shop in Santa Monica and wants to buy a Deering banjo and pick up a banjo for the first time ever because he watched a Mumford and Sons video, that you’re gonna tell him ‘No’? That you’re gonna say ‘No’ because that’s not bluegrass?” Fine, we don’t have to put a label on it. Why don’t you open up that door and introduce ’em to Earl Scruggs. Let’s take them down that rabbit hole and connect the dots once again for that person. How about we take their hand and help guide them through this expanse of everything?
JH: Since you mentioned a first-generation bluegrass icon, something that’s baked into country, bluegrass and roots music is venerating elders and creating canons. And that’s just as much about excluding people as it is about who belongs in the canon.
You each make elders very present in what you do. Holly, you recently advocated for the Country Music Hall of Fame exhibit that includes the Black Opry to also include its predecessors, Frankie Staton and the Black Country Music Association. Amy, you make decisions about meaningful coverage of multiple generations of performers all the time, and BGS just published an appreciation of an underappreciated first-generation picker, Gloria Belle. How do you think about ways of doing that better than you’ve seen it done?
HG: I don’t wanna make it seem like I strong-armed [the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum]. I would not have had a problem strong-arming them, but they were gonna do it anyway. So they said, “We’ve already sent a letter to [Frankie]. Calm down.” And I was like, “Oh, okay.”
I don’t really think of it so much in that light that you’re describing as I do that we don’t have a record of Black country music history. For me, it’s about building that record. There’s so many people – like Wendy Moten. Wendy’s been singing with Faith Hill and Tim McGraw and Vince Gill for years and years and years. She’s part of Black country music history to me, and we have no record of that. Nobody’s ever talked about it. It’s about finding those people from the other generations that have been doing this long before it was something I ever thought about, and making sure they’re included in this narrative so that whoever comes up after us doesn’t have to work so hard to find these things out.
There’s no reason I shouldn’t have known the things that I’m finding out now until I had to literally dig for them — and I get access to a lot of it, ‘cuz people see what I’m doing and will bring stuff to me. But it’s not out there and ready for the public.
ARJ: Building that history is such an important part. And because we have a platform, because we have this online record that we are building, that’s part of our responsibility, is to help maintain that.
Gloria Belle, like we heard about her passing and then we waited and there were no obits. And we were like, “Who’s, who’s gonna cover this? Oh wait, it’s us. We have to be the ones to cover it.” I should know that 10 years on. But I still get reminded time and time again, we still have to do the work.
I am not one to venerate folks who maybe don’t deserve it. But I do think it’s the same idea of you’ve gotta know the rules in order to break them. You have to know the history in order to figure out where you’re going and how to break out of that and how to change it.
JH: You both are continually adapting how you present and position what you’re doing. Do you feel like you have come up against the limitations of genre? And have you looked for ways to free your efforts up from those limitations?
HG: Yeah, that one’s been tough. I know what kind of music I personally like, and I like music that would be described as Country music by literally anybody who heard it. It’s usually not a gray area, the things that I like personally, and that’s what brought me to where I am.
But also, all of the artists that I talk to across the board say that genre is a harmful concept to their careers. And so it’s deconstructing that concept, but also realizing too that the advocacy, everybody needs all of this stuff. It’s not just people in this space. So it’s like, “Where do I fit into that?” Regardless of how I feel about anything, there’s enough people in [all parts of] the industry telling Black people “No.” And so if a Black artist comes to me and wants to work with us, I really don’t give a shit what they sound like. The answer is gonna be “Yes.” I’m never gonna turn anybody away. Right now where I’ve kind of settled is anybody can come and play with us with any style, but the advocacy work that I do is going to focus on country music spaces and institutions, just because that’s where my passion is and that’s where I see the greatest need for it. I do acknowledge that there’s problems across the board. If you look at the work that the Black Music Action Coalition does, they’re doing it across all genres.
I’m sure you get this too, Amy, where it’s like you want to work on the things that you care about and you like, but also once you have this level of responsibility, that really doesn’t matter anymore. It’s out the window. It should never be about what personal taste is. It should be about what’s best for the group at large.
ARJ: It was very confusing, I think, for folks to initially come to the site and realize that it wasn’t just Bluegrass. And our whole point was like, “This is pulling from the traditions of the genre that is called Bluegrass.” But that has taken on different incarnations and iterations over the years since it was established. I guess you could say, by the IBMA standards of 1945, you know, Bill Monroe. For a while it was about bucking people’s expectations when they would get to the site of what they thought they were gonna get versus what they were given on the website.
Then we made a very conscious shift to be called BGS. We still use the Bluegrass Situation. A lot of people still know us as that, but we have really made a conscious effort to switch over to BGS, in the long tradition of things like CBGB, or NME Magazine. After a while, it just becomes those letters. So that’s always been my hope, that it becomes more of an umbrella organization and that it’s not limited. I still lean on genre when I feel like it’s advantageous. Because at the end of the day, I’m not going to stop it from existing. It exists. It’s how certain people can identify what they want to listen to or how we search for a playlist, even. It’s just how things are organized, whether we like it or not.
So when I can be disruptive within those structures, I will utilize it. I know that I can make certain calls, or I can show up to certain conferences and I can make an impact within this community and I can have some kind of small change within this community. And that is what drives me, and that is when I’m willing to use genre, if it means that I can insert myself and continue to be a part of that and enact change.
HG: A lot of artists tell me that they feel like genre is weaponized against them. I feel like we have an opportunity to take that and then weaponize it back against the industry itself. Because it’s literally just a marketing tool, so you just have to figure out how to play the game so that it helps the artist more than it hurts him.
To commemorate the 10th birthday of the Bluegrass Situation, co-founders Ed Helms and Amy Reitnouer Jacobs are taking it all the way back to the beginning. In the first installment of an ongoing interview series, the enthusiastic bluegrass fans reveal how they first met, their shared vision for a modern aesthetic, and the meaning behind the unexpected (yet appropriate) name.
Amy: As we’re looking back on 10 years of The Bluegrass Situation, it occurred to me that you and I have never really reflected on how all of this started and how this thing kind of built up. So I wanted to get our own take on it and… reminisce, stroll down memory lane a bit, and think about it.
Ed: We need a little oral history for the archives! [laughs] And for our own… ’cause it’s exciting to reminisce a little bit.
Amy: I’ll kick it off and ask, what was your intro to bluegrass? Why do you care about this music to begin with and what drew you into it?
Ed: The earliest I can trace back would be growing up in Atlanta, Georgia. My mom’s from Nashville, so we would take road trips from Atlanta to Nashville all the time. In addition to that, I spent many, many summers at a summer camp in the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina. That’s another road trip that’s about a three or four-hour drive from Atlanta.
So, on those drives, we’re always pulling off at truck stops and whatever, and we would pick up cassette tapes at the checkout counter. And my dad, who grew up in Alabama, was always a big fan of opera and classical music. He would grab these string band tapes for some reason. And I started listening to these very generic, early string band tapes when I was 8 years old in the car. They didn’t resonate with me as artists, but the music connected with me somehow. And I associated it with those places — Nashville and the North Carolina mountains.
Then as I got older, I was one of those kids that kind of thought everybody was fake, you know, like Holden Caulfield. Just distressed by all the artificiality of our world and of the people around me and like, “Oh, everyone at school, everything is so performative. Like, who’s real? Who’s the real deal?” And that kind of drew me, musically, into older and older music. I got obsessed with authenticity and where are the roots of things. … I think it scratched some itch that I had for authenticity-seeking, and probably allowed me to feel superior to all my classmates in junior high.
Then when I could actually get to a record store, I remember the very first bluegrass album that I bought was the Bluegrass Album Band. I didn’t know who J.D. Crowe and Vassar Clements and Jerry Douglas were, but all I knew was that on the cover of this CD at Turtle’s Records & Tapes in Atlanta was guys holding banjos and guitars and mandolins. So I bought that album and to this day it’s one of my favorite albums. I’ve never asked Jerry Douglas about this, I should, but it felt like the intention of those albums was to kind of just be the ultimate catalog of, you know…
Amy: I mean, it’s called the Bluegrass Album Band.
Ed: Right. They just called themselves the most generic name. And it’s almost like they were just trying to create a library of excellent bluegrass artists playing the canon or something. Or maybe they were really ahead of their time with like meta irony and they were just like, “We’re going to call ourselves the Bluegrass Album Band, ’cause it’s hilarious.”
And of course Tony Rice’s guitar playing on that – I was very much into guitar at the time, I later picked up a banjo – Tony’s guitar playing was so magical to me. I could not understand how human hands could play what he was doing. I would just pour over these solos. I remember the solo to “Your Love Is Like a Flower,” it just was like, how the hell is that being played? I could not wrap my head around it. And I listened to it a million times, and I didn’t have the technology to slow it down, so I couldn’t do that.
Amy: That album and that band really represent a generational shift. It’s not newgrass. It’s playing the canon, but with this mix of the new guard and some folks with some real cred from the second generation.
Ed: You’re right. It isn’t an old sound, what they’re doing. It’s a new sound at that time, because no one was doing Tony Rice licks before Tony Rice. But the harmonies are timeless and the structure of the songs is very traditional. That album means so much to me and I listen to it to this day and I’m still blown away! I actually can play that solo from “Love Is Like a Flower” now, but only at about half speed. And it’s one of the proudest things, when I finally found – someone had transcribed it in tablature, and I was like, “This is string theory explained. This is like if you had Carl Sagan sit you down and explain the mysteries of the universe.” I was like, “Holy shit, I got it! The holy grail!”
Amy: Yeah. To me, it’s still magic. ‘Cause I am not someone who can play an instrument, at least very well, so when I first heard bluegrass, I was just like, “How does that happen? How do you even get the notes from your brain to your fingers and do it so well, and in a way that I’ve just never heard before?” It still kind of blows me away.
Ed: Can I ask you the same question? Where did you first connect to bluegrass music?
Amy: I grew up in rural Pennsylvania, and there was a lot of country and bluegrass around there. Admittedly, I didn’t like it because to me it represented… I mean, I was really busy listening to showtunes and learning Sondheim lyrics and stuff. I was that kid. And I just thought country and roots music was inherently uncool and representative of this place that I felt like I was stuck in.
It wasn’t until I went to college in North Carolina… It was probably the first few weeks of school, one of my housemates who is still a very dear friend of mine invited me to a show, and it was Nickel Creek. I had never heard of them. I had no idea what I was going in to and Erin said, “I just think you’re going to like this. Just come with me to the show. I’ll drive. We’ll go.” And I can honestly say, that show changed my life. I can still remember the whole show so clearly.
Ed: What year are we talkin’?
Amy: 2005? Somewhere around there. I was kind of reeling from it, because it had been a really long time since I felt like I had been challenged by music that was being played by young people, that I really connected with, but also was just kind of flummoxed by. From there it became a deep dive. I was really fortunate going to school where I did, that there was great bluegrass around. I mean, there was this bar about 30 minutes away called The Cave in Chapel Hill, and we used to go see the Steep Canyon Rangers play there every month. And I mean, this is a tiny underground basement bar, maybe holds 50 people, and they would just have bluegrass jams.
Ed: How close were you to Asheville?
Amy: It was about three hours from Asheville. Asheville is where we went for, like, fall break and our little weekend trips and stuff. We would go to Boone and Asheville, and even Mount Airy had a bluegrass fest that we went to. So that’s when I really started getting into it. And I could say, I think my first significant album purchase was pretty soon after that first concert. It was Why Should the Fire Die? by Nickel Creek. I played that into oblivion and had it in my car for like, 10 years, back when we kept stacks of CDs in our cars.
From there it kind of fell into the background, because I was studying film and I moved to New York. I was working all the time and didn’t really make space in my life for music. By the time I moved out to LA, I was working for a producer and I had one or two friends out here that I knew. Again, working a lot, not making any money and trying to find my place in the city, and not really connecting with a lot of the other assistants that I was meeting at the agencies. And I remember going to see the Get Down Boys at some bar on the west side of LA and having this thing reignited in me that I had felt back in college and was like, “OK, I think these are my people.” There was this momentum happening in LA at that particular time. And that’s how I started getting to know the scene out here and had the idea for the BGLA blog.
Ed: Tell us about BGLA.
Amy: I admittedly was a little bored at work. I was working at the Academy of Motion Pictures at this point, which was exciting, especially for three months of the year around the Awards, but the rest of the time was kind of slow. So I started this Blogspot and wrote about what was happening on the scene in Los Angeles. And then people started pitching me, cause I don’t think anybody was really covering it out here. So suddenly I was getting inquiries to interview these people… I mean, I started going really deep in the music and the history and background and getting to know the scene out here. But I remember getting connected to Sean Watkins (of Nickel Creek), and it was this beautiful, full-circle moment. It was the first time I met Sean and got to talk to him, and we became friends and kind of opened a whole other door to the roots music scene and what it could be. And then I think I met you pretty soon after that.
Ed: So when did we meet? I cannot remember.
Amy: Well, I remember when we first met, but I doubt you remember when we first met. I remember this because it was probably the most nervous I’ve been in my whole life. I saw you at a Sarah Jarosz show at Hotel Cafe. And I walked up to you and gave you one of my business cards for Bluegrass LA. And I was like, “I think you’ll like my blog.” That was it! And I don’t imagine you remember that, but that is technically the first time I met you.
Ed: At some point we had a cup of coffee to talk about possibilities.
Amy: Yes, that’s true.
Ed: But then maybe we bumped into each other… I assumed it was Largo, but I have the vaguest memory of getting a business card from you. So yeah, that part tracks.
Amy: Why don’t you talk about the LA Bluegrass Situation, because that predates me.
Ed: You weren’t even a part of the first LA Bluegrass Situation?
Amy: No. I was there. I went one night. But we didn’t know each other at that point. I just went as a fan.
Ed: The first time I ever went to Largo was when John Krasinski took me to see Aimee Mann playing at the Fairfax Largo. We went in through the back and I just was like, “Whoa, what is this incredible vibe?” This whole place is just so, so cool. And eventually Flanny (the owner of Largo) invited me to do stand-up on some people’s shows, and one night he said, “Why don’t you do a show?” And I thought, “OK, cool. It’d be fun to mix music and comedy.” So I think the first show that I did at Largo was called “Hams and Jams.” [Laughs] The idea was like, “Oh, it’s hams, like comedy people, and jams, music people!” And I just mixed up some comedians and musicians with a terrible name that Flanny was so gracious about rolling with.
We really loved that combination, but I was really struggling to wrap my head around the LA bluegrass scene. It just was so disparate, but somehow we managed to get excited about trying to cultivate the scene and coalesce things a little bit more. And I think that was the idea… that was the sort of original inertia behind the first LA Bluegrass Situation. The name literally just came from Flanny talking about it before we named it. He just kept talking about it as the bluegrass situation that we were dealing with. So then when it came time to be like, “What are we going to call it?” I was like, “Well, you’ve been saying this awesome thing because there’s something a little cheeky about a ‘situation.'” Like, it feels like, you know, “We got ourselves a situation, here!” Like it just kind of has some irreverence built into it.
So that’s what we named it, and Flanny and I both pulled as many strings as we could with whatever relationships we had at the time and put a totally magical lineup together. Like I still can’t wrap my head around it. I mean, it was Dave Rawlings and Gillian Welch and Steve Martin and Steep Canyon Rangers and Nickel Creek and Punch Brothers and the Infamous Stringdusters… Oh, and of course the Lonesome Trio, my crew, with my friends Ian and Jake. We were sort of the hosts.
Amy: I remember I got an email from you not long after that, which was pretty shocking. What was the impetus of that, do you remember?
Ed: Yeah, I think that I was feeling pretty heady after that first LA Bluegrass Situation and probably getting over my skis a little bit and being like, “We can create the ultimate hub of bluegrass for Los Angeles and it will be this Tower of Babel that everyone will flock to!” I had so many ideas. There were so many things that I found lacking in Los Angeles that I had taken for granted in New York. There are just so many website resources. “You want a banjo teacher? Look here, there’s tons in New York City. You want to see what shows are happening? Look here!” You could just find stuff in New York City and you couldn’t find stuff in Los Angeles.
Amy: I look at the branding of that initial site and that first logo — I think DKNG did our first logo in Santa Monica — and I remember being really proud of the fact that we didn’t look stereotypical of the era.
Ed: You’re so right. And I give you so much credit for that because the very first LA Bluegrass Situation, Hatch Show Print did a bunch of posters for us. And they were so cool. I still have a bunch and I’m really proud of that, but it was also leaning really hard into a very conventional, stereotypical bluegrass aesthetic. It was a funny wake-up call for me – that plus your input. It helped me realize that what we wanted to do and where we wanted to go as fans and supporters of this idiom was not retro, like it was…
Amy: Forward-thinking.
Ed: Forward. And that artists like Chris Thile were doing that musically, right? But there was a little bit of a reckoning of “What’s our brand going to feel like? What do we want it to evoke? And who do we want to connect with? Do we want to connect with young people who are finding this stuff for the first time and finding it really fresh and exciting?”
Amy: That was always the crux of it for me. To a large extent, that aesthetic is still very alive and well within the roots music community. I had an inkling that there was an audience that had different tastes, but still could love this music and that it didn’t all have to look the same way. I could have never predicted where it went and what we’ve worked on since, but I think at the beginning we were very “of the moment.” It was the same time that Mumford & Sons and the Lumineers were on the top of the charts, and there was this kind of “authenticity” movement taking place.
Ed: I remember going to business meetings with Hollywood producers and one guy had a banjo in his office. And I was like, “You play the banjo?” And he’s like, “No, no, but I want to learn!” But you’re right. It was a moment. I’ve felt like an old fuddy duddy since I was 12 years old, but I was like, “Was I ahead of the curve here?”
Amy: Yeah, similarly, I’ve kind of always felt like an old soul; I never really felt like I truly fit in to my time, so I think there was something that really drew me in to that zeitgeist, but what amazed me was that once we really got into it, it was so much more complex and modern and exciting than I ever expected.
Editor’s Note: Look for the next part of this conversation with Ed Helms and Amy Reitnouer Jacobs in the weeks ahead.
Editor’s Note: The following feature is a keynote address from The Bluegrass Situation co-founder Amy Reitnouer Jacobs.
Welcome and thank you for joining me today at Blue Ridge Music Center’s Deep Roots, Many Voices symposium.
My name is Amy Reitnouer Jacobs, and I am speaking to you today from the indigenous land of the Keech, Tongva, and Chumash people, now known as Los Angeles, California.
A little background about myself. In 2012 I co-founded The Bluegrass Situation with my business partner Ed Helms, with the goal of bringing roots and traditional music in its many incarnations to a younger, more internet savvy generation of existing and potential fans.
Since that time, my role within this industry has expanded, I have been an event producer for the International Bluegrass Music Awards, Bonnaroo Music Festival, the LA Bluegrass Situation, and other live activations; I’ve been an artist manager for talent ranging from Aubrie Sellers, Jamie Drake, and Matt the Electrician to Wilco’s Mikael Jorgensen; and I’ve proudly served for the last eight years on the board of directors of Folk Alliance International, where I am currently Board President.
Truth be told, I never intended this career. I moved to Los Angeles to work in the film and television industry, but quickly – albeit somewhat accidentally – found that my “people” were not in corner offices of movie studios, but playing their own style of bluegrass music in sweaty, crowded bar venues on the west side of the city. Once I entered the scene, however, I could clearly see where the genre’s biggest needs were – pay gaps, lack of representation, and a general disregard by an old guard for those who were too young, or female, or gay, or not-white-enough. In the years that followed I have re-focused my attention on giving a platform to those who have long deserved better.
I recently heard someone say “being of good intention does not always equate to action.” So today I’d like to present to you several small action items that you can to do that can make a big impact in your musical community.
So here we go: seven small ways to make a better industry (in any way you can!):
Number One: Consciously push yourself to discover music outside of the algorithm → Your musical world is much broader than you think. For the first time in human history, we have the entirety of recorded music instantaneously available to us. And what do we do with it? We listen to the same records over and over, and are told what we might like based on a computer program vs. a real live music editor. Start stepping outside of your comfort zone. Don’t just research your favorite artist’s influences and collaborators – look up that generation’s influences and collaborators. The world’s musical family tree is vast and much more interconnected than you’d expect. See where branching out takes you – both personally and creatively.
Number Two: Take up space → create opportunities that lift up yourself and others. If you’re unhappy with how and where you’re getting to perform, then produce the opportunity that you’ve always wanted. This can apply to festival showcase rooms, conference panels, house concert locations, touring bills, anything. It will not always be easy, but given the right amount of time and consistent dedication, it will draw in the right like-minded people and positive attention.
Number Three: Diversity and equity are only performative if changes aren’t implemented at every level – from the board room to the green room. It’s one thing to diversify a festival roster with gender parity and BIPOC artists, but it’s important for these standards to continue in hiring practices and leadership development. If you have the power to make these changes yourself – do it! If you witness performative diversification without deeper action – call it out! Nine years ago at Folk Alliance International, our Board was less than 50% female, had one non-white Board member and no directors from outside of North America. Through the concerted efforts of the nominations committee and executive leadership, that same Board now consists of over 50% women, multiple non-white directors, and has added representation from three different continents in less than a decade. Real, effective change can take place in so many minute, collective ways.
Number Four: Don’t just promote that which is popular. Promote that which is good. This may seem like an obvious one, but it is more uncommon than you’d think. Similar to my first point, it is easier for promotion and reporting these days to simply be a regurgitation of what the algorithm tells us. If you have a platform, podcast, or a channel where you can highlight other artists, use it to showcase those who may have been overlooked, or not had the budget to pay for the shiniest PR firm, but who deserve accolades nonetheless. This is not to disparage those who have managed to capture the cultural zeitgeist, but trust me, more often than not they will draw enough attention on their own. And at the very least, it’ll make you a more interesting person with real opinions about music.
Number Five: Mentorship matters. Find someone who will help guide you through the hard stuff – because chances are they’ve gone through harder. Even better, become a mentor to someone else. Often we only think of mentors as elder statesmen. And while it is *sometimes* true that age begets wisdom, mentorship can also come from people with a different life experience or background. The key in mentorship is honesty, vulnerability, and trust. One thing I know for sure is that I would not be anywhere near where I am today without a few key people I know I can always count on. Which takes me to…
Number Six: Find your people. I cannot emphasize this enough. Your job will not be there if you’re down on your luck, or sick in the hospital, or grieving a loss. Your people will. I realize this is not specific to our industry, but the fact remains that the most important thing you can invest in are the people around you – friends, peers, mentors, collaborators, family members. These are the ones who will show up in the middle of the night; will inspire your most beautiful art; will keep you accountable; will celebrate your wins and embrace you through your losses. If we learned one thing from the pandemic, it is that things we considered guaranteed can disappear in an instant, but having a solid community – no matter how small – is a vital part of making sure you can take care of yourself and show up for others. That’s a nice segue to my final suggestion…
Number Seven: Do not forget that self care is a radical choice. In an industry that pushes us to never stop working – whether that be creating content or touring or networking or pushing ourselves to put in more hours than there are in a day, taking the time and courage to say No (and meaning it) in order to prioritize ourselves can be a superpower. Saying “No” or “I don’t have time” doesn’t have to mean, “literally every second of my schedule is accounted for,” but rather “I’m giving as much of myself as I am currently able to give.”
In a world that is consistently overwhelming, it can be difficult to feel like our actions can lead to any real difference. And many of these issues – specifically those faced by women, black and brown people, the AAPI community, and queer and trans folks – have been built to systemically oppress over hundreds and hundreds of years.
Rhiannon Giddens was recently quoted in a Vulture magazine interview, saying, “It’s not going to change overnight, but we can change a lot of little things quickly.” These are some of the most important changes of all – small and deliberate and real; over time, these are the actions that seed lasting change.
Folk and roots traditions are by definition the music of all people. It may take some longer to see that the music we love and represent was not just magically invented out of thin air by a few old white dudes from the past. So let’s start changing that story by working on our own tiny actions every single day.
Thank you to the Blue Ridge Music Center for your invitation to speak today. I am consistently impressed by your wonderful team and your extraordinary work. Thank you for showing all of us how rich and deep of a story there is to tell, and how much more there is to learn; and special thanks to all of you for being here and listening – I hope to see you down the road soon.
It’s hard to believe that the better part of a decade has passed since the original BGS website went live. That humble iteration was the brainchild of myself and Ed Helms back in 2012, when we merged our two passion projects – Ed’s LA Bluegrass Situation festival at the city’s famed Largo at the Coronet Theatre, and my humble BluegrassLA blog. Back then, we posted stories and interviews once or twice a week and featured show listings for bluegrass and Americana bands along the West Coast. I was serving as editor, writer, AND brand manager at the time, while still working a full time job in the film industry!
From that first incarnation to the multi-faceted, inclusive, international brand BGS is today, our entire team is so excited to celebrate ten years (!) of amazing musical moments and memories all year long. Each week, we’ll be unveiling one of the “Top 50 BGS Moments” — highlights, milestones, and other things you might have missed — and we also have a whole host of special BGS10 live and virtual events that we’ll be announcing over the next few months.
At the end of the day, we wouldn’t be who we are or WHERE we are without you, our amazing community. You have shown us what we suspected all along: that roots music fans and artists are more different, diverse, and discerning than has ever been reflected in modern music media, and we promise to continue to represent the full spectrum — past traditions, present trends, and future talent — of bluegrass, folk, Americana, blues, trad, country, and beyond.
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