Artist: Pistol Annies
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “Snow Globe”
Album: Hell of a Holiday
Label: RCA Records Nashville
In Their Words: “We couldn’t be happier we got to make a Christmas album. Once we finally surrendered and let the Christmas songwriting spirit take over, we were so inspired and felt that magic on every single one of these songs. We hope to be a part of so many people’s Christmas memories for years to come.” — Miranda Lambert, Ashley Monroe, and Angaleena Presley
Hollywood, the 2020 Netflix series from director-screenwriter Ryan Murphy, is a resplendent show dripping in Art Deco that does not wholly reimagine Los Angeles’ golden era, but rather subtly inserts a quintessential question: “What if?”
What if Hollywood hadn’t been as… ___-ist? (Sexist, racist, misogynist, ageist, etc.) If one happens to be born into a region, a folkway, a culture, an art form that doesn’t include you, or that doesn’t quite love you back, one often doesn’t realize it until it’s too late. And then what? Do we, the rural, country-loving queers, wait around for our Ryan Murphy to reimagine the world to better include us? Not quite.
For Emily Saliers and Amy Ray of Indigo Girls — and, for that matter, almost each and every queer who has ever loved roots music — that “What if?” question is existential, but it also doesn’t matter. What if country music loved LGBTQ+ folks? The lyrics of “Country Radio,” a track off the duo’s sixteenth studio album, Look Long, tell it plainly: “But as far as these songs will take me/ Is as far as I’ll go/ I’m just a gay kid in a small town/ Who loves country radio.”
While curating the following playlist of their favorites from country music airwaves and songs they wish were included there, Saliers and Ray offer a quite simple solution actionable in each present moment: Be who you are, listen to the music that brings you joy, love who you love — and be anti-racist.
I should preface this by saying, I don’t expect that there can’t be heteronormative country songs, or that queer life has to be explicitly represented in songs, it’s not that. It’s the feeling of the way a song moves me emotionally, but then it stops me a little bit short of being able to fully experience it because of the language or the obvious implications of man and woman.
I love Carrie Underwood’s voice and she’s taken more of a harder, pop direction since “Mama’s Song,” but she sings this so beautifully. She’s talking to her mother, “He is good… he treats me like a real man should,” and yet the beauty of her song [is in] her telling her mom that’s she’s going to be okay.
It’s very odd — Emily’s perspective on this is something I can understand, and I agree that it’s this weird disconnect with country music. We have to kind of acclimate it to ourselves, in some way, using some kind of trick in our minds. But I’ve always had that internal translator…
…I thought you couldn’t be a country singer if you were gay and left-wing and a complete dyke. That made me feel more alienated than the songs themselves, that idea of its inaccessibility. Or, if you went to a show and you were sitting there in that audience, in the early days before it all kind of busted open, you would feel scared. Or judged. Or uncomfortable.
I wouldn’t want to listen to just albums that are for and by queer people, oh my god. No way! But we have to have them as part. I think about what an influence Ferron was, how much Amy and I love Ferron. When her first album came out, it was like, “Oh my gosh this is one of the best songwriters in the country and she’s queer!” I can’t describe how important it was to have an artist like that.
Even Lil Nas X, who had the number one hit forever-ever-ever with Billy Ray Cyrus. It’s awesome to know that he’s queer! And a guy like Young Thug, a rapper out of Atlanta, who’s not gender normative by any stretch, to me. It’s interesting. It’s good to have a mish mosh! It’s not that the majority of songwriters out there can’t be represented in their own songwriting, we just have to have ours, as well.
[Racism] is the pivotal struggle of the Americana scene and the roots scene. How do you honor Black and Brown folks who want to be in this scene — and maybe some of them don’t even want to be in this scene because even Americana is rooted in questionable legacy. How much do people of color want to be immersed in that scene when it still feels so racist? Even the best parts of it. It’s a huge question to unwrap and it has to do with such a long history of where country music came from.
We stole the banjo and put it in our hillbilly music in the mountains and called it our own. We forgot all the stuff we learned from “our slaves,” you know? It’s crazy to me, if you think about the racist roots of where a lot of this comes from. Merging this racist legacy with this incredible populist music — music for the people, like Woody Guthrie, like the Carter Family. You get those two things bumping up against each other constantly, how do you entangle that and make this a space where it doesn’t matter what color you are? Where it doesn’t matter what your religious persuasion, or your political party, or your gender, or your sexual preference, or anything.
I think the way we deal with it is by all of us thinking all the time and being mindful of [that racist history]. And including [Black artists] in our playlists and touring with them. Some people are like, “What does it mean if you’re forcing this integration? Is it just going through the motions?” No! No, no, no.
I think, first, we all — we white people, we people “of no color,” we “colorless” people — should dig deep, identify our own racism and how far it goes, how much we use it. Break it down, talk about it, identify it in each other. Really start from the core of things and hopefully act outwardly as a result of what we’ve dug through, inwardly. Try to heal and fix, you know? We’ve got to ask artists of color what their experience is like and why it’s like that. I’ve got to assume that there must be some Black artists, who if they hear a song from a white, country, roots singer about the freedom of driving down a dark, country road, they’re not going to feel the same way about the history of Black people down dark country roads. A lot of it is context and, as Amy says, there’s so much to be unraveled. But we are at a tipping point.
I remember an interview with Kathleen Hanna that really resonated with me. She said, when they ask you who your favorite artists are, most of us name all these male artists. That’s who we can think of, because that’s who’s archived the best. Straight men, bands, and writers. If you sit down and really think about who you love and make a list of the women and the queer folks — this is what she was talking about, she wasn’t talking about color at the time or race or the social construct of race — and you take that list to your interviews and rattle off those names, you’ll be more honest, because you’ll be talking about who you really listen to and not just trying to remember [anyone] off the top of your head.
People are so out of the habit — and so in the habit — of white supremacy that we don’t even know how to do the right things, just in our instincts. We have to learn, write it down, so we remember to do it.
Photo credit: Jeremy Cowart
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
As this is being written, we’re on our way to the UK to prepare for our FIRST EVER international stage takeover, taking place next weekend at The Long Road Festival, in Leicestershire (near Birmingham). It’s a milestone event for BGS, and part of a larger initiative to reach our dedicated audience outside North America and shed light on some incredible talent that is putting their own spin on folk and roots traditions from other parts of the globe.
To prepare for The Long Road, held Sept. 7-9, we’ve summed up the top stuff we can’t wait to see and do while we’re in town. Hope some of you can join us to check out these highlights too:
1) That lineup tho…
With main stage appearances ranging from Carrie Underwood and Lee Ann Womack to Billy Bragg and Joshua Hedley, TLR is representing a variety of talent from commercial [read: Pop] Country to Americana with a capital A. The lines between roots and country music seem a bit more blurred over here, and we can’t wait to see how it all comes together.
2) Birmingham
Less than an hour from the festival lies the city of Birmingham. What was once a hardened industrialist town is now a breeding ground for creatives and start-ups, fostering one of the youngest populations in Europe (nearly 40 percent of the population is under 25). There’s plenty to discover here — from the old Custard Factory market to four (4!) Michelin-starred restaurants — so it’s a great stopover before or after the festival weekend.
3) AMA-UK stage takeover
Friday kicks off the fest with our friends at Americana Music-UK curating a stage featuring their freshest crop of British Americana talent. (Stay tuned to the BGS site for an announcement highlighting an upcoming collaboration with that team very soon….)
4) Moonshine + whiskey tastings?!
Say no more. You can find us in the Honky Tonk for more than just the BGS stage…
5) Stanford Hall
This is not your mama’s country festival. TLR is held on the grounds of Stanford Hall, a 400-year-old stately home in the heart of Leicestershire, sitting on over 700 acres of expansive parkland. Not too shabby!
6) Born in Bristol film screening
Produced and presented by the Birthplace of Country Music, retracing the 90 years since the recording of the original Bristol Sessions the resounding impact that music has had on the world, the documentary features the likes of Dolly Parton, Vince Gill, Eric Church, Emmylou Harris, Steve Earle, Marty Stuart, Sheryl Crow, and Doyle Lawson. Special screenings of the film will take place on site at TLR.
7) The Bluegrass Situation Takeover at the Honky Tonk stage on Sunday, September 9 (DUH!)
Featuring a cavalcade of fierce females from three different continents, our BGS-curated stage highlights everything ranging from bluegrass (Cardboard Fox) to country (Ashley Campbell, Angaleena Presley) to folk (Dori Freeman, Worry Dolls) to Americana (Danni Nicholls, Ruby Boots). It’s gonna be great. You can check out the full day’s schedule below:
13:05-13:45: Danni Nicholls
14:10-14:50: Ashley Campbell
15:15-15:55: Worry Dolls
16:20-17:00: Angaleena Presley
17:25-18:05: Cardboard Fox
18:30-19:10: Ruby Boots
19:35-20:15: Dori Freeman
Discover more about The Long Road and stay in the know by liking our BGS-UK Facebook page.
The best part of my job is, without question, Hangin’ & Sangin‘ every Friday at Hillbilly Central. Not only do I get to talk with and listen to some of my absolute favorite artists, but I also get some quality time with my own personal Gelman (aka Justin Hiltner, BGS’s social media director). We keep it loose and fun while still digging into some deep, interesting topics. Because of that, inevitably, after the show, the artist says, in a pleasantly surprised tone, “Wow. That was great! It didn’t hurt at all. Thank you!” I don’t know what other interviewers are doing — or not doing — but we’re sure thrilled and touched by that compliment. Every time.
To close out 2017, I’ve pulled together a batch of the best moments from throughout the year. Some happened on camera, some off, but each made our little show that much more special — as did each of you for tuning in. Thanks for supporting us!
Watch all the episodes on YouTube, or download and subscribe to the Hangin’ & Sangin’ podcast and other BGS programs every week via iTunes, Podbean, or your favorite podcast platform.
It seems like every year is a great year in roots music, packing in way more excellence than a single list can handle. That’s why, for our year-end songs collection, the BGS writers have picked tunes they love that were not on any of our year-end albums. That’s not to say that the whole albums represented here aren’t great, though, so use these songs as invitations to dig deeper.
Over the three excellent albums, Nashville’s Andrew Combs has proven himself to not only be a songwriter of the highest order, but one with few creative boundaries — he’s bounced from traditional twang to countrypolitan to indie rock, always landing on illustrative stories and cutting vocals moments. On “Dirty Rain,” from Canyons of My Mind, Combs studies a world where our children are left with no vestiges of the planet’s former splendor on which to play — whether it’s green spaces now filled with buildings or books replaced by iPads. “What will all our little children say, when the only place to play is in the dirty rain?” asks Combs, taking his range into stirring falsetto, a gorgeous turn that reminds us that there is still beauty in this world: It’s just up to us to preserve it. — Marissa Moss
As a songwriter — and, indeed, an essayist — Angaleena Presley is one of the most potent voices currently putting pen to paper in Nashville. Her sophomore solo release, the wonderful Wrangled, is chock full of cultural commentaries and confessions. On the captivating title track, Lady A filters her own professional frustrations through the lonesome lens of a housewife who feels unappreciated. “Rather eat dirt than bake another prize-winning cherry pie,” she sings with an air of resignation that perfectly encapsulates the emptiness of going through all the right motions and playing all the right parts only to be left feeling utterly unfulfilled and unseen. — Kelly McCartney
Had “Alleyway” been written in a different era, it likely would’ve found its way into the Brothers Grimm’s treacherous collection. It’s a fairy tale for the flawed. Detailing a one-night stand gone awry, the song examines broken decisions made by broken characters. Tivel’s voice — a whispering alto — works within the song’s minimal strings-based arrangement to tell a bleak but no less beautiful story with razor-sharp lyricism. When she sings, “I guess some folks are born to lose. Some kids are born for someone else’s cradle,” the consonants’ rhythmic pattern communicates her poetic ear for delivering such shattering truths. But while the blunt realism bound up in her writing may lean toward despair, she doesn’t leave things in that fraught territory. Instead, Tivel infuses them with small glimmers of hope, the kind that arise from the simple, oftentimes brave act of moving forward. — Amanda Wicks
The Barr Brothers’ standout, “You Would Have to Lose Your Mind,” off their album, Queen of the Breakers, creates a tension between lived dystopia and imagined utopia. Oscillating between those two polarities, the song takes on multiple melodic personalities, beginning with dreamy shoegaze before shifting into frenetic rock, a la the War on Drugs, and concluding with electrified chamber folk. As a result, everything edges toward cacophony, but the band keeps it together, instead tautening the emotional tightrope through Brad Barr’s contorted vocals and Sarah Pagé’s strings. A dip into madness shortly after the halfway mark builds out into a freeing crescendo, even if that sensation isn’t wholly assured. “Am I on the other side? Am I dreaming?” Brad asks, imagining something better than what he sees. But is the vision enough? — AW
One of the beauties of Americana as an umbrella descriptor is that it allows for experimental branches to reach out far and wide while still remaining grounded by their roots. Chastity Brown is a perfect example of that. At her core, Brown is a folk singer, telling important stories with an acoustic guitar. But, when you zoom out from there, she’s so very much more than that, as evidenced on “Carried Away” off Silhouette of Sirens. Here, the acoustic guitar and confessional story still drive things along, but they collide with a swinging drum groove and a lyrical cadence that wouldn’t be out of place in a spoken word slam. Anyone who says they don’t like Americana music clearly aren’t paying attention and certainly haven’t heard Chastity Brown. — KMc
On his sophomore solo effort, the Black Keys frontman exudes his vintage version of Music City. After moving to Nashville in 2010, he opened Easy Eye Sound studio and has now launched his own record label with the same name. Waiting on a Song is the label’s first output, and Auerbach recruited veterans like Duane Eddy, Dire Straits’ Mark Knopfler, and John Prine to complete the project. A collection of breezy ‘70s pop, the album’s standout comes midway through with “Never in My Wildest Dreams.” Clocking in at just under three minutes, the stripped-down track is a gentle rumination on love that serves as a reminder that good things come in small packages. — Desiré Moses
Covering a song by a mainstream country star is an age-old tradition in bluegrass, going back as far as the very beginning of the genre. Decades ago, Bill Monroe, the Stanley Brothers, Flatt & Scruggs, et al started and propagated the trend, but Flatt Lonesome have now perfected it. Following on their hit cover of Dwight Yoakam’s “You’re the One” in 2015, their brand new album, Silence in These Walls, includes a pristine, soaring, goosebump-inducing rendition of Glen Campbell’s “Where Do You Go.” Siblings and band front-people Buddy Robertson, Charli Robertson, and Kelsi Harrigill have also perfected high lonesome, exquisitely emulsified sibling harmonies and, if they hadn’t recorded this song, we wouldn’t have known it was the tailor-made vessel for their masterful three-part. — Justin Hiltner
Banjoist Gina Clowes was virtually unknown on the national bluegrass scene before joining veteran outfit Chris Jones and the Night Drivers. Now, barely two years later, she’s on the cover of the holy grail of banjo publications, Banjo Newsletter, and her debut solo album, True Colors, was released by Mountain Home Music. Though the Night Drivers are almost entirely a straight-up traditional band, her playing style is dynamic, thoughtful, intricate, and free. Plenty of banjo players with similar gigs would be content to simply regurgitate their favorite JD Crowe and Earl Scruggs licks interminably, but Clowes is not satisfied with tradition just for tradition’s sake, as evidenced all the way up and down True Colors — especially in original tunes such as “Saylor’s Creek.” — JH
Sometimes, the vibe of a song is enough to make me love it. But, when that vibe gets topped off with stunning vocals and heartbreaking lyrics, well, I’m done for. As such, both Imelda May’s “Call Me” and Rogue + Jaye’s “Forces of Decay” have spent a lot of time on repeat this year. Thematically, these cuts each take on crumbling relationships from slightly different perspectives. In May’s tale, the love affair is all but over, though the singer clings to the thinnest thread of hope that it’s not because her longing is keeping her alive. R + J’s seems to have a smidge more hope than that, but eventually resigns itself to mere gratitude for having loved and lost than not having loved at all. Moral of the stories: If your heart has to break, may it break beautifully. — KMc
Sallisaw, Oklahoma, is the hometown of the Joad clan in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, the place the family must leave when the Dust Bowl gets too dusty. It’s become a piece of a mythic America, heavy with meaning, not unlike nearby Okemah, home of the perpetually uprooted Woody Guthrie. In “Sallisaw Blues,” the opening track on Okie singer/songwriter John Moreland’s fourth album, it’s a place that’s easy to leave and hard to stay. “Slumming I-40 with American songs,” he sings in his robust voice, a little of the old punk showing through. “They can bury our bodies in American wrongs.” The song nearly runs off without him, thanks to a barbed blues lick and a reckless harmonica, but he’s looking for a bit of wisdom out in the American wilderness, using his guitar like a dowsing rod. In Sallisaw, Moreland is, to use Steinbeck’s language, “jus’ pain covered with skin.” — Stephen Deusner
Josh Ritter’s experimentation on his new album, Gathering, finds fruition in all manner of musical styles, but he pares things down with “Dreams,” creating a powerful, almost manic, look at a character running off the rails. The quickly delivered free-verse comes closer to a spoken word confession and lists the debilitating incidents keeping the song’s central figure from finding creative absolution. Against structured chamber folk, an infrequent piano riff shivers like a thunder-strike, underscoring the “gathering” storm that has led to this admission. Building on Ritter’s 2015 album, Sermon on the Rocks, the lyrics oscillate between religious and secular imagery; he sings, “Can I outstrip a creator who searches and finds me, then leaves me with demons that I already had?” The entire affair crescendos into an electrified frenzy that edges toward resolution, but in the end, keeps that conclusion just out of reach. — AW
Through their previous work, the Canadian duo of Kacy Anderson and Clayton Linthicum have proven their uncanny ability to conjure up a sort of folk that reaches not across genres but geographical planes: They weave as much British countryside into their music as they do Tennessee plains. But on their newest LP, Strange Country, they teamed up with Jeff Tweedy — who took the production reins — and came out with something deliciously psychedelic. And “The Light of Day,” which veers Anderson into Grace Slick territory and dips heavily into ’70s Southern rock, is this new equation at its best. “Keep your thoughts to yourself and you’ll be fine,” sings Anderson, welcoming some new, rollicking percussion, “Don’t let them see the light of day.” A menacing bit of advice in a world where the balance of what is said and what is heard has never been so skewed. — MM
Kurt Vile and Courtney Barnett’s first joint album is the collaboration we didn’t know we needed, but can’t imagine living without. The Australian rocker and indie kingpin are the perfect tag team, conjuring up warbling, wandering odes to daily life which, for them, centers around songwriting. The record’s opening track, “Over Everything,” is a back-and-forth exchange about the nuances of creativity that has Vile and Barnett picking up lines where the other leaves off and, in some cases, even jumping in early to finish the other’s thought. As spoken word poets wielding languid roots-rock, Vile and Barnett have made one of the most fun releases of the year. — DM
From the somber heft in the opening piano chords — you can practically hear the keys being pressed — to the commanding bass line that amplifies the chorus, Leif Vollebekk’s “Elegy” exudes weight. It actually feels heavy. But the Canadian singer/songwriter doesn’t dwell in that sensation. He uses the interplay between the song’s melodic mass and its feather-light, stream-of-consciousness lyricism to give shape to the internal struggle at the center: What happens when you want to be better for someone, but can’t rise to the occasion? What happens when you finally do, and they’re no longer around? The conclusion to his narrative occurs at the chorus when he assuredly, if mournfully, sings, “Take a look at me now.” Achieving that moment hasn’t been easy, and “Elegy” artfully articulates the sacrifices made along the way. — AW
“I get bored, so I wanna get drunk,” sings Lilly Hiatt on the title cut of Trinity Lane. “I know how that goes, so I ain’t gonna touch it.” Melding Hiatt’s unique twang with raucous rock melodies, “Trinity Lane” is an ode to a person in progress who has learned from her mistakes and come out stronger. With production by Shovels & Rope’s Michael Trent, Hiatt’s breed of roots on songs like “Trinity Lane” pushes things back into sweaty clubs and spiraling guitars, never resting on the precious or precocious. Packed with little details, like the scent of cooking garlic or the temptation of the embrace of another, and ferociously constructed, “Trinity Lane” is a raw and honest document of Hiatt’s place in the world. — MM
Country’s seen its share of soul this year, particularly in the Chris Stapleton era, but Little Bandit, led by Alex Caress, dips deep into some downright honky-tonk gospel with “Bed of Bad Luck,” off their debut LP Breakfast Alone. Centered on a gentle piano vamp and Caress’s heartbreaking howl, it’s as stirring as it is revelatory, with a backing choir of Caitlin Rose, Larissa Maestro, and Caress’s sister Jordan who help take the whole thing to church — except, here, church is a dusty bar or a lonely bed, with nothing but the scent of an old lover on the pillow. Somehow, Little Bandit is able to meld the timeless with the groundbreaking, coming out with country that doesn’t try to fit into a box. Instead, “Bed of Bad Luck” shapes its own box altogether. — MM
Sometimes the simplest ideas carry the most weight. This highlight from the Lone Bellow’s third album, Walk Into a Storm, revolves around a question we’ve all undoubtedly asked ourselves over the course of 2017 — “Is it ever gonna be easy?” — followed by a plea for salvation — “Try so hard, please release me.” It’s a quintessential Lone Bellow anthem from Zach Williams, Brian Elmquist, and Kanene Pipkin that showcases their knack for wistfulness, perfectly executed vocal harmonies and catchy hooks. The trio moved from Brooklyn to Nashville and teamed up with producer Dave Cobb for this release, which draws enough upon the gospel tradition to impart a glimpse of what we all need right now: hope. — DM
Landing at number one on the Americana charts, Lukas Nelson & Promise of the Real’s self-titled LP has undeniably become the band’s breakout release. But that’s not to say that the California-based musicians are newcomers. In fact, they’ve been honing their craft alongside music’s biggest icons for the past decade. While their collaborations with Lukas’s famous father, Willie, and stint as Neil Young’s backing band are common fodder for critics and fans, alike, this collection of songs solidifies the band’s status as a powerhouse in its own right. Nelson’s songwriting prowess is particularly evident on the album’s infectious lead single, “Find Yourself,” featuring none other than pop purveyor Lady Gaga on backing vocals. Dripping with soul and reaching the pinnacle with the declaration, “I know the love that I deserve,” it’s a post-breakup pick-me-up for the ages. — DM
Dating back to Limerick, Ireland, in the 1850s, this ballad has been known by many different titles and recorded numerous times in the last 50 years, usually by British folk singers. Phoebe Smith did a beautiful and ragged version in 1969, and June Tabor may have sung definitive version, backed by Martin Simpson, on her 1981 album, A Cut Above. But the transatlantic folk-rock group Offa Rex deserves their place in the song’s history. Backed by members of the Decemberists, Olivia Chaney adds to the song’s long tradition, offering a restrained yet powerful interpretation of the central predicament: a women brought low by doomed romantic pursuits. Bonus points for proceeding with no break into “The Old Churchyard,” making explicit the idea that life proceeds directly to the grave. — SD
Rose Cousins captures the paradox of longing for release from the bonds of lost love, while simultaneously clutching every remaining trace as tightly as possible, downright exquisitely in “Freedom.” As all humans touched by love know intimately, liberation from the pain, the loneliness, the regrets, and what-ifs of romance feels like a mirage shimmering just out of reach. Cousins could have focused an entire song on the finality of this freedom alone, but anyone currently or formerly heartbroken knows that seeking this fabled oasis risks undercutting all that was beautiful, joyous, and heartening in love to begin with. And so “Freedom” grapples with these disparate truths of human connection all together. The result is heart-wrenching and comforting, hopeful and despondent, contradictory and perfectly accurate. — JH
Both natives of southwestern Virginia — a cradle of old-time, bluegrass, country, and their offshoots — Sam Gleaves and Tyler Hughes are experts and acolytes of their region’s musical forms. This swathe of Virginia perfectly defines the forgotten, rural areas of working class America that have felt the political and economic turmoil of the last decade most intensely. But Gleaves and Hughes not only claim their homeland completely, they adore it, focusing on the love that brings us all together instead of the differences we would let drive us apart. With a soft, loping, open-back banjo and a simple acoustic guitar, they evoke the era of the Carter Family as they sing in two-part harmony, “When we love, we will make America great again.” — JH
A guy steals a car, lies his ass off, abandons his family, ends up on the wrong side of the law. That sentence sums up new songs by two singer/songwriters with remarkable catalogs that rarely intersect. On “News from Colorado,” Steve Earle sings from the point of view of a character just barely hanging on, perhaps some version of himself from years ago. He hears of his family’s schisms, but lacks the emotional wherewithal to do anything but shake his head and flinch at the ring of the telephone. “Brother stole another car,” Earle sings. “Sister says he’s in the Army.” The song — co-written with his niece, Emily Earle, and ex-wife, Alison Moorer — refuses to provide any easy closure, as the narrator once again realizes his own powerlessness.
Perhaps that troubled brother is the same subject of Aimee Mann’s “Lies of Summer,” now drugged into oblivion by well-meaning doctors. She balances her sympathy over his predicament with an almost scientific fascination over the young man’s deeds, wondering if they’re bad enough to warrant such harsh treatment. Both songs refuse any easy closure, as both narrators only gradually realize their complete inability to offer any comfort or exact any change in the situation. — SD
The Wailin Jennys could have never known when they were recording their latest album, Fifteen, just how powerfully relevant their cover of Tom Petty’s “Wildflowers” would be for 2017. But then October 2 happened — the day of Petty’s unexpected passing and just three weeks before the street date of the Jennys’ first record in six years. If their lilting, perfectly harmonized version wasn’t already a strong contender for my top song, the weight of remembrance it now carries easily makes it one of this year’s best. — Amy Reitnouer
Admittedly, I don’t listen to commercial country radio because I have zero interest in songs comparing women’s bodies to curvy roads. But, in an alternate radio universe that had some measure of thoughtfulness and taste, Will Hoge and Charlie Worsham shoulda/coulda/woulda had huge country hits with “Little Bit of Rust” and “Cut Your Groove,” respectively. Alas, these guys are thinking man’s songwriters so the Chevy truck in Hoge’s tune, while a part of the story in its own right, also serves as a metaphor for a marriage that’s lost a bit of its original shine. One of numerous stand-out tracks on the record, “Little Bit of Rust” is catchy as all get-out and features Sheryl Crow on harmonies, to boot. With Worsham, “Cut Your Groove” sounds like a really good Keith Urban tune … just … better. The hook is irresistible and memorable, the message universal and positive, so its lack of success is inexplicable. Go home, country radio. You’re clearly drunk. — KMc
Dear Future Active Shooter,
Pain. It’s not something you can smooth away with ice cream or puppies or vodka. Pain hammers on the bones, electrifies the blood, and makes the idea of living in your own skin unbearable. I’ve known pain. I’ve known the urge for revenge and the unrelenting desire to make it stop. I’ve made mistakes, so many mistakes. I’ve known humiliation, loneliness, lovelessness, and desperation. I’ve known times when the simple act of drawing a breath seemed like more than I could handle. I know you’re suffering, and I know there’s nothing worse.
Anger. It’s very efficient fuel. It can burn books, bras, buildings, and bridges. Empires collapse in its wake. Families suffocate on its permeating scent. Children, like oil-soaked birds, peck and scratch and fight in foolhardy attempts to drown the fumes. I’ve known anger. I’ve been the bully and the bullied. In the heat of the moment, I’ve broken dinner plates, hearts, coffee mugs, window panes, and promises. I’ve wished people dead … I know you’re angry, and I know you have every right to be.
You’re only human. You feel. You touch and taste. You hurt. At the same time, I’m not sure if you’re seeing something that’s of great significance to you. Do you see that you’re one part of a whole — a whole race of human beings who feel, touch, taste, and hurt? Do you see that the prognosis of the human condition can be grim? There’s no cure for jealousy, lust, hypocrisy, neglect, absent-mindedness, and so on, and so on. There are only remedies. There are pills that can be taken, mountains that can be climbed, songs that can be sung, airplanes that can be jumped out of, flowers that can be picked, meals that can be cooked, feet that can be wrapped in snuggly socks, and there is rain that can be danced in. Unfortunately, the human condition sometimes creates quite a commotion and sometimes blinds even the razor-sharp eye.
Can you see that your future victims are already victims? They’re victims of circumstance. They’re victims of the same human condition that’s plaguing you. Do you see that they’re already wounded? They’re imperfect, human sons and daughters of flawed, human mothers and fathers. It might appear as though they’re watching a movie, singing along at a concert, learning some algebra, or praising the Lord. Really, they’re remedying a condition. The same condition that you have. They’re going through the motions of being human, existing, breathing, hurting.
Do you see how smart and vital you are? I’ve never prepared for a mass shooting, but I’ve prepared for other things. I’ve planned parties, weddings, divorces, and funerals. I’ve studied for tests in an effort to earn a degree, and I’ve gone to psychiatrists who’ve assisted me in planning to not have a nervous breakdown. I’ve organized successful career events, and I’ve been peeled off the floor by my brother after planning to drink myself through the holiday season instead of going home to see my family. Plans are difficult to make. They require a certain level of intelligence and punctuality. You have the ability to put in the hours. You’ve researched, gathered things, written things down, purchased things. You’ve marked dates on calendars, made notes, and talked to business owners. You have so much energy. You have so much to offer. I know that your plan feels like a remedy, and I hate that it’s come to this.
Fear. Do you know how afraid I am? I’m very afraid. I’m scared of so many things. I’m scared to write this letter. I’m scared to go to a movie. I’m afraid of heights. I’m afraid of lows. Anger is the fuel, and fear is the fire. It burns at the depth of any and every act of violence. It burns like a game of hot potato, so hot that the only way to win is to get rid of it — to throw it to someone else. It burns as if it’s a life living alongside the human part of you. It consumes. It smothers. It burns. It’s an entity and I promise you … it’s okay. I know you’re scared, and I know it’s hard.
Someone loves you. In fact, I love you. I know your intentions can be perceived as evil. But, I also know that you’re only a human who was raised by and with other humans. I know you’ve been abused, neglected, hurt, poked, prodded, made fun of, left out of, taken advantage of … I get it. All of those things have been done to me, and I’m guilty of doing those things to others. We’re living in an unjust world. We’re scared, oil-covered, wounded birds, broken little boys and girls.
Pain, anger, and fear don’t discriminate but, in the worst case scenario, they can annihilate the connection we have to this very human existence. I know you’re in pain. I am, too. I know you’re scared because I am, too. I’m a part of you, and you’re a part of me. At the heart of everything, we love each other under one condition. The human one that makes it impossible for us to get it just right. I love you, nonetheless. I’ve devoted my whole morning to you. I missed an important work event because I felt compelled to tell you that your life and the lives of others matter more to me in this moment than anything else.
Again, you’re wicked smart. You’re cunning. You’re vital and crucial. You feel so greatly and so sensitively. You’re valuable. You count. I promise. There’s another remedy for what is ailing you. There’s a hand, a spark, a tree, a kiss, a warm coat, an apology, a smile, a tear. You’ve proven that you understand how to make things happen. You’ve proven that you have laser-focused energy. Slow down for a minute and take a breath. I know it feels like more than you can handle. It’s the same air I’m breathing when I feel like breathing is more than I can handle.
You don’t have to do this. You can make a new plan. You can start over. You can be honest with someone, after someone, after someone, until someone jumpstarts a connection to the human part of you. You can be honest with me. I won’t judge you. I’ll know you because I know myself. We’re all victims. We’re all scared, and we’re all just trying to get from one day to the next. I’m here for you. I’m connected to you at the most primal place. I’m offering mercy, and I’m asking for mercy. It’s hard, but it’s possible to make a plan to live and let others live alongside pain, anger, and fear. They’re just parts of the whole, like you and me. There is also chocolate ice cream. There are puppies and vodka. Survive this cruel, beautiful world with me. I dare you. I love you.
— Angaleena Presley. Nashville, Tennessee. 11.7.17
Photo credit: frankieleon via Foter.com / CC BY
In lieu of having a full blown panic attack, I’m just going to tell the truth. So goes the story of my life. It’s Thursday, and I’m on my period. I’m sitting in the corner of my kitchen where I created a writing/reading nook. I’ve never read a book here, nor have I ever written anything here. I’m pretty sure I looked at pictures of reading nooks online all day and decided that I couldn’t be taken seriously as a writer if I didn’t have one. After five years, I’m taking her on her maiden voyage. My legs are propped up on a thrift store coffee table and my stomach is cramping like the dickens. For months, I’ve been toiling over a promise I made to Kelly McCartney and the reckoning is upon me. We were standing backstage at an Amy Ray show when she mentioned she was organizing an Indigo Girls tribute. Before the words spilled fully out of her mouth, I screamed with the glee of a school girl, “I want to do ‘Ghost’!!!”
Damn Emily Sailers and her Asus7 Bm C# diminished minor chord finger-picking wizardry. Damn her haunting yet calming melodies that melt like butter on the ear. Damn Amy Ray’s gravely, heart-stopping tone and her unmatched, unhinged low harmonies. Damn them both for writing and recording complex, profound songs that are hellishly hard to cover. Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?
I was introduced to these two bitches in the back seat of a 1992 Mustang LX. A few friends and I had scraped up enough money for a road trip, and we were heading to New Orleans where the legal drinking age was still 18. Jackie was the girl that every girl needed on such an adventure. She was a no nonsense, straight-talking teenager who could read a map, keep up with a purse, and pass for a 20-something. Her taste in music was indelible. Without knowing that it would change the course of my life, she popped in [Indigo Girls’] Rites of Passage and began to sing along. By the end of the journey, I not only knew every word on this album, but I had come to really, finally know God.
I always believed in God. When I was a kid, God was a robed man with a beard and a bow staff. I said my prayers every night — not to feel closer to him, but rather, to feel less afraid. He was a man who, on more than one occasion, wrecked his own masterful creation with flood and famine. He was a man who turned a woman into a pillar of salt for merely looking in the direction of sin. I remember one particular Sunday school lesson that was based on the Prophesies of Nostrodamus. I was only 8. Upon dismissal, my teacher said, “See y’all next Sunday … maybe.” He was convinced that the world was going to end, and I left that day believing the same. I slept at the foot of my mom and dad’s bed all week and waited for this all powerful, cantankerous, controlling man to rain down fire and vanquish the earth. I wondered if I had accidentally taken the mark of the beast. I had a real thing for Cracker Jack tattoos and thought maybe I had licked and rubbed one too many times. My sister and brother were babies, and I looked around my house and yard for places to hide them. I didn’t want them to burn.
The Bible Belt put many a whelp on my little mountain soul, but that day, in that car, on that Southern stretch of highway, that sound penetrated my indoctrinated notions and those wounds began to heal. Mortality, brutality, unrequited love, forbidden love, reincarnation, gravity, chicken men, ego, the dream-sucking underbelly of commercial Nashville, paper tigers, truth, justice, Jonas and Ezekial … the weight of it burst into my heart like a live wire on a downed power line, electrocuting my sheltered ideals, shocking me harder than any Nazarene horror story ever had. My murderous image of the man upstairs died in that car in the blinding light of this record and, boy, was I glad. That dude was scary.
In the years to come, I would listen to and study every nuance of Rites of Passage, as though I had stumbled upon some heavenly relic. I bought the official tablature book from my college record store. I used it to try and learn to play “Ghost” and, in the process, accidentally taught myself to finger-pick. I hung a giant poster of Emily and Amy above my bed in my dorm room. I waxed poetic about ideas they introduced me to and I sang a novice version of “Closer to Fine” around bonfires. I saved up and bought tickets to see them play at the EKU Alumni Coliseum. My boyfriend at the time was a student/artist liaison. Right before the show started, he came to my seat desperately searching for a safety pin because one of the girls was having a wardrobe malfunction. I happened to have one on the overalls I was wearing. They were so worn out that one of the buttons had fallen off the bib. A safety pin was literally holding one side of them onto my body. Without a second thought, I gave him the pin and watched the show half-naked so that an Indigo Girl didn’t have to be. My boyfriend got them to sign my tab book and I nearly died. Twenty years later, I would find myself writing a song with Emily, secretly starstruck and in awe of how she effortlessly played those damned major seventh and diminished minor chords that my collegiate fingers could not master.
And that brings me full circle. When I squealed, “I want to do ‘Ghost’!!!” what I meant was, “Hey, I learned to play the intro and first two verses of ‘Ghost’ in college and, although there’s no way I could possibly learn the whole thing and actually pull it off on some stage, the sheer excitement of being a part of an Indigo Girls tribute has seemingly hijacked my common sense. Moreover, the adrenaline that I feel pulsating through my veins is tricking me into believing that I surely could learn that song and perform it in front of an audience.” Well Kelly, I am, in fact, a charlatan. I am an Indigo Girls super-fan who follows in their footsteps yet dares not to try and fill their shoes. They mean the world to me because they helped me define my place in it.
I know lots of Indigo Girls records by heart but Rites of Passage literally introduced me to my spirit. I honestly didn’t know I had one. The God I know now is a tender, forgiving, infinite source of light and energy that is available to every living, breathing thing. Not something to fear, but something to lean into and trust. My friend Jackie has since passed away, and I can’t help but think about her being on the other side, having all the answers, having exposed me to the very thing that challenged me to ask the hard questions about religion, love, life, and past lives. I’m grateful for having known Jackie. I’m grateful for road trips and Southern women who sing about whatever the hell they want. I’m grateful to God for blessing this earth with music and I’m grateful that Kelly McCartney has the patience of Job. In honor of full transparency, I’ve wiggled out of about six deadlines and changed my mind 100 times about what I was going do to pay homage to two people for which my gratitude is beyond measure. It’s definitely beyond some butchered rendition of a song as beautiful and articulate as “Ghost.” So, this is my offering … a psychotic fan rant brought to you from the confines of a professional songwriter’s virgin reading nook.
Amy and Emily, thank you so very much for opening doors, for raging against the machine, for vamping harmonies that give goosebumps, for being brave beyond words, and for spouting philosophy with twang enough for a little girl in Kentucky to understand that she doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. I love you both. Now, I have to go change my tampon and down a bunch of ibuprofen before I decide to delete all of this and try to sculpt some shit or something.
Peace,
Angaleena Presley
“I never kept up with the fashions. I believed in wearing what I thought looked good on me.” — Bettie Page
Angaleena Presely doesn’t look like anyone else in town. Her long legs, jet black hair, and striking smile set her apart from the average Jane. The mix of her DIY attitude and a retro-inspired wardrobe lands her somewhere between Bettie Page and Rosie the Riveter. Her look is bold, feminine, and tough. She affectionately self-describes this style as “rocka-hillbilly — a mix of rockabilly, punk, ’50s housewife, and white trash,” and I love it!
Although the “rocka-hillbilly” personality was always there, it was a long road of experimenting with fashion before Angaleena nailed down her distinct look. Attempting to keep up with endless trends proved exhausting, so she decided to scratch that approach and do it all her own way. She quit seeing what was readily available on the hangers and shelves of department stores as her only clothing options. Inspired by the life of Bettie Page, Angaleena began creating her look with one rule in mind: Whatever she wore had to flatter her body. Sometimes this is as easy as cutting up a tee-shirt or jeans and, other times, it requires the help of a seamstress.
The combination of Angaleena’s single style law, eye for unique dresses, and love of vintage pin-up style lead her to find a woman in her hometown who could make her clothing dreams come true. Angaleena began providing the fabric and patterns, and her seamstress took care of the rest. Whether the fabric is Western-themed covered in horses or a classic polka dot pattern, all the custom-made dresses share a ’40s/’50s silhouette that Angaleena can rock the hell out of.
I really appreciate the attention given to the details of her overall look. Angaleena credits Tiffany Gifford, her stylist from her Pistol Annie days, for her ability to accessorize. Her hair is always styled in big, loose Hollywood glam curls or pinned up in victory rolls. And she never forgets to add a bandana, flower, or headband to top off the ‘do. She also keeps her makeup classic with red nails, red lips, and winged black eye-liner. Around her neck, you’re most likely to find either a Sylvia Plath Cameo necklace or a string of pearls from her husband. All these combined details keep her style consistent, when switching back and forth from dressed up to dressed down.
Even when Angaleena is keeping it casual, she’s true to that retro silhouette with high-waisted pants, cropped sweaters/jackets, and favorite tees. It’s pretty common for her to take a pair of scissors to the tees to make them fit her frame better — another trick she picked up from her Pistol Annie era.
The retro rocka-hillbilly look is hard to nail, but Angaleena Presley is doing it right!
