Appalachia Archives - The Bluegrass Situation

The Glittering Golden Grass of The Brothers Comatose

Posted on October 30, 2025October 31, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

Bay Area five-piece The Brothers Comatose were actually founded by the brothers Morrison: that would be Ben on guitar and lead vocals and his brother Alex on banjo. The Morrisons came from a musical family and were influenced as much by classic rock as they were by country and bluegrass – their first album, Songs from the Stoop (2010), even contains a cover of The Rolling Stones’ “Dead Flowers.” Initially, the band’s lineup included bassist Steve Height, fiddler Phil Brezina, and mandolin player Greg Fleischut.

In the 15 years since, they have stayed busy both in the studio and on the road. As anyone who has seen the band’s concerts can attest, The Brothers Comatose are anything but… comatose. Their live performances are known to be high energy and often include audience participation. They have supported everyone from Gillian Welch & David Rawlings to Yonder Mountain String Band to Trampled By Turtles. In addition, the group has played festivals like Hardly Strictly Bluegrass and Outside Lands.

The Brothers Comatose returned at the end of July with their fifth studio outing, Golden Grass. The title track, which also opens the album, came from an unlikely source. “A fan started calling our sound ‘golden grass,’” explains Ben Morrison. “And the phrase just felt right.”

Golden Grass arrives three years after the band’s prior album and continues their mix of traditional bluegrass and rock. But behind the scenes, there have been some changes. The Brothers recorded Golden Grass in two separate installments with two different producers, Greg Holden and Tim Bluhm. While they were making the disc, mandolin player Greg Fleischut decided to leave the group. His replacement, Addie Levy, is the first woman in the band and, at just 23, significantly younger than her fellow members. “We always thought it would be cool to have a female voice to hit those high harmonies,” says Morrison. “Addie’s such an incredible mandolin and fiddle player, but she’s also a great singer and songwriter in her own right.”

Golden Grass is probably a bit more diverse than the band’s previous albums. Beyond being their first release to include a woman singer and mandolin player, it’s more collaborative in general. Ben wrote several songs, of course, but other tracks were penned by Levy, Brezina, and Alex Morrison. Still, Golden Grass maintains a pretty consistent sound over its 10 songs. The title track sounds like a lost Allman Brothers tune from back in the day and other highlights include lovely ballads like “Home Again” (featuring Lindsay Lou on guest vocals) and “My Friend” as well as the funny, rollicking “The IPA Song.”

I recently had the pleasure of catching up with Ben Morrison and Addie Levy for BGS.

To start with, tell me a little about the making of Golden Grass. I understand there were some changes between your last album and this one. Addie obviously is the new addition. And I guess Greg was the guy who left?

Ben Morrison: Yeah, Greg was in the band before. He left like halfway through the album. We recorded it in chunks. So we recorded half the album, we were working through the rest of the songs, and in that process, he left the band. Addie joined and recorded the second half of the album with us. But it’s funny. There are four mandolin players on [Golden Grass]. We had a couple of guest mandolin players on the album before Addie joined. Ronnie McCoury’s on there. It’s a good variety, I guess. [Laughs]

Tell me about the title track, which is also the first song on the album.

BM: That’s a good question. It started out with us trying to identify ourselves – that age-old question when you ask a musician what kind of music they play. “Well, it’s kind of hard to define. We’re jazz and pop and metal and boy band!” [Laughs] You know, it’s definitely pulling a lot from the bluegrass world. But also from a bunch of other influences.

We kept posting these things on Facebook and there’s this guy, Cyrus Clark, I believe his name is. He kept commenting about a lot of music coming from California – string band music specifically – going back to Old & In the Way. He kept saying, “Golden Grass! Brothers Comatose, Molly Tuttle, and AJ Lee.” We thought that was really cool.

I think I had just written it down in a notebook one day. And we did a cowrite – myself, our fiddle player Phil, and the guy that produced the second half of the record, Tim Bluhm. I was like, “What if we called it Golden Grass?” We started name-dropping different bands in the lyrics and kind of giving them a little shout out. We had fun with that and went with it.

“Home Again” – reading the press release, I know what inspired it. But just listening to the lyrics, I [probably] would have known anyway. For those of us on the East Coast, tell me a bit more about what [the wildfires] were like and how it affected the song.

BM: That wasn’t a personal story; it was about good friends of ours who lost their house in the Santa Cruz Mountains fires a few years back. For those of you not in California, there’s a fire season [here] where fires can just rip through and destroy communities. It’s pretty messed up and now it’s literally close to home. Some good friends of ours – all their property and their house got destroyed. I think it was during the pandemic and it hit me pretty hard. I was just really feeling for them and that song kinda came pretty quickly.

We had the song and thought about getting somebody to help sing it with us. Lindsay Lou’s been a friend for a long, long time and she’s such a great singer. We sent it to her and she was on it. It’s about a couple losing their house and building back together. So it made more sense to me as a duet.

I like the ballads on the album. Addie, I think you were the one who wrote “Blue Mountain?”

Addie Levy: I am.

Tell me a bit about the inspiration for that song.

AL: I’m from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. I grew up in Appalachia my whole life. [The mountains] have always been a very big inspiration for my writing and who I am as a person.

I was driving to work one day and was listening to the Infamous Stringdusters’ [version of the Cure’s] “Just Like Heaven” and got really inspired by having a keen lick throughout the whole song. I was like, “I need to write a song like that.” It all came to me within the drive to work. I showed it to my mom when I got home and she kind of looked at me with concern. She was like “Are you and your boyfriend okay?” I was like, “What does that have to do with the song I just played you?” I accidentally wrote the entire thing about him – which is bad ‘cause he cheats on me in the song! But he doesn’t in real life! [Laughs]

There were all these little pieces. Like, I pass his exit to work every day. He knows my Starbucks order. I painted the walls blue in his bedroom in one of our first months of dating. I pulled all these little things I didn’t mean to. Then I had to show it to him. I was like, “I am so sorry I wrote this song about you!” But when you’re in a nice, healthy relationship – I don’t have that much stuff to complain about so I can’t really write about it!

“The IPA Song” is a fun track. Anything either of you want to share with me about that?

BM: When we play shows, we like to get people onstage to help us out – you know, for sing-alongs or whatever it might be. I think we’ve had more children onstage for “The IPA Song” than any other song, which is ridiculous. But they make signs and stuff – like the IPA circled with a line through it. We had a 15-year-old last night playing mandolin with us for that song! I mean, the lyrics are goofy, but I guess it’s a catchy one. It’s been a fun song to play live.

Going back to the Bay Area music scene. In the late ‘60s, it was known for bands like The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and the whole psychedelic thing. And in the late ‘70s, there was something of a punk scene. Even in the ‘90s, there were bands like Counting Crows that recorded in San Francisco.

What is the scene like now? And with all these different musical sounds that have come from the city, how did you settle on more of an Americana/bluegrass sound?

BM: The band got its start in 2008 in San Francisco. My brother and I were living in a house on Haight Street – right in the thick of it. Phil lived a few blocks down, so he would come over. We continued to live in the city for a long time and there was a bustling scene. With bluegrass too – like this [past] weekend was the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. I kind of credit that festival with my direct interest with this kind of music. It’s massive, three-quarters of a million people throughout the weekend. It’s all free. Huge headliners. It’s not all bluegrass but it definitely leans in that direction.

It was so cool being exposed to different kinds of music that I hadn’t really listened to before. What was also cool was watching artists play – Del McCoury, John Prine, Emmylou Harris – all these players that were older. It seemed like the older you get, the more respect you get in this world. [That] was interesting, because I felt like in the rock world there was sort of a shelf life. Like “Oh, you’re in your late 20s in a rock band? Give it up, kid.” That kind of thing. But in this world, when you’re 70, you’re doing it! That was always so cool to me.

So San Francisco does have a pretty cool scene. Probably 10 years ago, a lot of people started moving out because tech started moving in [and it became] more expensive. But I’ve heard that it’s getting cool again. I don’t hang out there as much anymore ‘cause we’re on the road a lot and I’ve got two kids. I mean, Addie probably hangs out there more than I do.

AL: Anytime I’m in town, I try to find a bluegrass gang. There’s a couple of bars [where] I’ve made some good friends. Sometimes there are jams, sometimes they’re just drinking. But there are some really cool musicians in town.

Ben, I know your brother is also in the band. Tell me what Alex brings to The Brothers Comatose that is unique.

BM: Alex has swagger beyond belief. [Laughs] Is that what you would call it?

AL: Yeah. [He’s] the most photogenic, most in the vibe of every situation.

BM: And the way he plays, too. To me, he plays banjo like Keith Richards plays guitar. You know, he’s not trying to be the Yngwie Malmsteen of the banjo or anything. He’s just trying to make it groovy, stanky, in the pocket. It’s just got such good feel to it. And also, he’s a great songwriter and singer. But a lot of his influences come from [bands like] The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin. We used to listen to a lot of classic rock when we were kids.

Addie, I guess I wanted to ask you what it’s like so far as the new member of the band and also the first woman. Crashing the boys’ club, as it were.

AL: My very first show with them was in Idaho. I had never met any of them, I had one phone call with them and I had never been west of Nashville! You know, I grew up traveling up and down the East Coast and never really left. I remember touching down in Sun Valley and the realization hit that I knew two people there and they were leaving the next day. And I was like, “I’m gonna get murdered. I am gonna die out here!” [Laughs] I never heard of the festival, it was in the mountains somewhere… I was like, “This is the end.”

[I was] super anxious to start. I mean, our first show was a headlining slot that Sunday. That was terrifying. But [the Brothers Comatose are] just the greatest people. They’re so welcoming. And I’m an only child. So they’re really the siblings [I never had]… They’re the best.

Photo Credits: Lead image courtesy of Burning House Management. Alternate image by Jessie McCall.

What Is a Cowboy Ballad?

Posted on October 17, 2025October 17, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

Sam Shackleton is a good example of the successful contemporary songwriter – a Scottish traditional folk singer with some formal education in musicology. He posts excellent, moody clips online; he goes viral enough to open for bands and artists like the Mary Wallopers or Willi Carlisle; and he releases music on Bandcamp. Though he could easily slide into a minor but culturally significant record label, he released his new album Scottish Cowboy Ballads and Early American Folk Songs independently; when a writer emails him, the answers come back on a plain Hotmail account, his avatar a famous 19th century painting of Robbie Burns.

There is something telling in this amalgamation: the 200 years of cowboy songs, the move between America and Scotland, the slightly old-fashioned email address. Even Shackelton’s very contemporary distribution methods envelop other kinds of tradition, the busker as troubadour or a work song floating across oceans. For example, when he sings “The Butcher Boy,” his framing includes that Mary Wallopers’ cover from a couple of years ago, the Sinead O’Connor version before that, and the Tommy Makem version before that. And he also echoes those who sang before them. “The Butcher Boy” is not even a cowboy song, though. When he offers songs like “Chisholm Trail” or “I Ride an Auld Paint,” something shifts in how he sings them.

The cowboy song is muddled – it is the expression of poor, often Black, Hispanic, or Indigenous agricultural workers, telling explicit stories about their lives – but like a shanty, it is also a song that aids labor, in passing the time and moving the livestock along. These dual instincts of work and entertainment gathered into an oral tradition, which was translated into grand public spectacles. These spectacles were later depicted on radio, film, and television, abstracted and cleaned up. When a singer chooses to return to these songs, their versions are always paratextual – they are making choices of interpretation. When Shackleton sings the verses in “Chisholm Trail” about punching bosses or selling cowboy gear, he is foregrounding a kind of economic subtext, which might be less fun and seems more serious.

It reminds me a bit of growing up in Alberta (maybe because on “Roving Cowboy” Shackleton sings about crossing the Rockies and the “cold and distant plains”), or my relations in Calgary, that city mostly named after Scottish figures, romantic still for a set of cultures that doesn’t exist. How much easier it is to consider the romance of the West without considering the isolation of it all. Men would be sent from places like Scotland to the prairies as part of a great colonial project; the rascal sons of minor aristocracy, rampaging across the land. That roving grew into myths of grand cowboy narratives. The big rodeo turned into a banal bacchanal. When Shackleton sings in “Roving Cowboy” about leaving “his good old father” or “his friends and home there,” he refuses the grandeur and returns to the profound isolation. A kind of homecoming in place and in time that may never occur.

Talking to Shackleton via email for Good Country, I learned that an album I first thought was a small jape was really a sophisticated conversation with these traditions, lands, and desires.

I am curious about why cowboy ballads and also how you define a cowboy ballad – some of the songs seem very clearly part of that tradition, but some to be an extension of it. Is “Butcher Boy” a cowboy ballad?

Sam Shackelton: I’ve always been a fan of cowboy music since spending many hours watching old Westerns, when I’d go through and spend the weekends with my dad as a kid in a wee Scottish town called Bridge of Alan. For me, the best part about them was the music, singing, whistling, and yodeling. Even to this day I think it’s pretty hard to find anything cooler than Dean Martin singing “My Rifle, My Pony and Me” in Rio Bravo.

Much of my early musical influences were inspired by my father. I remember vividly the first time he showed me the excellent Woodstock: 3 Days of Peace & Music documentary of the 1969 festival, which first led me down the path of learning to play and wanting to be a musician – though at the time I didn’t think I’d ever be good enough to step on a stage. In regard to the album title, I originally was going to just call the album Scottish Cowboy Ballads, but decided to throw in the “Early American Folk Songs” to allow me to add a broader range of songs to the album such as “The Butcher Boy” or “O Death.”

Could you talk a little bit about the loops of influence which exist in folk music circles. The Scottish ballads which end up in Appalachia, from the 18th century onward, but also the dual folk revivals in the 1950s and 1960s? Where do you see your place in the ebb and flow of these revivals or these conversations?

Mainly through my own research and watching many hours of old music videos and documentaries on YouTube as a teenager, I discovered the American and Scottish folk revivals of the 1950s and ‘60s and knew I’d finally found my musical home, so to speak. I strongly believe that what you put in is what you get out, as a musician, when it comes to inspiration, so I deeply immersed myself in this music for many years. Still to this day only really listen to music from this period or those who can capture a similar sound today. I was deeply inspired by Woody Guthrie and also by his close friend, Cisco Houston, especially his album, Cowboy Ballads, which was a big influence on my latest album and much of my earlier music too.

I’ve always been drawn to less commercially popular musicians, such as Walt Robertson or Alex Campbell, those with incredible talent but whose work went generally under the radar in favor of bigger, more commercialised folk artists. People often talk of Guthrie when referring to the folk revival, but even his songs were greatly aided by Cisco’s harmonies and Sonny Terry’s whooping harmonica, another huge inspiration of mine.

I also had the great privilege of studying at the School of Scottish Studies at the University of Edinburgh for 5 years, where I got both my undergraduate and master’s degrees. The School of Scottish Studies was founded during the Scottish folk revival in the 1950s and was based on a vast collection of field recordings collected primarily by Calum MacLean – brother of the legendary Gaelic poet Sorley MacLean – and renowned ethnomusicologist and poet Hamish Henderson. [Henderson] made many of his early Scottish recordings with Alan Lomax during his time in Scotland in the ‘50s.

I focused primarily on Scottish/Celtic studies, Scots-American emigration and musical traditions, and ethnomusicology, with a specific focus on the work of Alan Lomax – and what I identified as the new “digital folk revival,” which is happening right now on social media. In my masters thesis, I argued that modern online digital communications technologies (such as social media platforms like YouTube) are facilitating multiple new folk revivals. Lomax prophetically identified this in his 1972 paper “Appeal for Cultural Equity,” where he identified both the risk of mass communication technologies to traditional folk cultures, but also their extraordinary ability to preserve and facilitate folk revivals by allowing everyone to share and participate in folk traditions on a vastly more even playing field. All you need now is a mobile phone and you can participate in the digital folk revival, sharing and listening to songs from every corner of the world.

In relation to your original question, it is indeed true that many of the songs that were sung during the folk revival in North America at that time (and throughout American history) also had a very close and deep connection to the mass emigration of people from Scotland, Ireland, England, and Wales during the 18th and 19th centuries and beyond. This is evident in songs such as “Pretty Saro,” which is also on the album. This was a song sung commonly in England but was lost to time, only to be rediscovered being sung in the mountains of Appalachia by early song collectors. And, as such, the song became popular again across the Atlantic. This is a perfect example of how these early folk revivals facilitated this full circle of cross-cultural transfer.

How was this album affected by the large-scale American touring you have done in the last few years?

My time spent touring in the USA and Canada was certainly a big influence on this album. I traveled all over the states, starting in Nashville, where I then traveled through Kentucky and Tennessee with my good friend and director of the YouTube channel GemsOnVHS, Anthony Simpkins – his channel being another great example of the digital folk revival in action. We recorded a bunch of amazing music in the hollers and I met many amazing musicians during my time there, such as Benjamin Tod and Ashley Mae from Lost Dog Street Band.

[They] kindly invited us to spend the night at their house in rural Kentucky along with Jason O’Dea to shoot some guns (my first time doing so in the USA) and play some songs around the campfire. I remember playing Benjamin Tod an old Scottish ballad called “Tramps and Hawkers” on the banjo by the fire, to which he then responded that he was also aware of versions of the same song that had been sung in the American folk tradition. Again, highlighting this close cross-cultural connection between the Scottish and American musical folk traditions. I then toured all across the East and West Coasts of the USA and Canada with my good pals, legendary Irish folk band the Mary Wallopers, before selling out a couple shows of my own on the East Coast.

I noticed that the album’s songs are mostly very short – some under two minutes. Can you talk a little bit about that? Is that related to busking? How else does busking appear in these kinds of recordings? How does busking online relate to busking in person?

Since this is the first ever album I will be releasing on 12” vinyl LPs, I decided to try and fit as many songs on it as possible. Obviously, due to the physical limitations of the vinyl medium, I had to make sure my album was within a certain length of time, hence why some of the songs may seem shorter. Although there are a good few short songs on there, you will indeed find a few longer ones such as “Old Rosin the Bow” or “The Blackest Crow.”

I know that the Mary Wallopers sing “Butcher Boy,” and it is often a touchstone for Irish singers (the Mary Wallopers, Lankum, Lisa O’Neil, Sinead O’Connor, the Clancy Brothers), but also the Irish diaspora. In fact, in a live recording from the Clancys, Tommy Makem calls it, “Well known in America.” What is your relationship to both the song and the people listening to it? How do you make songs thought commonly to be American or Irish to be Scottish?

“The Butcher Boy” is a class wee ballad and you are right in noting that it is indeed popular amongst Irish artists such as The Clancy Brothers, their version being my favorite. However, the history of this ballad and its origins are far more complex, as this ballad is actually derived from multiple old English broadside ballads such as “Sheffield Park,” “The Brisk Young Sailor,” and “The Squire’s Daughter,” to name but a few. Many versions of this song have been collected across England, Ireland, Scotland, and North America. It is perhaps one of the best examples of a cross-cultural folk ballad I can think of.

I had actually stopped singing this song for a long time after what happened with my dad, as the later verses were far too similar to what I had experienced with my father’s suicide. But, despite how hard it was for me to sing again, I felt it absolutely needed to be included on this album. If anything comes from people hearing that song in particular, I hope that they show some love to the people in their lives who may be struggling. It’s not easy being a human on this cruel old rock hurtling through space, so we all need all the love and support we can get.

I noticed that you dedicated this album to your father – what was your relationship to him?

Yes, I dedicated this album to my father, as it’s my first major release since he tragically took his own life in the summer of 2023. We also used to sing many of these songs from the album together when I was younger. As I mentioned at the start, my father has always been a huge influence on my music and I can say for certain that I wouldn’t be a musician today if it weren’t for him. From buying me my first guitar to constantly taking me on stage to perform with him as a child.

My mother and father actually used to be in a band together before I was born called Big Shacks. My mother, Kim, was the singer and my father, Norman, was the lead guitarist. I have many fond memories of busking with my dad on the streets of Edinburgh and Glasgow as a child, too. It was something that brought us very close together over the years. When he died, it really took a huge toll on me. I was actually down in England opening for Willi Carlisle when it happened and I was also in the process of getting my American O-1 visa at the time. I decided to still go ahead with the first American tour a few months later, regardless. However, afterwards I was in a really bad place mentally, so I decided to take a long break from performing until I finally felt ready to return. In that time, I recorded this album and as such I have dedicated it to his memory. I’ve now also returned to touring in the last few months and will be announcing a really big tour of my own in the very near future!

What makes a Scottish Cowboy different than other cowboys?

Scotland has a very long history of cattle droving, going back many hundreds if not thousands of years. There is indeed much to be said on the topic of Scottish cowboys and their influence on the conceptualization of the American cowboy and the Wild West. A good place to start, if you want to research this fascinating topic further, is the fantastic book by Rob Gibson called Highland Cowboys: From the Hills of Scotland to the American Wild West. In it, he details the links between the two cultures, as not only did the thousands of emigrants from the Scottish Highlands and Lowlands bring with them their musical culture and songs to the New World, they also brought with them their unique way of life and cattle-herding culture and practices. Not to mention the practice of cattle rustling, which although not unique to Scotland was a very common yet serious crime throughout Scottish history.

To further emphasise this connection, I included the song “Chisholm Trail,” as this song is sung about the historic cattle trail that runs from Texas to Kansas, which is named after the famous half-Scottish, half-Cherokee cowboy, Jesse Chisholm.

Photo courtesy of the artist.

Rebecca Porter
Rolls With the Punches

Posted on September 9, 2025September 10, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

Rebecca Porter has earned some much-deserved praise in the past couple years as she has emerged on the national singer-songwriter scene. Following the release of her 2023 EP, Queen of the Local, she drew the eyes and ears of BGS and Good Country’s founder and was invited to perform at Mountain Stage. Not bad for an artist who had only released five songs total.

Now, however, Porter is back with a full-length album, Roll With The Punches, which released August 8. It’s a concept recording that introduces her life story as if it were a 1970s Western film. If that seems an unlikely concept for a Guam-born, Shenandoah Valley-raised singer-songwriter, Porter concedes that maybe it is – at least on the surface.

In her recent conversation with Good Country about the project, Porter talked about how the concept came together, why she thinks people assume her music is going to sound different than it does, and what she hopes listeners gain from tuning in.

Where did the concept for this album come from? Did you have the idea first, or did the songs sort of come together in this way that started to feel cinematic?

Rebecca Porter: Yeah, I had most of the songs written. Some of them I wasn’t playing out, though, because I wasn’t really sure where they fit or what their purpose was. I started writing “Roll with the Punches” and it felt like it went with some of these other songs. We hadn’t even started talking about recording an album. [But] when I put “Roll with the Punches” with these other songs, they all were autobiographical. I felt like they really could be pieced together in this concept and be brought to life through Western cinema.

I grew up watching spaghetti westerns with my stepdad and family, but [this theme] felt like a way to take control of a narrative that [people may not] see coming from a woman – a woman of color – the term itself, “roll with the punches,” turning that on its head with the record and the songs. [It’s about] not just going with the flow or with what’s said that I’m allowed to have and changing what that actually means for me.

I’m sure people ask you all the time about coming from your cultural heritage as a Southern Pacific Islander and growing up in Appalachia. What is identity to you? What’s your relationship with the concept of identity? Did that have anything to do with this album?

When I talk about the concept itself, I try to be intentional about saying that this is my interpretive lens of Western cinematography, because I’m certainly not an expert on Western cinematography. This is just something that I grew up watching and really loved and enjoyed but, like many things, I just didn’t see myself in. I very much loved what it brought about in the way that I connected with it.

Then, my mixed heritage: Being from Guam, having more Indigenous heritage, growing up in rural Virginia from a young age, my parents divorcing. I very physically represent my Pacific Islander heritage, but I’ve been raised in this rural Appalachian state.

I actually just did a radio interview and was talking about not understanding as a child, but understanding [better] as an adult, with the help of therapy, like, “What is my identity? Are there clear boundaries?” [It’s] like the analogy of the person spinning all the plates. There’s all these moving pieces and it’s complicated. There’s trauma involved. [I’m] embracing that I can be more than one thing. Therapy has really helped me take hold of two or more things to be true at once.

A personal struggle is [wondering,] “Am I a good representation of my ancestors, whoever that is?” You know, physically, I really identify and represent my Chamorro heritage, but I wasn’t raised in Guam. I was raised in the States … by my grandmother, who I have identity and connection struggles [with] at times. My mother and I have gone through a lot in our lifetime together and she’s a huge supporter of mine, but there are very big and real aspects of my life – and who I am as a person, [how] I experience the world – that she doesn’t understand. So then how do I deal with that and how do I process that?

You roll with the punches?

You know, I have to admit, as a white lady in Maine, I feel an obligation to underscore identity for the purpose of representation, but I also recognize that my ability to understand that question and how to word it is clunky at best.

I appreciate you asking. I mean, I’ve certainly been in spaces where people immediately think that I don’t belong or there’s this othering. And then I’ve been in spaces where I’m with people who will just come up and ask, “Why did you pick country music?” or “Why did you decide to do this and not this other kind of music – or your music?” It’s like… A) What does that mean? And B) I grew up in rural Virginia, so this is my music.

Let’s talk about the songs on this album, which are so fantastic. What I love about this album is that it does everything country music does. It’s speaking for the average everyday person on a working-class level – like “The Laundry Pile” and “Payday Loans.” But it also doesn’t get trope-y. I wonder if that is a happy accident, or if it’s something you worked really hard on with editing and crafting these songs.

Sometimes it’s a happy accident. With those songs, particularly, I tried to be really intentional about the things I was saying and how I was saying them. [I was] coming from a real place and personal experience with those things. Laundry is something I struggle with. The day I wrote that song, I had piles of laundry that needed to be done and, mentally, I could not get with the program. You have these things you need to do. They’re simple mundane tasks, you know. “Why is this such a big deal?” So I sat on the edge of the bed and I wrote this song.

In my mind, the topic of authenticity … bring[s] it back to identity. You know, people have questioned the authenticity of me singing country music or, you know, my relationship with [country]. You can hear these songs and feel and know that they’re real and they’re coming from a very real place, real experiences. I may not “look like I sing country music” to some people, but that isn’t where the authenticity comes from in my mind.

“Payday Loans” is the same. You know, payday loans were just part of my childhood. I was really struggling with finances as an adult. [I was stuck in] these cycles that I had learned as a young child – the weight of financial stability. I have a five-year-old and I was trying to reconcile how I talk about and deal with money or financial things in front of my son. … Payday loans were this big weight that I was aware of at a very young age. [I thought of] how terrible that entire system is, but then also how it affected me from that time into adulthood.

Listening to you talk about that as a sort of enculturation goes back to the topic of identity. Realizing what you grew up with, what you want to carry forward, what you want to hand to your children, and what you want to let go of.

Identity is all over this record. I didn’t hear it to that depth until you were just explaining payday loans, but it’s really there as a through line. Do you feel like that was a common thread in this album, tying everything together? Reckoning with what you have been handed and, and what you want to give?

One hundred percent. Roll with the punches. I don’t have to just take what I’ve been handed or allowed to have or been given. I’m finding ways that I can make changes for myself and for my son, or if I ever have more children. [I’m] able to break those cycles.

I want to go back to “The Laundry Pile.” I could be projecting, but it feels straight out of the Dolly Parton canon. It’s a small thing, but it’s also so big – literally and figuratively. You get to this line, “That shit ain’t getting put away.” It’s sort of a resignation, but it’s also empowering to be able to make a decision about it.

That makes the song feel bigger than, “Oh my God, I don’t want to do the laundry.” Was that what you were trying to figure out with the song? Or was it really like, “I’m going to write one for the laundry pile, because I don’t want to fold the laundry?”

It was intentional. I think, when I first started writing it, I [thought,] “This is kind of silly.” But you have to make a decision: Are you going to beat yourself up [about] laundry or not?

You know, you have to decide how you’re going to deal with the situation. The option isn’t just, “You have to get it done.” You can sidestep it or you can save it for another day.

What do you hope people walk away from this project with, once they’ve really dug into it?

I want people to see something that hits home for them, either on a musical level or through the lyrics. I want them to feel seen. I want them to know that everything’s going to be OK. There are ways that we all have the capacity to make changes in our lives. We don’t have to just deal with what we’ve been given and keep going with the flow. You might cause upset, whether it’s personally or externally, but you don’t have to accept what people are willing to give you, or what you’re surrounded by.

That certainly does not mean it’s easy to make changes, but I just want people to feel seen and feel, I guess, even the slightest sense of empowerment. There is something that can change even the smallest piece of their day or where they’re at in a relationship. That there’s some music out there [for them].

Photo Credit: Heather Goodloe

Ashley Monroe’s Patchwork Quilt:
Tennessee Lightning

Posted on August 27, 2025September 10, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

“Let me look at your radar,” Ashley Monroe says, pulling out her phone. “I have all kinds of radar apps on here: 24-hour flight radar, storm trackers…” She types in my location. “Yep, it just popped up red,” she says, forebodingly.

We’re speaking over Zoom about her album Tennessee Lightning and, fittingly, a massive storm is rumbling through New York, with loud thunderclaps sending a jolt through our conversation. Monroe is calling from an apartment in West Nashville, which she rents as a creative space in a building shared by fellow musicians and friends Meg McRee, Ben Chapman, and Lukas Nelson. The weather in Nashville is calm for now, but there’s always the chance another tempest could be brewing.

“For a while there I was like, someone’s gotta get me a bunker. ASAP,” she says.

Tennessee Lightning is her sixth studio album (not including the four she’s released as part of supergroup Pistol Annies alongside Miranda Lambert and Angaleena Presley) and her first since 2021’s Rosegold. The latter found her sloughing off the classic country sounds that defined her early work and embracing trap beats and synthy pop moments. Shortly after the release of Rosegold, Monroe underwent treatment for a rare form of blood cancer, a life-altering experience that she’s still processing. Now in remission, she feels newly awash in creative inspiration, breaking the creative silence that immediately followed her diagnosis.

The resulting album, her second as co-producer with GRAMMY-winning producer and engineer Gena Johnson, is a sprawling, 17-song “patchwork quilt” of songs that range from gritty rockers to moony love songs to bracingly stripped-down piano ballads. It’s less story-song-heavy than her beloved early work, but Monroe says that the album – a mix of new and older originals, along with a few carefully chosen covers – is as personal and revealing as anything she’s ever recorded.

“With every song on this record, I feel and see my own personal story in it,” she says. “Maybe I just didn’t need to put the third parties in this time.”

The release of Tennessee Lightning dovetails with the tenth anniversary of The Blade, Monroe’s GRAMMY-nominated 2015 album, which she recently celebrated with an intimate show at The Basement East and it remains fresh on her mind. She spoke to Good Country about her rootsy new sound, whether it’s safe to call this her Americana turn, and how music helps her weather life’s most painful storms.

I’m curious about the title of the album. It’s interesting, because in many ways, this feels like a homecoming, but then it’s also quite different from your earlier music. How did Tennessee Lightning start coming together?

Ashley Monroe: There’s actually a song called “Tennessee Lightning” that I wrote with Shelby Lynne and Jedd Hughes. It’s awesome, but by the end we had over 25 songs and it wasn’t fitting the album anymore. And at that point, it’s almost like Tennessee Lightning had become me, in a way. It’s just a zap of like, “This is everything. Boom.” Gena Johnson is the co-producer and engineer on this record and a dear friend. The two of us loaded up a ton of gear a couple years ago and rented a cabin in East Tennessee. We went to my dad’s grave, we went to see my Granny and Poppy and drove the back roads in Tazewell, Tennessee. We just immersed ourselves in going back to the roots of it all.

We set up the studio there and she recorded me on the front porch, she recorded me in the yard. We started recording “I’m Gonna Run,” which is a song I wrote in 2004, on the same trip as I wrote “Satisfied” and “Used.” We started with that song, and I was really trying not to overthink anything. I was just letting whatever songs needed to come through, come through. I always say this album is like a patchwork quilt of my life, and that applies to my friends that I’ve asked to play on this record: T Bone Burnett, Butch Walker, Brendan Benson, Marty Stuart, Brittney Spencer, Karen Fairchild. I made a joke the other day, “I’ve called in so many favors, I’m going to have to make new friends to call it more favors.”

I think people may be tempted to call this your Americana record. How do you feel about that?

Great. I’ll take that. Americana has been good to me. A lot of Americana radio stations played “Hands on You” when no one else would, and a lot of other songs. So that’s good company.

Also, I’m from East Tennessee, so no one can really hear my voice and say that I’m not country. It’s just there in the accent and the tenor of it. It’s Appalachia. That’s why I think it’s cool to not do something obvious sometimes, to not cut yourself short or shave the edges off. “I’m Gonna Run” reminds me of when Emmylou did Wrecking Ball, just those weird things she did that I love so much. I’ll take Americana all day.

The sound of this record is quite varied as well.

I guess Tennessee Lightning has different types, but it’s all real musicians, it’s all organic. “Amen Love” I was writing with Ashley Ray and Summer Overstreet, whose dad wrote “Forever and Ever Amen.” We wrote the song for Miley Cyrus, and Ashley’s husband recorded the demo. The song ended up not getting cut, but it just kept haunting me. I always like to do a sexy one, like “Hands on You” and “Wild Love,” so I thought it made sense for the young love part of the record.

Then there’s just me and Marty Stuart and Shelby Lynne on “The Touch,” and that’s as country as anything I’ve done. Gena was really good at getting the raw edges and the breaths and everything. “There You Are” was recorded in one take. It’s just me and the piano. I never did it again in the studio, ever. And then there are other songs that are more polished or have different instrumentation, but Tennessee Lightning to me is like a flash of everything. It’s not just one part; it’s all parts.

I’m wondering if maybe not chasing the country radio thing anymore freed you to explore all these different sounds.

I’m sure it did, even though I will say every label I’ve been on – Columbia, then RCA, then Warner LA and Warner Nashville – I’ve been lucky to have label people who were great at the creative part. My first single was “Satisfied,” which didn’t work, but I love that they chose that. Cris Lacy at Warner was also great at helping me pick songs. I didn’t think anyone would like “Hands on You,” but she heard the work tape and convinced me to record it.

When I got dropped by Warner, I thought to myself, “Now I can do anything.” And it’s been fun to explore. Gena is good about feeling when the spirit is moving through. She knows I like to sing in the dark or with candles. We shut the blinds, and I get to sit in that zone, and she captures it. It’s emotional, it’s raw, and I like recording like that without having to think, “What’s the label gonna say?”

You’ve been called a critical darling pretty much throughout your career. With Rosegold, it seemed like the first time the response was more tentative – warmly received, but not quite as glowing from everyone, particularly the “real country” crowd. Did the response to that record influence your approach to this one?

I really didn’t think about that at all, so that’s interesting. Honestly, though, what I will do next is a honky-tonk record. I know my band, and I know exactly what I’m going to do, which is honky-tonk it to the depths. I haven’t done a live thing like that, and I like switching it up. In my mind, what makes a memorable artist, a true artist, is when everything doesn’t sound exactly the same. Tennessee Lightning just felt like, “What are you feeling? What is it?” It’s cool when art reflects what you’re going through at the time, and for me going back to my roots will always have that earthiness.

I’m thankful for all the great reviews and the “critical darling” thing means a lot, especially as someone who doesn’t win awards or get nominated or included, really, in any circle. I’m okay with that, in a way, because I have a certain confidence — I know I have a gift. I know some people will feel it and some people won’t, but no one can deny I’m doing what I was put on this earth to do. I don’t put too much value on what people think of me, especially now after what I’ve been through. I won’t lose sleep over what a critic thinks.

Another thing that came up with Rosegold was this idea of protecting your joy, of not wanting to feel sadness anymore. Tennessee Lightning has songs that are more cutting – “There You Are” almost feels like it could be on The Blade. It made me wonder if your relationship to your art and this idea of protecting your joy changed between this album and the last one.

You know, when I got pregnant was really the first time I thought, “I’ve got to be careful about what enters here.” That doesn’t mean being delusional or not knowing that things can happen, will happen. Of course, something can always come along and bring you to your knees. But it’s about knowing when everything’s okay and shining a light on it and letting it radiate for a little bit. Rosegold was about hyperfocusing on the good and just letting it beam out for a split second.

I don’t mind if music is sad. I kind of prefer it. With this one, there are some sweet love songs, but also not all these songs are new. “My Favorite Movie” was one Vince [Gill] and I wrote in 2015 around The Blade time. He had it on one of his records, and just never did my version of it. “Hot Rod Pipedream” was written in 2015 or 2016, and “Risen Road” was from around the same time.

Let’s talk about The Blade, which just celebrated its tenth anniversary. You played the album through at a show in Nashville recently. What was it like revisiting those songs?

It was so special because I hadn’t really sung those songs. I’m funny about that – I don’t go back and listen to my old records. It’s not like you forget, but you do move on. Singing those songs, even at rehearsal, I got so emotional.

Did any of the songs in particular hit you differently this time?

I was thinking “I Buried Your Love Alive.” I literally felt thunder. I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s a ghost in that one. “Bombshell,” too. At the show I was thinking about how relevant it still is. I still understand the emotion in that song.

In the commentary you recorded at the time, you mentioned that “Bombshell” could be about a few different scenarios. It struck me that you said it could be about a breakup, but it could be about telling someone you have cancer.

I remember that. I forgot until you started to say that, but it’s so true. It’s that feeling of like, “This is big news, and it’s going to blow up life as I know it.” It was definitely a bombshell, and then I had to tell people I had cancer.

I was diagnosed in 2021, and when I came into Tennessee Lightning, I knew that I had to step back and reflect. I had to look back at the whole picture. I had someone ask me in an interview recently why I didn’t sing about cancer on the album. It’s like, I don’t want to think about cancer. Music to me is my holy, sacred place. Even though I sing about painful things and I can keep those emotions with me, I didn’t want to think about it enough to write a song about it. Maybe it’s that cancer has already robbed so much from me. I mean, it killed my dad. It’s already affected me, my family. Maybe I haven’t fully processed it yet. In a way I’m pretending it didn’t happen.

The only place on the record where I did feel the cancer feeling or acknowledgement of my emotions around it was “Jesus, Hold My Hand.” I used to sing that song when I was really young and feeling scared. I really felt it because when I was really sick, with chemo and everything, I felt as close as I ever have to that feeling of handing it over or surrender. It was like I was leaning on the spirit more than ever before.

The hymn is such a stunning moment, in a way that feels different from what you’ve done before. There are a lot of religious references in your songs, but there’s also this thread of religious guilt, particularly on the Pistol Annies songs “Beige” and “Leavers Lullaby.” There’s a lyric in the latter, “It’s as deep as the water that stains me” that comes to mind. Would you say your relationship to your faith has changed?

I can’t speak for the other Annies, but for me the “bite” in those songs is directed toward the people rather than about the pureness of it. The judgment and sending people to hell thing. I grew up with the Bible Belt and I think Jesus has a sense of humor and a lot of church people don’t. With “Risen Road,” it’s like, “You can read the Bible, quote it verse for verse/ You can steal a pain pill out of Mama’s purse.” And when I say “you,” I mean me, because I would do that. I think there’s something to being humble enough to say, “I can believe in God and still be exactly who I am.”

I wanted to ask about that line on “Risen Road,” which of course caught my attention. Between this song, “Best Years of My Life” and of course “Takin’ Pills,” pain pills have become something of a motif in your work. Why is that?

Well, because I was on pain pills for a long, long, long time. My dad died when I was 13, and at the time I was very straitlaced. All my family lived on the same road, we went to church, nobody cussed, nobody drank, nobody smoked. After my dad died, my mom kind of disappeared with a guy. She had a nervous breakdown, really, looking back. He died in February 2000, and she was gone by June.

Looking back, I was flailing. I was devastated, and my mom wasn’t around, and then my brother started having wild, wild parties and I was like, “Hell, I might as well. Give me a Zigma.” Everyone around me had pills and I’d say, “Give me a pill.” I was probably 14 or 15 and my cousin and I would keep a mirror under the front seat and snort oxycontin. Not oxycodone. Oxycontin. It’s a miracle I’m still alive, because I didn’t even know what that was. I just knew that it numbed me out. And, in all fairness, I needed numbing out. I’m not saying it’s the right thing to do, but sometimes, if you can just stay alive – and thank God I did – these things will get you through.

Honestly, though, I don’t think I was ever hooked on them. I’ve never had trouble giving up something when I know I need to. I was on them in my 20s a lot and I was drinking a lot at the time. And then, you know, I OD’d at Saddle Ranch in LA. Like, they thought I was dead. I was like, “Are you crazy? You survive all of that and then let a pill take you out?” So, after that, I quit taking them. But, you know, I took them after my C-section. I took all of them. I just think different people are wired differently and I do think it’s kind of funny now.

“She’s on the highest dose of Prozac a woman can take.” I was.

“She likes to pop her pain pills with every little ache.” I did.

It’s interesting, what you said about wanting to feel numb, because the songs that you wrote during that time had so much pain in them. They really cut.

Well, music’s always been where I let my pain seep out. When my dad died, I remember holding my guitar and sitting at the edge of my waterbed, and it was like the guitar was saving my life. It was keeping me together. And I still use music like that – I pour out pain that I don’t even know is in there sometimes. The pain pills don’t get you all the way numb. They get you numb for about 25 minutes, and I needed those 25 minutes back then.

Photo Credit: Erika Rock

Is Tyler Childers’
Snipe Hunter a Prank?
Yes and No

Posted on August 22, 2025August 24, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

I remember my very first snipe hunt. I was a teenager and my family, along with a handful of others, had recently left our former congregation, deciding to spend each Sunday alternating between our various houses to hold “home church” instead. This particular Sunday afternoon, we had already finished our DIY service, had enjoyed our shared meal, and were sitting scattered in lawn chairs and on the front porch of a humble little brick home in the foothills of southeastern Ohio.

A few of the more mischievous, prank-minded adults had begun gathering as many of the kids as possible, from toddlers to teens like me to young adults, with empty plastic grocery bags spanning the distance between our arms as we tramped off from the porch to the surrounding trees and woods. We were taught to shout, to bang sticks together or against tree trunks, and to keep those grocery bags open and ready, as the snipe were hiding above and – when correctly startled using these certified methods – would fall directly and immediately into our waiting plastic sacks.

We made attempts, we marched around, we laughed and shrieked and ran about. No, we didn’t catch a single snipe that day, but that’s not how I determined it was a prank. It was my very first snipe hunt – we weren’t a Scouts or summer camp sort of family – and still, as soon as they began passing around grocery bags, I knew a joke was being played. I wasn’t on the inside of it yet, but I knew what was happening – even though I really had no clue.

As a young teen, I had at that point spent my entire life obsessed with two things: banjo and birds. So when the jokester adults began spinning their yarn about how we were going to all catch snipe together, I knew we most certainly were not. After all, I knew Wilson’s Snipe were the only snipe species native to North America and that they preferred grasslands, marshes, beaver ponds, shorelines, and flooded meadows to lush hardwood forests in the foothills. Plus, at that time of year they would have already migrated back to their summer grounds in the north.

I had also already passed my Ohio Department of Natural Resources Hunter Safety Course – incredibly proud that I had scored 100% and hadn’t missed a single question – and knew that Wilson’s Snipe were hunted across the U.S. as upland game birds. I hadn’t hunted or bagged any, but having already spent countless hours across multiple seasons tracking down pheasant, partridge, and grouse, I knew that a grocery bag wouldn’t be our first choice if taking home snipe were really our aim.

Though I had never before been initiated into the lore or ritual of such a snipe hunt, I immediately knew what was happening, why it was happening, and – somehow, despite the odds – I overcame my primary instinct as a know-it-all bird nerd and didn’t “Um, actually…” obnoxiously and ruin the joke for everyone. I stretched out that Kroger bag and ran alongside all my home church friends as we hunted for snipe.

On July 25, Kentuckian country megalith Tyler Childers released Snipe Hunter, a Rick Rubin-produced Appalachian fever dream of an album that has had a remarkably polarizing effect across the diverse and disparate swathes of folks who profess to be Childers fans. Drawing from grunge and garage rock as often as old-time fiddle and bluegrassy mountain music, the 13 songs of Snipe Hunter are impeccable, harlequin, and mystifying. This is a fantastic collection – superlative yes, but even moreso, these songs are pure fantasy.

Being a snipe huntin’ veteran myself, as I first listened through the LP, I was floored. As each unpredictable, unhinged, unparalleled song ended and the next began I was all at once shocked and surprised, but still knew exactly what was coming next – and why. (Even though, as for that first snipe hunt as a kid, I actually had no idea what was going on. How could any of us?)

It’s just, I was already on the inside of this joke, too. While the internet (especially TikTok and Instagram Reels) quickly became swallowed up in wall-to-wall speculative videos about the album – claiming it was a prank, a litmus test, a Rorschach inkblot, a middle finger to the red hat-wearing fans who blow capillaries in their eyes screaming for “Feathered Indians” at every show – a host of folks pushed back on their front porch gliders and smiled to themselves. Because, if you’re Appalachian, or a lifelong folk musician, or even just an ardent and committed fan of true country, Americana, and bluegrass, you know exactly what this album is – and you know without a single shred of doubt that it’s not a prank.

It’s clear that many listeners feel challenged and excluded by Snipe Hunter. Many folks think it must be a joke purely because the thing is downright silly, or because Childers forsook the Sturgill Simpson or Zach Bryan trajectory he could have taken quite a few records ago and they’re still grieving what could have been. Other listeners seem to think the album is unserious not because it’s hilarious, but because they don’t hear the country in it. Or the Appalachia in it. Or the homespun, DIY, front-porch, hay-barn-recording-studio, rural-East-Kentucky-VFW-hall of it all throughout the sequence.

But to folks from inside the scenes Childers paints, to folks who’ve lived their lives in or touching on the regions he tributes with these poetic (and ugly and greasy) songs, to folks who still have grounded, everyday relationships with this type of rural mountain creativity and the folkways he draws on, this is just a standard phenotypic Appalachian country record. With more than a dash of Childers panache, of course.

There are eye-widening and jaw-dropping tales of far-off and exotic places (“Down Under,” “Tirtha Yatra”); there are eyebrow-raising retellings of hunting trips that seem just a bit too good or too successful or too chaotic to be true (“Dirty Ought Trill,” “Poachers,” “Snipe Hunt”); there are songs about sticking it to the man, sticking up for the working class, and sticking out your wrist to clown your not-as-rich neighbors (“Eatin’ Big Time,” “Nose On The Grindstone,” “Getting to the Bottom”); there are tributes to the true, multi-ethnic reality of Appalachia and the Southeast (“Tirtha Yatra,” “Dirty Ought Trill”); and of course, there’s “transatlantic” “Scotch/Irish” present, too (“Tomcat and a Dandy”). In short, it’s a country album. It’s an Appalachian album. Rick Rubin be damned.

For a record that has been regarded by thousands and thousands of listeners as a “prank,” it’s striking how grounded in Kentucky, Appalachia, and the Southeast this set of songs really is. Though you may need to be viewing it from the inside of the kaleidoscope to hold onto this fact.

This is a traditional album; it might even be Childers’ most regional and culturally anchored project yet – which is saying something, given the terroir of Long Violent History, the Can I Take My Hounds to Heaven? trilogy, and well, you know, his entire remaining catalog of country and bluegrass. Plus, he tracked the thing in Hawai’i. Quite a different set of mountains than East Kentucky.

Snipe Hunter is only a joke if you see Appalachia as a joke. And, my, how so many folks are telling on themselves in this moment. Luckily, Appalachians are used to being the butt of the joke. (And Childers is, too, as he writes himself into that role over and over again – on Snipe Hunter for sure, and beyond.)

The area grew its regional and cultural identity that we all still venerate today from being the first “wild west” of the New World. An ancient mountain range – the bedrock older than trees, older than our current continents, and older than bones themselves – with its hidden hollers, switchbacks, and impenetrable forests and hills, it was the perfect hiding spot for hardscrabble working class folks of all backgrounds and ethnicities fleeing civilization on a continent that didn’t have a lot of that to go around anyway. Villages and towns were often multi-ethnic (white, Black, Asian, Native American) and, by necessity, were remarkably communitarian as, until the advent of the railroad, survival, getting anything done, and getting anywhere in the Appalachians was a tall task that required insider knowledge and a host of help. Back then “it took a village” to survive in Appalachia, and it does to this day.

Alongside the trend of speculating about the intrinsic prank of Snipe Hunter online you’re just as likely to encounter dozens and dozens of vertical videos explaining and hyping up Appalachian folklore about cryptids, ghosts, and paranormal activity. Never before in the history of the region have skinwalkers and unexplained whistling in the middle of the night and beings like Mothman held such cultural power outside of the mountains themselves. You can make an entire career off of explaining creepy Appalachian myths without ever having been there yourself – and with an accent so passé you could be from anywhere.

You wouldn’t think these brands of videos – “Tyler Childers made Sniper Hunter to piss off the fans he doesn’t like” vs. “Here’s what to do when you hear a voice call your name in the middle of the night in rural Appalachia” – would be so analogous, but they really and truly are.

With these kinds of Appalachian myths, of monsters and cryptids and spirits and ghosts, their validity is entirely based upon their contexts, right? Appalachians know there’s no easier way to spot an outsider, a city slicker, or a poverty tourist in their midst than by letting someone who thinks they know what they’re talking about do just that with all the unearned confidence of a person who actually doesn’t know what they mean. These myths, while in many communities and families are held up as true in particular contexts or shared as knowledge – an amalgam of legend, myth, truth, science, and spirituality – their purpose has always largely been to determine one thing: Who’s an insider and who’s an outsider?

If you hear a stranger on TikTok explain to you that you should: 1) never go outside in Appalachia at night and 2) if you do, and you hear a voice you recognize call your name, you should 3) not do that and go back from where you came and thank your lucky stars that you respected this magical place enough to learn your lesson in advance – that person is not an insider. And, if you believe that video as truth or as cultural knowledge, you may not be an insider, either.

And that’s where we land. Tyler Childers’ Snipe Hunter is not a prank, except it most certainly is. It’s a cryptid. A litmus test to show who is on the inside of what he’s making and who’s on the outside. It’s artful, stunning, and resplendent because he makes his musical test such that anyone can pass, anyone can enjoy the product, and anyone can be a part of this wild, ridiculous, and joyous reality. But will you be inside the joke, or outside of it? Will you be shuddering in your car, doors locked, afraid of skinwalkers? Or will you be out under the stars on a ridgetop listening to the hounds bray as Dirty Ought Trill chases the dogs who are chasing raccoons down the holler?

Either way, the music will still hit, but wherever you start or end up here will change how the snipe hunt goes for you – and will determine whether or not you take anything home with you in that crinkled-up grocery bag.

Explore more of our Artist of the Month content on Tyler Childers here.

Photo Credit: Emma Delevante

Artist of the Month:
Tyler Childers

Posted on August 4, 2025August 22, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

Next to fellow Kentuckians Sturgill Simpson and Chris Stapleton, you’ll be hard pressed to find a singer more influential on the Commonwealth – or on all of Appalachian music – than Tyler Childers.

The Lawrence County-born artist first began cutting his teeth on dark corner stages inside diners across Eastern Kentucky and in grainy YouTube videos prior to laying the foundation for the cult-like following that’s been enamored with him since with 2011’s Bottles & Bibles and 2016’s Live On Red Barn Radio I & II. The following year he burst onto the national scene with his Simpson-produced studio debut, Purgatory.

From a voice as gritty and raw as the black gold he sings about on songs like “Nose On The Grindstone” and “Coal” to lyrics that shatter stereotypes and perceptions cast down on his home region by those outside of it, it’s easy to see why Childers’ music has become a soundtrack for not just part but all of Appalachia.

Whether it be the combination of humility and holler-bred antics within Purgatory, the intimate honky-tonk vignettes of Country Squire, the fiddle tunes of Long Violent History, the gospel-fueled experimentation of Can I Take My Hounds To Heaven? or the spiritual embodiment of Elvis on Rustin’ In The Rain, Childers has found success by shaking expectations at every turn, keeping old fans on their toes and bringing new ones in along the way.

When violence perpetrated by police was front and center during the aftermath of George Floyd’s death in 2020, Childers opted to cap off that fiddle album with its only vocal track, the protest anthem “Long Violent History.” During a heated societal moment, he approached the tune from an angle of empathy rather than pretentiousness as he tried contextualizing everything going on with past events like the Battle of Blair Mountain. Then in 2023 he had his first hit on country radio with “In Your Love,” an epic love tale that he recast as a gay one with the help of then Kentucky Poet Laureate Silas House in 2023.

While some fans have been turned off by his “political” statements, his viewpoints ultimately led to more people going down the rabbit hole of Childers’ catalog than ever before. This growth has culminated in sold-out shows at fabled venues like New York City’s Madison Square Garden, Lexington’s Kroger Field, London’s O2 Arena and the Los Angeles’ Hollywood Bowl. It also resulted in recording a track for last year’s TWISTERS soundtrack, collaborating with Olivia Rodrigo for a cover of “All Your’n” during a GUTS tour stop in Kentucky, and performing during The White House’s Fourth of July celebrations in 2024. Close to 10 years removed from his breakthrough moment, the singer is as popular and influential as ever.

That influence is sure to grow with the release of his latest studio album, Snipe Hunter. Recorded with and produced by Rick Rubin in Hawaii in early 2024, the 13-song compilation charts the red-headed stranger’s creative and spiritual coming of age with stories of the band’s success. The project is sprinkled with a bit of anti-capitalistic sentiment (“Eatin’ Big Time”), a yearning to escape on a trek to India (“Tirtha Yatra”), his fear of Koalas (“Down Under”) and hunting for whitetail deer (“Dirty Ought Trill”).

Much like its predecessors, Snipe Hunter captures Childers signature sound while also sounding like nothing he’s released before it, a fact no doubt aided by Rubin’s knack for crafting material that sticks to the cultural zeitgeist like superglue. Songs like “Nose On The Grindstone” and “Oneida” – a story about falling for an older woman – have been in Childers’ performance rotation, on YouTube playlists for years, and traded as coveted bootlegs, but the versions captured for Snipe Hunter, with their additions of organ, synths, and other studio toys, has each feeling reborn and completely new again.

Collectively, the album feels rooted in country funk bands of old like Goose Creek Symphony just as much as it incorporates more modern influences like Charlie Brown Superstar (whose remixes for Can I Take My Hounds To Heaven? are sublime) and Eric Church, serving up the perfect combination of past, present and future sounds in the process while sticking to the deeply personal Appalachian flavoring that has long highlighted his grand storytelling.

To celebrate the release of Snipe Hunter, we’ve named Childers our Good Country and BGS Artist Of The Month for August. Throughout the month, we’ll celebrate Childers by going back into our archives for all-things-Tyler, plus we put together a retrospective look at his catalog of songs and recordings here, have shared a thoughtful examination of whether or not Snipe Hunter was created as a musical “prank,” and of course, don’t miss our Essential Tyler Childers Playlist, below.

Photo Credit: Sam Waxman

Planting By The Signs
Is a Way of Life

Posted on July 15, 2025August 14, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

Equal parts old soul and trailblazer, Western Kentucky singer-songwriter S.G. Goodman explores rural belief systems with a forward thinking, synth-heavy, swamp rock aesthetic on Planting By The Signs.

Released June 20, the record is the first for Goodman since 2022’s critically acclaimed Teeth Marks and sees her diving into tales of love, loss, reconciliation, and grief. The ancient Appalachian concept it draws its name from subtlety influences all aspects of rural life from farming to self-grooming. According to Goodman, the idea to center her fourth album around this idea came in late 2022 after stumbling across a section about planting by the signs in Foxfire, a collection of books first published in 1972 that delve into Appalachian philosophy and ways of life.

“When I got to the passage about moon planting or planting by the signs I started having all these memories of hearing about [moon phases and zodiac signs] throughout my childhood,” Goodman tells Good Country. “My family and a lot of the people in rural areas like Western Kentucky have been taught these things but don’t think or talk about them in everyday conversation.

“For instance, my brother cuts his hair by the signs and I remember old people saying to never pull a tooth when the signs are in ‘the head’ [an area of the sky attributed to Aries]. I was weaned by my mother to the signs, potty-trained even. It’s an old belief system that I wound up immersing myself in and felt a responsibility to pass on.”

We spoke with the Americana Music Association’s 2023 Emerging Artist Of The Year ahead of the release of Planting By The Signs via Zoom. Our conversation covered the inspiration for the album’s concept, the themes of grief and reconciliation within its songs, the sonic evolution of the singer’s sound, and more.

What was it like taking the concept of Planting By The Signs and making it a reality? Did it turn out to be everything you envisioned?

S.G. Goodman: There were elements that were given over to studio magic. Sometimes the circumstances of recording force you to try different things you weren’t planning on, but for the most part I had a pretty clear vision of what I wanted this album to sound like before the songs were even written. This project leans toward a rougher sound that really hones in on the human element of the music. I also wanted to push myself sonically and add in new instruments that I normally don’t have in my music just to see what it would feel like.

In terms of trying new things, “Satellite” is a song that stands out. Is that a bunch of synths added to it or something else?

“Satellite” not so much. It sounds like synth, but it’s actually a little $150 makeshift Kent baritone guitar with a really wild, natural sound being played through a Fender Champ amp. There were a lot of synths elsewhere, but I’m just so ignorant when it comes to keys that I couldn’t tell you what they were. [Laughs] But I had [The Alabama Shakes’] Ben Tanner, a wizard on keys, come in to lay down and experiment some on organ, Wurlitzer, and other things.

For instance, because I do like an organic sound from my amps instead of using a bunch of pedals, we wound up playing along with the tremolos on the actual amps and ran the keys through that. But even with that, I’ve never had a record where there’s been keys on the majority of the songs, until now. That’s mostly been for economical reasons – I’ve been just a rock outfit with a lead guitarist, bass, drums and occasionally pedal steel, but it takes a minute before you can afford to not only have another player with you, but also a vehicle big enough to carry another person and their equipment. I was always leery to have songs focused around that, but with this album I was able to do it and shift around what kind of utility musician I wanted on the road with me and I’m really proud of it.

You mentioned working with Ben Tanner on these songs, but you also recorded down in Alabama as well. Tell me about what that experience was like?

Yeah, I was down in the Shoals, specifically the Sheffield area where Jimmy Nutt’s studio, The NuttHouse, is. It operates out of an old converted bank and felt really familiar to the small town I grew up in, where you could stand out in the middle of the road and pretty much bet a million dollars you wouldn’t get run over, because you’d never even see a car.

When you’re in the studio I’m not so big on doing destination recording, because in my opinion you should just be in a room working on music and not out seeing the sights. This was the perfect balance of not feeling like you’re missing something outside the room, but if you did walk out there it would be a calm environment.

Another sonic element on this album I wanted to touch on are the conversational audio recordings interspersed on tracks like “Heat Lightning.” What purpose were you trying to serve with those?

Going back to my mindset heading into this record and my desire to write about planting by the signs, I was really interested in the way that beliefs carry on and evolve over the years. We either accept, adapt to, or even stop telling these stories and letting them die, so [that was] one thing I wanted to showcase, either in a long narrative form or by adding elements you mentioned like the field recordings. I wanted to add those in because it’s another style we’ve used to capture stories and keep them alive. I’m a big fan of Alan Lomax’s field recordings – there’s a massive musical and oral history tied to them – so it was important for me to pay homage to that storytelling medium.

I even sought to do that through the album layout and artwork, too, by incorporating flash tattoos. Tattoos are a way that we have planted stories on ourselves and applied meaning to. Even its color scheme with red, yellow, and black – I don’t know if you’re ever heard this saying, but, “When red touches black you’re OK Jack, but when red touches yellow you’re a dead fellow.” That’s a sign from nature [about venomous snakes], so every element around this album, from allowing myself to write a nearly nine-minute song [with “Heaven Song”] while keeping this cohesive storyline to retelling a story from my youth in “Snapping Turtle.” I really wanted to showcase the history and art of passing down a story and drawing attention to that.

Someone whose memory you’ve preserved within these songs (as well as on older tunes like “Red Bird Morning”) is your longtime mentor and father figure Mike Harmon, who tragically passed away recently during a tree cutting accident. What kind of influence has he had on you, not just with this new record, but also on you as a person?

As far as Mike’s influence on my music goes, he was a huge encourager of me throughout the years going back to my days with The Savage Radley. I also played with him in a local Murray, Kentucky, band called The Kentucky Vultures. He was their bass player and we became fast friends and at one point even neighbors. He served as a father figure that I could bounce ideas off of musically, but more than anything it was his wisdom and support that impacted me most. He was such a go-getter and always an amazing person to have on the road with you.

One time I needed someone to help me get my van back from Boston, Massachusetts, to Western Kentucky, because the band and I had to fly out to Portland or Los Angeles in the middle of our tour before resuming the run a few days later in the Midwest. Mike simply asked when and where he needed to be and followed through. He was always down to help and be a part of things. It’s hard to wrap up exactly how meaningful his presence was during those early years. He was so proud of me and the boys when we were able to do this in a more professional way and regularly flew out to see our shows. In fact, in early 2023, he was supposed to be on tour with me in Austin for a sold-out show that I was particularly excited to have him at because he’d previously lived there for a time before losing his housing, only to die a week and a half later in a tree accident.

I continue to find myself thinking that Mike is still providing me with a lot of gifts and wisdom. When he passed away I was able to reconnect with my longtime friend and music collaborator of over 10 years, Matt Rowan. At that point we had a rupture in our friendship and musical relationship and hadn’t spoken in a couple years, but with Mike being the confidant, he was very aware of Matt and my falling out. [He] was always supportive around that and believed that we’d eventually reconcile with each other.

And that reconciliation is what you’re exploring on the song “Michael Told Me,” correct?

Correct. It’s a song that speaks to both Matt and Mike and kind of gives a snapshot of evolution and the processing of Mike’s death, but also the exact moment that Matt and I spoke after a few years of not.

You’re also singing with Matt on the album’s title track. What was it like getting to reunite in the studio with him for that?

Matt is also a co-producer on this album with me and Drew Vandenberg. He’s obviously been a longtime collaborator, so I thought it’d be interesting if he had an even bigger role on this album. I wasn’t wrong in my expectations of it working out really well.

Circling back to “Satellite” for a moment, lyrically the song seems to talk a lot about modern technology and human connection, or a lack thereof, in modern day society. What inspired you to explore those themes and how do you feel they fit into the record’s larger concept of planting by the signs?

I actually wrote most of the song in the studio. I didn’t start it there, but wasn’t expecting to have it on the album either. It’s something that came to me during the creative process of recording, which is not uncommon. When I was writing it I realized that one important thing for me to tie into talking about an ancient belief system was my curiosity of how that applies to our real, modern world. A lot of questions were coming up for me around that that I also tried to showcase within this album and my approach to talking about it with people. If Planting By The Signs revolves around paying attention to messages from nature, what does it mean for us as a society when we’re putting things between us and being able to see those signs?

For instance, we’re talking to each other right now through Zoom and are living in a world where more and more importance is being put on having more filters between us and nature – and even convoluting it. What are we gonna be [at] when I die, like 20G? [Laughs] How many satellites are going to need to be shot up into the universe to accomplish that?

Right now as a person, I’m in that weird land of [having been] a child in the early days of the world wide web when my parents got their first computer with dial-up internet. I didn’t start texting until I was 18. Nowadays I can pull up a waterfall on YouTube and hear the sounds of it in my living room without ever going somewhere like Cumberland Falls. Or I can go to a bar in public and not talk to a single person, because I’m just staring at my phone. I’m definitely a grandma when it comes to communicating with people.

I’ve noticed in the last 15 years that people are very hesitant to get back to a real human connection. There’s so many barriers nowadays to us having tangible connections with other people and nature. With that comes implications with AI and in the media, so it’s no wonder that a person who’s been watching the same creek bed over the course of 20 years evolve and cut differently and rise and fall may have a better idea that the weather patterns have drastically changed than a person who’s only receiving their information through technology.

Is “Nature’s Child,” which you sing with Bonnie Prince Billy, also touching on those themes?

That’s actually the one song on the album that I didn’t write. It was written by my friend Tyler Ladd. I first came across it over 10 years ago at an open mic in Murray and was floored by its lyrics. Everyone has different opinions on what makes a good song, but for me it’s really simple – a good song is one that you remember after hearing it.

Not long after that night, Tyler took off hitchhiking across the United States. Then years later I got a message from him saying that he was in Europe traveling and was writing to me from a hospital bed in Germany after getting his guitar stolen and beaten up pretty badly. I told him to get on home and about a year after that he showed up on my front porch in late 2016. I had him sit in my living room and play that song to me before asking him if I could start playing that song too and making it my own.

I’ve covered it live for years at this point, so when it came time to begin writing and thinking about this album Tyler’s lyrics and emotion he evoked in that song were a placeholder for me. He was gracious enough to let me record it. The song encapsulates everything this album is about.

Through the process of bringing Planting By The Signs to life, what is something that music taught you about yourself?

With each album you find yourself at a different place in life. I don’t necessarily have a lot of people ask me about my process of writing. It’s not linear and I’ve always held the belief, even though I’ve doubted it at times, that a story’s gonna go about its business. That was told to me years ago by a writing mentor, and a song does the same thing. Through that process one thing I’ve had to come to terms with with the fact that being an artist in 2025 is having pressure to keep churning out content and material, which has never been natural for me. I’ve never written that way, so being OK with and waiting for something to be in place where you feel you’ve said everything you need to say and not just succumbing to the pressures of putting something out while also being genuinely proud of what I created is a testament to the fact that I let this come when it was supposed to.

Photo Credit: Ryan Hartley

BGS 5+5: The Wildmans

Posted on July 8, 2025July 9, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

Artist: The Wildmans
Hometown: Floyd, Virginia
Latest Album: Longtime Friend (out July 11, 2025)

Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?

Growing up in the rich and vibrant region of the Appalachian mountains, nature has always been extremely influential to everything we do. Hearing the frogs sing in the evening or when the cicadas come out and fill the air with their hypnotic mantra every few years. Nature perseveres out here and if you want to live in it you are always battling one element or another. We don’t have AC, so in the summer all of our instruments are inundated with humidity, of course bringing them outside adds to this which we do often too. Dehumidifiers help. But it’s that soft humid atmosphere that makes the forest so lush and dense out here. I think it has always taught us a lot too living in such a rural area. And I would say the musical culture of these mountains and this region of America is possibly the most impactful aspect in our work today.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Every year as kids we got to attend the local music festival in our home town, Floydfest. We discovered so much music throughout those years and specifically it was an experience we shared at Jon Lohman’s workshop porch stage when this band The Boston Boys, along with Danny Knicely and Nate Leath, invited us up to play a couple tunes on stage. It was our first time being on stage in front of a real audience and it’s one of those quintessential moments in our lives that is significant to where we are and what we are pursuing today. I think that the relaxed and inviting atmosphere that both the musicians and the audience gave to us in that moment is something that we take with us into every show we play now.

What is a genre, album, artist, musician, or song that you adore that would surprise people?

Ever since Mk.gee dropped Two Star & The Dream Police in the beginning of 2024, it has stayed on rotation. Whether in the tour van, headphones, or home stereo. I also have a serious soft spot for 90s R&B like SWV and Soul For Real. And D’angelo always. – Aila

Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?

This is such a great question and immediately it makes me think of this scene of Leon Russell playing “Jambalaya on the Bayou” in 1972 filmed by Les Blank for his film, A Poem Is A Naked Person. This is the dream pairing right here, Leon is onstage with a plate of what appears to be half-eaten ribs sitting in front of him on his piano, full of soul and groove singing this old Hank Williams song. I mean did he wipe his hands before starting the song? It’s rock and roll, it’s Leon Russell with southern bbq. – Eli

What would a perfect day as an artist and creator look like to you?

Waking up in the morning and having a hot beverage of some sort. Tea or coffee. This is a good time to write freely, reflect. Even sing a new song. Then going outside to sit in the sun for a half hour before making a really good breakfast. We are serious about breakfast as a band, sometimes all other meals can feel like a failure while on tour, especially with dietary restrictions and what not. But we always make sure breakfast is accomplished and done right.

After breakfast, we might play some music by ourselves or with each other. Giving time and space into the day for creativity and practice. Exercise is also really important to us, this would come next as we are easing into the afternoon. Into the evening we love to have friends over to share music and food, cooking together or grilling out. Good food, good people, and good music make the world go round. All of these things are what make up a “perfect day as an artist” to us. General simplicity and grounding.

Photo Credit: Magnolia Ellenburg

With Each and Every Album, Extraordinary Mandolinist Sierra Hull Finds Herself

Posted on March 12, 2025June 20, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

The traditional path of a musician’s career would say that gaining a record label’s approval reflects a certain level of accomplishment and stature. That’s a good thing, right? It can be, but what makes for the right fit to a musician’s career – whether with a label or as an independent artist – largely depends on how a person wants to navigate the ebbs and flows that come with making music for a living.

Enter Sierra Hull.

Just over five years removed from her fourth full-length album, 25 Trips, the aforementioned fork in the road is exactly the juncture at which Hull recently found herself. Now bearing her fifth full-length album, A Tip Toe High Wire, the Nashville-based mandolinist and songwriter decided that the extra work of an independent release didn’t scare her.

In fact, Hull is someone who keeps busy – “I’m not good with time off,” she says – and A Tip Toe High Wire may turn out to be her most true-to-form album to date. From her collaborators – Béla Fleck, Tim O’Brien, Aoife O’Donovan, Lindsay Lou, Ronnie Bowman, Justin Moses, Ethan Jodziewicz, Geoff Saunders and more – to her co-writers, to production, arrangements, and underlying theme, every aspect of the record evokes Hull’s concentrated instincts as a musician, composer, and experienced public artist.

These songs let the rest of us know just a little more about the “who,” “how,” and “why” behind the music and how it fits into Hull’s life and of the lives of those she holds dear. It’s a multifaceted expression of individualism and independence while also being nowhere near a display of isolated work – truly a balancing act of coexisting contrasts.

BGS spoke with Sierra Hull by phone ahead of a packed tour, about the significance of going independent, embracing new ways of songwriting, how her perspective of making music has changed, and more.

How would you describe where you were creatively, between the release of 25 Trips and leading into this new independent recording?

Sierra Hull: Part of it is that I didn’t really have the opportunity to go out and tour 25 Trips. When things were starting to open up [after the pandemic shutdown], I put together this band that I’m touring with and was able to think about what I wanted the music to feel like on the heels of [COVID]. I tried to think about songs that would would feel fun to stand on a stage and perform, you know? And I think some of the context of moving into [A Tip Toe High Wire] was thinking about that.

[25 Trips] was also my last record as part of my Rounder Records contract. A Tip Toe High Wire just felt like this new chapter. And having fresh songs that I had started to write, having been inspired by the time off the road to write music, I kind of leaned into that. I was loving playing with this band and I felt like I had the freedom to not necessarily have outside chatter in my ear about what the next thing needed to be. It felt like an opportunity to just make music that I felt excited by and capture it. At first I wasn’t sure if it was going to become a record, or a single, or what it might be. But the further we got into it, I would just continue to book sessions that we could get in the studio and record in between all the touring.

I feel like [being independent] gives me more of an opportunity to have a direct offering and connection to my fans in a way that maybe I couldn’t have in another scenario, and it feels really important for me to have that in this moment.

How has your perspective of the music and album making process changed? What kind of goals did you set for yourself in this new career chapter?

I don’t know if my goals felt different, because the goal for me has never been to try to chase a particular thing or to please a certain kind of entity. But at the same time, when you’re independent, you get to call all the shots, you know? You decide when you’re recording, how you’re recording, when the music gets released, how it gets released, all that kind of stuff. It’s kind of like a difference of me deciding what’s on the puzzle pieces and then figuring out how to put the puzzle together, rather than just somebody handing you a puzzle and the picture is there already.

I often say, “If I was only making music for me, I could do that anytime I want.” I can sit at home in a room by myself and enjoy music that way. But I think that we as artists and performers, we create and we make stuff because we want to be able to share with people. We want to be able to share a common emotional experience with people. It’s the struggle between trusting yourself, and being vulnerable enough to receive the good things and knowledge that other people around me have to offer.

In deciding, “I’m going to do what I want to do,” it almost prompts the question, “Wouldn’t she have that figured out already?” It’s a nice reminder that there’s no timeline to connecting with self-discovery.

It’s funny, because I feel like it’s one of those things with every album I’ve made. [People say,] “She’s finally coming into her own” – it’s like that every chapter! But the truth is, that’s the human story at any level. You can be coming into your own your entire life. you know? It looks different at 16, and it looks different at 20, it looks different at 25, and it looks different now in my 30s.

There is a certain amount of weird calm that I feel about more things in my life and I think part of that is when you work hard throughout your 20s and there’s such a grind taking place. For me, I love the grind. I live for the work part of all this. Like I said, I’m not really good at just sitting around doing nothing so I’d rather be working than not. But at the same time, I need to not clench my hands too tightly around the thing that is my art and my career. So much of this is out of my control. People will like it or they they won’t and it’s about trying to find some peace and asking myself, “Do I feel like I’ve done my best?” And how much that really matters, instead of being as validated by the praise one receives. We all long for that – I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, too. But I think there’s just a little bit less worry about that. It kind of feels like age gives you that.

What about your songwriting approach did you change for A Tip Toe High Wire?

I think songwriting is always such a journey. This was the first record that has been primarily made up of my touring band. Some of the songs were written and then performed live before we even recorded them in the studio – not all of them – but a good chunk of them have been road-tested, which is an interesting way of [developing a song]. “Lord, That’s a Long Way,” I wrote that tune because I literally was imagining in my mind the way it would feel to play this live with this band. It’s a different kind of approach when you’re thinking that way. I imagine one instrument kicking it off and then another one joining in on that same riff and kind of building the opening. In this way, sometimes you can almost hear it and feel it in a live experience before you’re even finished writing a song.

“Muddy Water” is a beautiful song with an equally beautiful sentiment about staying true to oneself. How does this mentality applies to your experience as an artist?

I think part of it is about trying to not become jaded by [the life of a musician]. If you’re doing something over and over and it kind of becomes your world, it’s easy to get burned out. I’m always trying to make sure that I don’t get burned out and am finding ways to be inspired. So much of that is about keeping a positive mindset and trying to keep an open mindset to the inspiration around us. The other thing that I’ll say is, I’ve gotten to do so much collaborating over the last few years. That’s been a big part of my musical world and I feel like it’s been really broad-reaching too, in ways that I’m inspired.

Stepping out on tour with Cory Wong – that’s a fun time. It’s way different than what I do, but it’s a fun time. Going to make music with Béla Fleck – that’s about really getting in the weeds and rehearsing and working hard on incredibly complex instrumental music. Getting to go join Sturgill Simpson on something, it’s about not over-rehearsing the songs and making sure there’s something about the freshness of maybe one or two takes in the recording studio. That’s why I love collaboration. Being part of something that’s not yours, but you’re kind of part of it so you’re getting to learn and grow and experience and have that excitement rub off on you.

Several of the songs on A Tip Toe High Wire – “Red Bird,” “Haven Hill,” “Spitfire,” “Lord, That’s a Long Way” – nod to the matriarchs of your family. How would you describe where and how music fit into their lives and shaped each of their relationships with you and how you remember them?

Music was part of everyday life. My whole family is very much rooted in the backwoods of Appalachia, the boonies of Tennessee, as far back as I know. Not a lot of money, no college degrees, but such smart, strong characters and people with a wealth of knowledge and grit and toughness and all that. I think music was a way that they were able to cope and have it be part of their way to pass the time. More a way of life than trying to dream of being a performer.

I remember my Granny singing when I was a kid, hearing her sing in church, and I know [my husband Justin Moses’s] family background was much the same. So certainly a different kind of musical experience. But music has always been a big part of both my family story and Justin’s family story. And I was lucky enough to get to know all of his grandparents – he’s since lost three of them – but I was lucky to get to know them and my grandparents too. Not everybody gets that. So I feel super lucky. And yeah, I think inevitably those stories kind of wind up weaving their way into my songwriting.

How do you balance so many different but interconnected objectives – especially finding space to let out parts of yourself through your music?

I’ve been able to say yes to a lot of things, because [I’ve chosen] to say no to some other things and that feels rewarding because normally I’d be stressing out. So trying to think ahead and find the balance as a human, asking, “How can I be focused in the moment, not stack too many things on top of each other, and instead carve out the balance where I do have time to write, I do have time to record, and I do have time to tour?” Because I love all those things. In a perfect world, you make them exist in a cohesive way and that can inform what the art becomes on the other side of it, because I’ve given myself space to enjoy all these things in their own way, instead of just the constant chaos of trying to do five things at once.

Photo Credit: Bethany Brook Showalter & Spencer Showalter

Americana Agnostic: How Cristina Vane Developed a Sound All Her Own

Posted on February 27, 2025June 20, 2025 by Justin Hiltner

A blues, old-time, and Americana alchemist, singer-songwriter-instrumentalist Cristina Vane has just released a striking new album, Hear My Call, a collection that defies categorization and tidy genre labels.

Something of a roots music influencer – though she perhaps would never self ascribe that title – Vane has built a remarkable following around her agnostic approach to borderless, post-genre roots music that effortlessly calls back to eras before all of these styles were stratified and separated.

Vane’s Americana agnosticism stems from a variety of inspirations and inputs, but is largely derived from circumstances, taste, and whim. On the seventh track of Hear My Call, “My Mountain,” she sings along with loping frailed banjo:

I was born across the sea
At the feet of the mountain
I left young and it left me
Lost a piece of my grounding
I watch you and how you speak
Belonging is astounding
I watch you, but what of me?
The history that I’m bound to…

She’s referencing her upbringing in Europe, born at the foot of the Alps and raised in Paris before moving to the U.S. in her youth. What does it mean to be a purveyor of “mountain music” when the mountains you claim are not Appalachia or the Ozarks or even Celtic highlands? How can you be an expert and interpreter of these art forms, while ultimately sensing – consciously and subconsciously – that your identity is not or cannot be interwoven with them? Perhaps it brings a certain unbridled freedom and ease? Or perhaps it means your entire relationship to the musics you love will be informed by this kind of daunting existential question: Can you belong?

For Vane, it’s clearly a smattering of many factors that has led her to this delicious and carefree combination of styles, sonics, and songs. She is truly an expert on blues, bluegrass, old-time, and beyond, spurred to excellence on one hand by her feeling of imposing in these traditions and on the other by a devout love and gratitude for the people who also inhabit these spaces and who passed the art along to her.

Cristina Vane may have not felt truly at home in the roots music scenes that claim her until recently or maybe she needed to still grow, easing into her current confident, unapologetic sense of self. At any rate, she’s ready for the world to hear her call – and to understand that she alone decides who she is, how she sounds, and where she belongs. Whether “her mountain” is found in the Alps, in the southeastern United States, in Los Angeles, Music City, or anywhere else. Vane knows that she, too, is a part of these timeless traditions and that, above all else, could be the primary reason she moves between these folkways so gracefully and entrancingly.

Your sound feels like it hearkens back to a time before roots music was split up into all of these different genres, when blues and folk and old-time and bluegrass and country were all technically considered the same thing. I feel like you combine sounds in a really similar way. How do you approach your sound? To me it feels like you’re pretty agnostic, you are very fluid in the way you approach genre. Especially with this album, as it feels so fully fleshed out, built up, and lush.

Cristina Vane: It is a really fine line to walk and I’ve had this struggle since forever where I just don’t want to choose. I don’t feel like I should have to really, either, and I do think that’s what I was hoping would come across in all my albums. Specifically this one in many areas of my life, includes this question of, “Who am I?” “Where am I from?” “Who am I in my community?”

“Who am I” applies to genre as well. Every time I feel this voice of self-doubt that’s like, “It’s just too confusing. If you wanna be appealing to more people and get better opportunities and festivals, they have to know what you are.”

Every time that comes up it’s a difficult feeling, but I ultimately always just say “fuck you!” [Laughs] It’s really affirming that you feel positively about that because I also agree, in the sense that I come from the ‘90s and 2000s, listening to different music and genre was important, but not in the way that I feel like it can get tiresome in Americana music. Where there’s this legacy and tradition that you have to uphold if you’re gonna fit within the parameters of a genre. Whereas, in indie music you can do whatever you want and if it sounds kind of like the other bands in the genre, then I guess you’re indie!

I guess I approached the older traditions with some hesitancy, because I knew that traditional-leaning people are [going to question me]. “You’re not really a blues woman” and “You’re not really a bluegrass artist” and “You’re not really an old-time player.”

Honestly, I think one of the people that, in a lot of ways inspired me on my first album to just stay the course, was Sarah Jarosz. It was more than the fact that she played different instruments and didn’t feel bound to be just a mandolin player. She’s just so talented, obviously, and I think it was very full circle when her last album came out and it was a completely different world than the string band sound stuff. I was like, “See? We all have it in us to want to explore different things.”

To answer your question a little more directly, I don’t worry about genre. If I wrote this song and I am proud of the song, I want to flesh it out in a way that just intuitively feels good to me. That being said, there are some songs where I lean towards more bluegrass, but there’s also a song like “Storm Brewing,” where it’s a clawhammer song. I wrote it on the banjo and then when we dressed it up, it just felt really good to put some electric guitar in there. I’ve added drums to everything because that’s how I wanna play my live show.

I love that you mention Sarah Jarosz, because that’s definitely an artist that this album reminds me of, but also Larkin Poe, Bonnie Raitt and Susan Tedeschi specifically, because you have these big bluesy modern tracks, but you’re a picker as well. I think that changes the music, when the bones of it or the origins of it are coming from someone who’s an instrumentalist-performer-songwriter-vocalist.

I also think that’s part of why the music, even though it comes from a variety of genre backgrounds, feels so engaging and charming, because you can play around with those sounds freely. Even if you were just playing the songs solo, just you, yourself, and your instrument – whatever instrument that may be – they would still work, but they also work fully realized.

Can you talk a little bit about how being a picker informs you and inspires you as a songwriter and as a frontwoman?

You kind of already hit on it. From the outset every song starts with me and my instrument – and they usually start either like “Storm Brewing” in a tent in Utah or like “Getting High in Hotel Rooms” getting high in hotel rooms in Las Vegas. I sit down with an instrument and the music always comes first.

“Everything Is Fine” actually started as a more fingerstyle thing on my resonator [guitar]. I wrote the words and then I was feeling the chorus. The vibe is more rock, and I wanted a strumming electric guitar. So it can be malleable, but pretty much [most of the time] it’s like, “I wrote this riff on this instrument and now I’m gonna write some words to it.” Then, in the case of this album, I bring it to my touring band, who I trust immensely and we can collaboratively work, play around with it, and they give their input as well.

Let’s talk about the title track. “Hear My Call” is like Ola Belle Reed meets Gillian Welch meets modern, head-bobbing bluegrass mash. I love that. I thought it was interesting to pick this one as the title track, given that it’s one of a handful of string band songs on the record among many much “harder” sounding tracks. I wanted to know more about the inspiration behind it, choosing it as the title track, and having it be the keystone of the project. How did you write it and how did it all come together?

You know, I’m actually deeply dismayed to say that I don’t even remember when exactly I wrote this riff! I think I was on a very long, grueling West Coast tour, but you know the West Coast is also always filled with magic. I’m very partial to the nature and landscape out West. I would’ve definitely written the riff first and then I started just hearing this chorus over and over. I was playing it at soundchecks.

I guess I didn’t even think about choosing a song that best represents the album. I was struggling to name the album, just because it’s hard to do that. Do I choose another title or do I do a title track? But I actually chose it because this whole album [is about] the way I was mentally, the way I still am feeling about my place in music, my place in the world, and the general sort of comfort level I have with being exactly who I am.

I’m in a time of changing my energy from being an observer and a student of a lot of different cultures and musics, from looking at other people and taking all of that with deep gratitude, realizing that I have a story as well. The unique blend of things that make up my cultural history, and geographical history – all of those things I should be proud of and not uncomfortable with. Until the last couple of years, I was just uncomfortable with how complicated everything is in my my personal history and my musical influences and not knowing how to marry being a girl from Paris that went to Princeton with being someone who loves down-home music. I just spent [a lot of] time almost apologizing for things that I really can’t change [about myself].

“Hear My Call” is reflective of the shift that happened. Maybe it’s just growing into yourself and realizing I’m actually proud of where I’m from and I’m happy to have had the experiences I have. I have learned a lot from other people, but other people can maybe also learn from me. It’s not all just “take take take.” I can give something back. It’s an assertion of reclaiming space. That’s really what this song is about.

It’s interesting to hear you say that you’re giving yourself permission to be exactly who you are and love the music you love and make the music you make, because I think part of the “trad” music world is that we’re all policing ourselves all the time.

I actually didn’t realize it, but I think a lot of what influenced how I went into the studio [for this album] was that, around that time and a little before, I was delving deep back into the music I listened to when I was, let’s say, 11 to 18. After so many years of being a true student of the blues and then old-time – like, “I have to learn every tune and I have to read all the books!” Well, I wanted to. I went back into this music that felt so familiar and not being stupid and young anymore thinking, “I can’t listen to Blink-182, ‘cause it’s not cool.” I missed The Strokes and Bon Iver and Elliott Smith and all these things that, while I’ve always loved them, I kind of pushed to the wayside as all this new music came in, which is natural.

I loved this feeling around the time of doing this album of just reconnecting with my teenage self and remembering that that [music] has [also] informed the way I write. I want it to be just as present as someone that I discovered much later, like Gillian Welch. I’m hoping that mix comes across, to some extent.

I also wanted to ask about your “online community.” You have a huge social media following and you have so many amazing collaborators that you make content with. Personally, I think part of why you’re able to approach genre without being contained by categories is because you have built this direct-to-consumer business model. You’re directly interfacing with so many of your listeners, so none of them are gonna be surprised to see you code-switch on a project, genre-wise or sonically.

It jumped out at me that the way that you operate online – creating on your own terms with the door open and the window shades up so that everybody can be part of that process and also take ownership of it – must somewhat allow you to do what you want. You aren’t beholden to anybody but yourself, especially given that you’ve created this ecosystem and this community for yourself and your fans already know that’s what to expect from you.

Wow, I just love doing interviews, ‘cause I feel like when they’re insightful people like you they’re telling me things about myself! Because that’s so, so insightful and I have never thought about it that way!

So much has been dictated by circumstance or necessity – and partially just me being batshit crazy and honestly not scared of anything. [Laughs] Like, I would go on the beach in Venice, [California] when I lived there and busk. Instead of playing songs that would make me a lot of money, I played my own songs over and over and over, because I was like, “I’m playing my guitar. I need to get good at it. I think it’s cool and they’ll think it’s cool, too.”

When I first went on the road, I was like, “Well, I’m gonna bring my electric guitar, because my acoustic is gonna explode when I’m in Zion and Moab and all these crazy places.” I was on the road for six months in a tent, mostly. That was a big factor in choosing why a lot of my songs are performed on electric. Then I brought my banjo, ‘cause I liked it and I was like, “I don’t really care if it’s confusing, but I’m gonna like play my blues stuff.”

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This is actually going to offend people if you print this, but I would play through my [Fender] Blues Junior and then I would just plug my banjo into it, because, “It’s an amplifier and it fucking works, so…” [Laughs] It didn’t sound that bad actually, to be honest with you, but yeah, I would be playing some random brewery somewhere that I’ve never been and I would go from playing Son House to “Angeline the Baker,” because that’s what I was learning at the time.

I guess in some ways, of course I’m like everyone else and I worry deeply about what people think of me and how I am perceived, but in other ways, I just don’t care. That can be really freeing. I think that’s carried over a little bit. I had experimented with paring myself down – “OK, I need to just be a blues player” and then I would show up to the gig and there would always be one or two people that were disappointed I didn’t bring the banjo. And vice versa when I just did the string band stuff, it felt like I was missing a huge part.

I mean there was no way I was gonna not play my guitar. That’s like my main instrument, but there was a time in Nashville where I was just playing with a string band and I didn’t ever play my resonator. I just played acoustic and the banjo. It didn’t feel complete. I don’t have it figured out. I don’t know that there is a “figuring out” that’s going to happen. I’m just gonna play what I like.

You contain multitudes!

Yes! Thank you, I try. [Laughs]

Photo Credit: Stacie Huckeba