By now, Josiah Leming is a master of reinvention. In the early 2000s, he signed a major label deal, then went indie for a while. Some of his albums leaned on his rock influences; others were more folk-oriented. He’s released a healthy number of covers projects, but can write songs as well as anybody who’s been in the business for 20 years. Leming also recorded under his own name before rebranding himself as Josiah and the Bonnevilles. And he’s about to be all over the map, literally, when he launches his Redline North American Tour in May with openers Max Alan and Brenna MacMillan.
Josiah and the Bonnevilles’ base should only grow with As Is, out May 8 on Rounder Records. Returning with a more electric approach, Leming co-produced the album with Konrad Snyder.
“It was important to me that the album sound different, but not so different that people don’t recognize it,” Leming tells BGS. “That was actually a pretty tough thing to do, because it’s easy to change things and really turn them on their head, but to have it still feel like it came from the music that came before it was something I thought a lot about.”
A proud native of Morristown, Tennessee, and now living in Nashville, Leming caught up with BGS to talk about how he picked up the banjo, the positive results of listening to Ralph Stanley, and how Jack Reacher helped him define his relationship with his fans.
I noticed the first line of the first song on the new album is, “I’ve been staying out and off the internet,” and after listening to the album a couple times, I realized that’s an important line for this whole record. Was there sort of a recentering, or a desire to disconnect, maybe, as you went into this album?
Josiah Leming: It was a huge part of it. And I still struggle with it a little bit, because the reason I got to where I am now is because I embraced the internet, I embraced social media, and I shared my life with people, day in and day out. I was 33 years old, fighting and scrapping to have a place, making music as a living. But I found as we got toward the end of 2024, the things that I was doing to sustain the level that I was at were coming directly at the cost of the essential thing that goes into the music.
Like, things had never been better. My shows were as big as they’d ever been. Everything was cooking on all cylinders, but I didn’t have any new songs that I was very excited to share. I needed to completely cut myself off from that world of the promotion cycle and the daily posting. … I have always written so autobiographically, and it would have been very easy for me to write an album about the struggles of the road or an album that would make a lot of sense to me. But I started thinking about 13-year-old Josiah in Morristown, Tennessee, and that guy doesn’t care what it’s like to be in Tulsa on a Thursday night, and maybe you’re a little lonely. Like, I gotta cut deeper to the core of this thing that’s not just about me.
That took me 30 or 40 songs to write out all of that stuff, to get to where I could look a little deeper for the meaning and the songs that somebody would understand if they weren’t a touring musician. That was the ultimate goal for me with the record, to make something where people don’t think about me when they listen to it. They can maybe just put it on in the garage. When I put on Ralph Stanley or AC/DC in the garage, I don’t think about Angus Young or Malcolm Young or Brian Johnson. I think, “Damn, this is an awesome day. This is a soundtrack to my life.” And I hope I have done that somewhere on this album.
How much of an influence did your Appalachian roots have on this album?
It’s really interesting. So the bio for the album was written by an author named Silas House. We had a chat and he actually asked me a similar question. He was like, “It feels Appalachian, even though it isn’t that obvious.” I think that’s because of the language I use that I grew up with. I think a lot about when I write, “Would my dad understand it?” My dad’s a simple, working-class man. So if things get too complicated, lyrically, then I want to change that to make it simpler.
That’s a lot of it, and I really went into the deep phase with Ralph and a lot of older stuff. That really changed my perspective on how I see myself in this industry. It’s very easy to start to get into this race to the top, and you’re looking at analytics, and you want more monthly listeners and all this stuff. Listening to bluegrass, and Ralph Stanley especially, all that kind of disappears, and it just becomes about the raw emotion of it. Which is what I fell in love with in the first place, when it felt like I had to do music.
How did Brenna MacMillan get involved with the project?
I was tracking a demo to a different song, a song I love but that’s very strange. And I was like, “I really want a banjo player.” Back in the day, I used to use Craigslist to find background singers because I love finding new people. So I put up an Instagram story and somebody sent me Brenna’s account. I watched one video and I thought, “This is just like lightning in your veins.” She’s so awesome. The energy in the banjo and the voice. And we had connected but it didn’t work out that particular moment.
So when it came time where I wanted banjo on the record, I hit Brenna up again because we’d exchanged numbers. She came in, and she’s just amazing. She doesn’t know how good she is. She’s been tour managing the band East Nash Grass, which I love. I’ve been listening to them a ton right now. I was like, “We need you in the band.” So now she’s in the band, she’s touring with us, and she’s going to open up the shows. I’m so excited for people to hear her.
When did you first pick up the banjo?
My grandpa gave me a banjo. He loved George Jones. He was a hard-drinkin’, George Jones-lovin’, bluegrass-lovin’ guy. He had a banjo and a Dobro he gave me, and I fiddled around with that. And then, all of us guitar players, when we find the six-string banjo, we’re so pumped because we don’t have to learn all these new chord shapes. So, it’s been a couple of years that I’ve been adding in the six-string banjo on things when I play, and I still play that on “Redline.” I am using the finger picks now, rather than my nails. So I feel like I’m starting to cross the bridge… if I can learn some shapes on the real banjo, maybe I can do some damage one day.
In “Redline,” it seems like you’re writing for the people you grew up with. People in your life who have hope, but it’s just hard. Who do you have in mind when you write a song like “Redline”?
It makes me emotional, honestly. I think about my dad all the time. It’s like I have all this… it’s not anger, but there’s very strong feelings. While I’m doing very well in my career, it’s better than it’s ever been, most people that I know are not winning in this modern world. Where everything is through the phone, and it’s the only way to access social circles. It’s the only way sometimes to order a damn McDonald’s sandwich. And there’s just this barrier, there’s this divide.
I see it with my dad, and my grandparents, just being left behind. And also working people. We shot the video for “Hell Without the Flames” down in Colombia, because that’s where all these jobs have gone, and now they pay these people even less than they paid before. So there’s just something that I can’t get out of my brain. I think about it all the time. That’s an important song to me. We love playing it. The band loves playing it. So I appreciate you asking that, it means a lot.
You’re welcome, and this may be a good segue to ask about “You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive.” I found your version when I was going through your Country Covers EPs. It tells a similar story, about how grandma and grandpa had to keep working to live. Why did that song pull you in?
I probably heard that song first on Justified and I think that would have been the Darrell Scott version, the original. And I had always loved it. I mean, that’s just one of the best songs ever made. Talking with Silas about it, or anybody from the region, it’s so complicated because there’s so much pride. I like to think that there’s so much pride in working for so little, but these people are exploited over and over again. We don’t have aspirations of gold palaces or island complexes, so we’ve just been consistently taken advantage of, because we have this value system that’s a lot different. It makes you sad, sometimes it makes you angry, and sometimes it also makes you proud, and it’s really complicated feelings around all of it.
But it also seems like it’s important for you to share the music that you like. You’re writing songs that you want your audience to relate to. You’re covering songs to maybe introduce the music you like to your fans. You’re bringing musicians you like out on tour with you. Your fans can tell what you’re into through the company you keep. Is that part of your creative vision, to share with your audience who you’re listening to and what you like?
I think so, yeah. I was thinking recently, I always had service jobs growing up. I would serve tables or I would bartend. As I get older, I just see myself as having a responsibility. I think I had the responsibility to get off the internet for a year to write the best album that I could, rather than perpetuating my brand with songs that sounded similar. I feel like I have a responsibility to have the upbeat songs in the set list. If people are flying into town or driving 10 hours, it’s my responsibility to give them an experience.
There’s a great quote that I love from the Jack Reacher books. I love anything like James Bond, Reacher, or Tom Clancy. I love that stuff. But the author of Jack Reacher has a great quote about a handshake. And to make a handshake work, there’s got to be the hand on the other side that shakes back. I think about that in everything I do these days, since I read that. I wouldn’t get a lot of benefit out of just making music that I love and putting it out in the world if there’s not that hand on the other side. So I am at the point in my life where I think about those people that I’m looking at when I play live, and there’s a responsibility to me to weave what I’m excited about into what I hope will connect with them.
Want to see Josiah and the Bonnevilles live at the Fonda Theatre in Los Angeles on May 21, 2026? Enter to win tickets here!
While many young talents, willingly or hesitantly, bow down to music industry boardroom suits who promise stardom if they’ll follow a professionally curated path, Cole Chaney takes a hard pass. He knows exactly who he is, what he does, and how he wants to get there. He creates songs, not content. He’s a career musician, not a brand. And the only thing he hopes to influence, maybe, is someone, somewhere, who wants to make music for all the right reasons.
Chaney grew up in Catlettsburg, Kentucky, surrounded by the legacies and storytelling of his elders. After graduating high school he worked as a welder, uncertain of his career path, but already fueled by his passion for music. Today, he keeps one musical foot in the bluegrass traditions of his Appalachian roots and the other in guitar-centric, amplified bands like Soundgarden, Nirvana, Alice In Chains, and Stone Temple Pilots.
His debut album Mercy and subsequent OurVinyl Sessions reflect his love of acoustic music and showcase his leanings toward introspection and melancholy. In the Shadow of the Mountain, released last fall, takes that darkness to a new place, balances it with moments of light and leans into the aforementioned rock influences, while never losing the origins of his sound. All of this shines at peak level onstage, captured by Western AF on a Live AF Session.
Sitting outside at home on an April morning, drinking coffee and surrounded by the sounds of birds and a breeze, Chaney spent a couple of hours on the phone with Good Country. He spoke candidly about his music, faith, values, mental health, and the intertwining of inner peace and inner turbulence that make all these things uniquely him.
When you were ready to do this professionally, you went to Lexington. Most songwriters would have chosen Nashville. Was yours a deliberate decision or a natural one?
Cole Chaney: To understand that decision, you have to look at who I was looking up to at the time – and still do – and what drove that decision. When I was in high school, probably around my freshman or sophomore year, 2014 or 2015, I started getting into this band called Sundy Best. They’re from Prestonsburg, Kentucky, which is just down the road from me. This was pre-Tyler Childers. At the time, in Eastern Kentucky, these guys were the biggest thing coming and going. They leaned heavily on being from Kentucky, the same way I do, and they moved to Lexington to get a foothold.
That was my early example, watching those guys. I knew they weren’t going about it the traditional way, which was to go to Nashville and pray somebody picks you up. They did it in Lexington. A couple years later, Tyler Childers comes along – another super-influential figure in my musical upbringing. Of course, he’s anti-Nashville – not the city, but the machine, if you will. I’m pretty sure he lived in Lexington, or at least around the area in the scene, for a while. So did Sturgill Simpson. The list goes on.
I was like, “What business model makes more sense to me? Do I go to the place where there’s more songwriters than the rest of the entire planet or somewhere where people will actually understand what I’m saying and I can maybe build myself a little bit of a foundation?”
The way I saw it is if I started building a sort of fan base or if I had enough ticket buyers, places like Nashville or Denver, these big music scene cities, what choice would they have other than to book us? That’s the way I looked at it.
And it worked.
It did work. It’s a simple business model, but the difference between that model and the other is you’re not sitting around waiting for something to happen. It’s on you to go out and make your own connections. It’s a very grassroots and organic way of doing it and that’s the way I like to do things. I’m anti-machine. Even though I work with some bigger companies, I keep it as limited as possible. That’s so I can play pretty much wherever I want, whenever I want, and they understand that.
On the Whiskey Riff Raff Podcast you said, “Music found me.” Would you mind expanding on that just a bit?
It did. I never would have dreamed at 16 years old that I would be doing this as my full-time job at 25. That was never on the horizon for me. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I knew I was going to weld for a little bit, see what happened, and maybe try to start my own business. And I did. But I really didn’t think it was going to end up like this.
I started realizing that people liked to hear me play and sing around the same time that COVID hit really hard. That gave me an opportunity to sit down, write some songs, and think about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
I’m very much a subscriber to the Bible, and I think the Lord has a mysterious way of working. He put me on a path without me even realizing it way back then and I do my best to stay on it now. I think my job while I’m here is to create as much good stuff as I can, stuff that means something, get it out to the people, and get out in front of them and play it for them. As somebody who enjoys going to shows in their free time and watching my favorite bands perform live, I know how that feels, and it’s truly a privilege to be able to offer that same service to other people.
There is music in your bloodlines, not professionally, but family members who played in church and at home. You obviously assimilated the sound of the area, and also this wider scope with bands like Alice In Chains and Stone Temple Pilots. When did all of that begin seeping into your songwriting?
We listened to the radio when I was growing up. I didn’t get educated on music or how to play until I started really getting into it. To this day, I’m still being educated and learning how to play on a daily basis. Part of what keeps it so fun to me is how much I don’t know and constantly learning about things.
Mercy was my first album, and I had access to what was around me. I had just moved to Lexington and I was really into bluegrass. There’s a band called the Wooks that, to this day, Glory Bound is one of my top three favorite records of all time. I was infatuated with that sound and that was what I wanted Mercy to sound like, or at least as close to it as I could get. A lot of the Wooks ended up playing on that album, plus Michael Cleveland. It was crazy.
Alice In Chains has been a mainstay in my musical taste since I was probably 15 or 16 years old. Since I first found them, I was very drawn in by the tone of Layne Staley’s voice and the weight of Jerry Cantrell’s guitar. It feels like you could bite it and chew on it. I don’t know how to describe it.
I’ve also always loved bluegrass, so it was [figuring out] how to bridge the gap of what I listen to and where I want to go with my writing without completely abandoning that sound. And bringing the alternative rock sound into the folk realm, where you have mandolin, upright bass, fiddle, acoustic guitars, and drums. The biggest change in the sound has been the addition of drums over the past two years, navigating that and seeing how it fits into the whole equation. It opened up a lot of avenues for me as a songwriter.
You began playing guitar at 13 or 14. Did you always play acoustic?
The thing about electric guitar, for me, is that it’s such a deep realm of gear and a deep dive. I’ve always been attracted to good-sounding acoustic guitars and players like Tony Rice, so I felt my effort was best spent getting really good at playing the acoustic guitar.
That will carry over whenever I decide to pick up an electric guitar, more so than if I only played electric guitar and tried to write some bluegrass-style acoustic lines. It would be a tougher transition to come over from light gauge strings on an electric guitar to .013s on a dreadnought and trying to play “Blue Railroad Train” or something like that.
Do you have an electric guitar?
I have several electric guitars. I’ve got a ’57 reboot Stratocaster, an American Professional Telecaster, my old Paul Reed Smith that I learned how to play electric on, and a nice Vox amp. I don’t know all that much about electric guitars. I still have a lot to learn.
Prior to this interview, you sent over your touring rig: a Gibson J-45 Banner in standard tuning with a K&K Pure Mini pickup, and a Breedlove sitka/rosewood Custom Dreadnought in drop D/double drop D, with an LR Baggs Element VTC pickup. Also two Grace BiX DI’s and a Lampifier Model 711 cardioid mic for lead vocals.
Those are my road guitars. They aren’t the ones I recorded everything with, but those are what you see at the shows.
In addition to the Gibson and Breedlove, do you have other acoustics?
I have two Gary Cotten guitars. [On] OurVinyl [Sessions, that] was my first Cotten I recorded with. On In the Shadow of the Mountain, many of those songs are my newer Cotten, which is sinker mahogany and an Adirondack top. “Alone?,” “In the Shadow of the Mountain,” “Into,” “Feels Like Rain,” and “Spirit” [were all recorded] on the Cotten.
That guitar sounds huge. It’s an outstanding guitar. I don’t tour with it because I’m scared something would happen to it and it’s too special to me. And Gary’s a great dude. He’s always taken really good care of me, and I want that guitar to stick around for a long time.
I don’t have any electronics in it, either. It’s a very traditional style, it’s a dovetail, and I want to keep it as traditional as I can and keep as much weight out of it as I can, because the more weight you add, sometimes it makes them sound worse.
What makes the Gibson and Breedlove right for touring?
They’re super-versatile and they both sound fantastic plugged in. That Breedlove is the longest-standing guitar I have that I’ve consistently played shows with. I got it in 2019 from 4 o’clock Rock Guitar Shop in Ashland [Kentucky]. It’s a custom dreadnought that they shop-ordered and it’s got the LR Baggs VTC Element in it. It has always sounded so good plugged in. I mean, all guitars sound bad plugged in, but it’s a matter of how much of the original sound can you actually preserve when you plug it in.
I’ve gotten to the point where I am almost starting to desire a little bit of that direct input texture. Maybe it’s because I’m listening to too much MTV Unplugged, but I’m starting to desire that kind of cardboard bad sound.
The Gibson, I put a K&K Pure Mini in and it sounds really close to what it sounds like not plugged in. Man, that Gibson is a beast. I love that guitar. It’s been to every show with me since I bought it last year.
I still have a Paul Reed Smith acoustic guitar and it’s a damned good little guitar. I’ll probably end up using it again on some stuff. It’s one of those that you plug in and it sounds great, too. But when I got into the whole bluegrass thing, I knew I needed something with a little more body.
Sometimes you use a pick, sometimes fingers. Either way, your attack is strong. How did your technique develop?
It’s one hundred percent out of necessity. I had a really bad injury in 2015 and I damn near cut my index finger completely off at the knuckle. I can’t wholly bend my index finger and I can’t feel the picking side of that finger. If you watch some of my older videos, my index finger is flailing around all the time. It’s because I’m picking with my thumb and middle finger, and that’s where I’m holding the pick. That took me long enough to learn how to do.
In recent years I’ve learned how to use my middle finger to lock my index in place and be able to hold a pick. It looks normal, but if you could see how the sausage is made, it’s not that pretty. I wish I had that dexterity in my finger. The takeaway message from that is, “Take care of your hands, y’all.”
Let’s talk about the through line from bluegrass to bands like Stone Temple Pilots and Alice In Chains. You blend the genres seamlessly and it all makes sense. Did you always feel that connection?
If you listen to any playlist I’ve had, I’ll go from Ralph Stanley to Chris Cornell in a heartbeat. Obviously the music is different, but there are common themes between the two. Mountain folk music, hard rock, and that era are very dark and brooding, and they can be heavy in their own ways too.
What is heavy? What makes a song heavy? You’ve got people drop-tuning their guitars, but it’s still not as heavy as Pantera or Black Sabbath or something like that. So it’s not necessarily the sound that makes it heavy. It’s the vibe of the song.
I feel like a salesman a little bit, trying to sell this idea that this stuff can be brought together and related in an authentic capacity. Let’s take [Stone Temple Pilots’] “Big Empty,” for example. To do a cover of that and be looked at as a folk artist or an Appalachian artist, or some people will even say country – which I disagree with, but whatever – it always seems like somebody will start into a cover of this great song, but then they’ll get hokey with it and it loses all its purity.
That’s not at all the intended purpose for me. It’s to say, “This is a fantastic song and it fits the vibe that we’re all going for in this realm.” A lot of people probably didn’t know that a mandolin or fiddle sounds great on “Big Empty,” but now they do, because it fits. That’s the way I listen to that kind of stuff. It’s just how to pull that off without being cheesy or coming off in a capitalistic way. More so in a way of, “I love this song and you guys should listen to it.”
Was it challenging to find musicians who understand going from bluegrass to Stone Temple Pilots and back again?
The band, I think through a lot of prayer/manifestation, has come together and, as you hear, they’re fantastic. They can play anything in any style. Ella [Webster] and Kyle [Kleinman] come from a more traditional folk music side of things. Kyle is a bluegrasser and Ella is an old-time fiddle player. Lars [Swanson] and James [Gooding] are jazz cats, so they have infinite vocabulary when it comes to music. If you can play jazz, then you’re going to be all right. If you can pull off that stuff, you don’t have anything to worry about when it comes to my type of music. Stone Temple Pilots is a walk in the park for you.
In our van, the most listened-to bands between us are Soundgarden, Pantera, whatever James’s choice of jazz is, and Alice In Chains MTV Unplugged. That’s a really good piece of music. But yeah, they’re a great band and they can play anything.
Did Lars and James know each other before they joined your band? To lock in a rhythm section…
No, they didn’t. Once you start playing with a jazz drummer, you need somebody who can comprehend the stuff he’s laying out and answer that on the bass. To have those two sit in a room and jam is really something to witness and listen to, because they speak a language to each other that I don’t understand. But I love when they do it, and it’s great to hear.
I’ll be playing onstage, singing and doing my thing, those guys are behind me and I’ll hear them back there, talking to each other while we’re doing this thing, and it’s awesome. They’re special. Those two dudes – they’re incredible. They’re the unsung heroes of music in general. That’s your metaphorical offensive line right there. If you don’t have a Lars and a James, then your quarterback’s getting sacked all the time.
This is you in 2025 on The Western Side, talking about Shadow: “a lot of darkness and an equal amount of joy in other songs. It’s a good depiction of where I’ve been for the past two years. A tumultuous and chaotic time period, but also great. And I’m still here.”
Then, In 2021, on With A View: “I load the pressure on. It’s how I operate. My brain lives in constant turmoil.” In 2020, talking about “Fever Dream,” “a song about trying to keep it all together. … the way I deal with this is isolation. And when you isolate yourself, you don’t have much of a choice but to hash some things out in your head.”
You are no stranger to the dark place.
Hearing those things, I look at that younger version of myself almost as I would look at a younger brother. Part of me wishes I could put an arm around that kid’s shoulders and be like, “You’re going to be all right, buddy.” Times got a little tough, as they probably should for anybody at points in their life. You can’t really enjoy the great parts of your life without having a little bit of adversity to overcome or deal with. The darkest part, for me, was maybe just growing up and gaining a new understanding of the way the world actually operates and how hopeless that can be at times, but also how beautiful it can be in the same stroke.
What I’ve realized is you get out of this world what you pay attention to, because whatever you want to find, you can find it. It’s there and it’s aplenty, whether you want to find the negativity and suffering, or whether you want to find the positive and the good. I don’t have the answer to where folks are supposed to operate and live, but I think it’s good to help people who are in that suffering side of things. But you can’t let that dominate your existence, and for a little while, I was maybe dominated by the darker side of life.
I try to be as empathetic as I can, but with that comes feeling a lot and also accidentally hurting people sometimes. That’s really tough, because then you have this cycle of guilt that you deal with trying to make it right in your head. As I’ve gotten a little older and maybe figured a couple things out, I try to have a lot more grace for myself. What I’ve learned about the pressure is that it’s really just perceived pressure and none of that exists, and you should just care less what people think.
Obviously, music is where you go during those times.
Absolutely. If something is eating at me that I’m having a hard time getting out in a linear fashion, a lot of times I find myself writing about it without even realizing it. My mom is an abstract painter, so I grew up with an understanding of what “abstract” means and abstract concepts. That’s how I materialize a lot of that stuff, because some of it is things I would never come right out and literally write down, for multitudes of reasons, but things you want to indirectly address. That’s when [abstraction] becomes a great tool for addressing those kinds of things. Metaphors.
It seems, when it comes to expressing those things, you’re in the balance between the emotionally open world of Cornell, Cobain, and others and the world of bluegrass, country, hunting, fishing, and those stereotypes of “manly men” – and not so much emotional transparency.
Not necessarily. I don’t know about the whole “alpha male” personality type. It’s always seemed to me that a lot of times the guys who are trying to be perceived as macho are probably the ones who need a hug the most. Now it’s everybody else’s problem because their dad didn’t do it, and that sucks.
As I’ve emotionally developed a little bit, I’ve really started to respect individuals like Chris Cornell. If you look into him as a person and watch some of his interviews, he’s intelligent and seemingly self-aware. I respect the way he conducted himself, especially in interviews, and the way he made sure to pay attention to people and make them feel seen. The only way you can empathize with people like that and make sure of those types of things is if you’ve been on the other end of that stuff and you’ve felt looked over and brushed off.
I may not be the best at answering Instagram DMs, and I definitely don’t stay on the internet because I think it sucks, but if I talk to somebody in person, I always try my best to give them that and be present in the moment. Somebody else that does a fantastic job of that is Nicholas Jamerson, the frontman of Sundy Best, who’s a mentor, friend, and hero of mine.
Have you ever felt any hesitation about publicly ripping off the mental health Band-Aids? Or, conversely, is there a feeling of opening the door to people having these conversations?
Sure, there’s hesitation about a lot of things. There’s a lot of decisions about, “How do you want to portray yourself in a public light?” But my main goal is and has been to just be as authentic as I can, as representative of how I feel about things as I can, and to be accepting of people and understand that they come from different places and have different perspectives.
With that hesitancy, there’s also much more in the way that when we were talking about 20-year-old Cole, the way I want to put my arm around that kid and comfort him, that’s what I want my music to do for people that feel the way I was feeling at that time.
Listening to you, I’m reminded of something Charlie Daniels said to me during an interview years ago: “Music is too precious for me to prostitute it.”
Oh, yeah. Absolutely. And, too, Charlie Daniels is one of the greatest country musicians ever. I want to go on record saying that.
The way I look at it is, could I see my heroes, people I look up to, going online and being like, “Comment what song you think I should release next”? No, I don’t think I could. When I see someone who has musical and artistic integrity, that’s how I’m going to operate. I’m going to try my hardest to uphold my integrity and not do the TikToks and the really cheap stuff.
You absolutely will suffer financially for not playing the game and if you don’t kiss the right ass, but, to me, that suffering is not negative suffering. I’m honored to be able to suffer like this, because if my options are suffer or have to watch Country Central’s “Hot Take Tuesday,” then give me suffering all day long, because I’m not paying attention to that bullshit. It’s ridiculous. I don’t care who’s beefing and I don’t care what dude is playing cowboy this week.
That’s why I’m trying to get out of the country scene. It’s becoming so fake and there’s so many people trying to be carbon copies of other people. There’s no authenticity. Everybody’s full of shit. We went through this period where people like Tyler [Childers] drove the spear through the heart of this mainstream country thing and it was akin to when Nirvana came on the scene and effectively killed hair bands for a while. But then the Nirvana copycats came along and garnered a lot of the same attention.
I’m not saying that just Tyler Childers is responsible for this. People like Sturgill, and a lot of smaller artists in their own scenes, are responsible for the turning over of the dirt, if you will. But it’s getting stale. It’s past getting stale. It is stale and it’s bad. There’s a lot of really shitty music being put out right now and I don’t want any part of that.
If I’ve got to step away and back off and be out of the internet eye, then fantastic. That doesn’t bother me one bit. If it means a few less people know who I am, then so be it. But I hold out hope that people will eventually realize how cheap and bad a lot of the music is that is being promoted right now, and there’ll be another turning of the dirt soon.
Yes, art is subjective, but art is subjective. Not this corporate bullshit that they’re trying to push. That’s not art. That’s six dudes in a room trying to come up with a song that’s going to sell on the radio or sell on the internet, or “We’re going to put thirty tracks on this album” so they can set streaming records. It’s like, “Man, y’all have lost the complete plot of the whole thing.” There’s nothing interesting about that to me. I’m all about authenticity. I want to believe the person on the other side of the microphone from me, and if I don’t believe you, then I’m out.
Thomm Jutz has worked with a wide cast of characters since moving to Nashville in the early 2000s – John Prine, Nanci Griffith, Todd Snider, Billy Strings, and the SteelDrivers’ Tammy Rogers. But on his latest record, Ring-A-Bellin’, he strived to capture each song with the smallest musical unit possible.
The result of the 18-track album, released April 3, is a distinctly timeless vibe that feels just as much rooted to the present day as it does the mid-1900s or Civil War era, due to its recurring themes of history, mythology, and working with your hands. From self improvement (“Sharpen Your Knife”) to using natural disaster as a metaphor for perseverance (“Holy Mother Mountain”), the mastery that comes with time (“The Hammer And The Anvil”) and becoming more grounded in yourself (“Settle Me Down”), the GRAMMY-nominated transplant from Germany waxes philosophical and takes listeners back to a period long before we walked the Earth.
According to Jutz, the approach – recording with only a small group of people all in the same room not wearing headphones – is his way of replicating the process for how musicians would’ve recorded a century ago.
“This is how I want to make music right now,” he declares. “I don’t want to make a layered record – not because there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not what I’m feeling at the moment. It’s like saying I don’t want to use red in my paintings right now, because I’ve used enough of it already.”
During a lengthy conversation with BGS at his Belmont office on Music Row, Jutz spoke about his concept of home, how psychology and mythology informed Ring-A-Bellin’, and a companion book that takes listeners even further into the world of his 18 new songs.
You’re releasing this album with a companion book. Tell me a little about what’s inside and why you decided to adopt this approach?
Thomm Jutz: It’s more and more important to create some kind of parallel narrative to the music nowadays. Vinyl has seen a resurgence over the last couple years, but it is not practical for me to take on my one trip to Europe every year. Because of that, I wanted to create something that was still a larger format, fun to hold, and had all the liner notes present without being something so small it’s hard to read.
I’ve also always enjoyed writing and reading – especially during my last 10 years as an instructor at Belmont – so I wanted to articulate some of those thoughts as they relate to the songs on this record in a longer form. When I got to working on it I quickly realized I was in over my head with the graphic design aspect of it, so I consulted my friend Gina Meredith. I just told her what I wanted artwork for and commissioned various folks to create pieces for each song. But rather than tell them what to make, I just sent them the music and had them use the songs as their creative prompts. Because of that I don’t always see the linear connection between the songs and the graphics that were made, but that’s also my favorite part.
A lot of my thoughts on this record revolve around analytic and Jungian psychology, alchemy and things like that, which are difficult to talk about in a tiny CD booklet, so I wanted to do something that allowed for a more longform format.
Overall, this record has a timeless feel – it could be (and is) from 2026, but if I didn’t know any better I wouldn’t second guess if someone told me it was from the mid-1900s or Civil War era as well, especially songs like “Sharpen Your Knife” and “The Hammer And The Anvil.” What are your thoughts on the vibe you were able to conjure up here?
I’m a traditionalist at heart, so everything I do is always trying to bring something new to the way I perceive what came before us, whether that’s lyrically, thematically, or in the recording process – which in this case was mostly all done live. I just think there tends to be more mystery with that music. There’s new music that does that too, but it’s easier for me to find that in old music because the cultural context can be studied since it’s not as close to my own lived experience. No matter how much I listen to or read about Charley Patton, I’ll never understand what he fully experienced because I was never there.
Regarding the songs you mentioned, both talk about people working with their hands, but they’re also metaphors for working on yourself – like you are the hammer, you are the anvil, you are the iron that’s being forged. Those mantras are rooted in human thought and analytical psychology, which is something I’ve dealt with and thought about a lot over the last 15 years. Particularly in terms of how mythology and history go together, and how understood the former is.
On one hand, some people think a myth is a lie and others say a myth is a fact, but both are wrong. A myth is a metaphor and must be understood as one. These songs are an effort to create a mythological framework that is a mirror image of my development as a person and artist. If you ever want to develop as an artist, you must develop as a person first.
With so much of this record wrapped up in concepts like history, psychology, and mythology, what’s the timeline for bringing the 18 songs on it to life?
These songs came from a period of about three years, but when I started I wasn’t setting out to make a record – I just wanted to experiment with a couple things. I had a few songs that I co-wrote with my friend Adam Wright that I wanted to test out with only me singing and playing and Mark Fain on bass. And it worked out really well. As I got fascinated with that process I began looking through my catalog and noticed that the songs which spoke to me the most were all ones that formed a narrative arc.
However, it’s not an autobiographical record that says, “I was born here,” “I did this,” and “This is how it made me feel.” But more so, one that explores spiritual development. I’m not interested in autobiographical songwriting. I find it very claustrophobic how you have to spell everything out to the listener. When you do that you’re shutting them out with nothing to do, which has me opting for a more open approach. A song is only ever truly finished when the listener interprets it for themselves, not with what the person who wrote it intended.
One of the songs on Ring-A-Bellin’ that is tied to more recent events is “Holy Mother Mountain,” which was inspired by the fallout of Hurricane Helene, specifically in Western North Carolina. But it’s also a metaphor for overcoming adversity. Care to explain?
That song is a good example of how writing with someone else – in this case Mando Saenz – can profoundly shape an idea. I remember Helene happening and having this line “Holy Mother Mountain” appear to me out of nowhere. From then on I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I brought it to a writing session with him and said I didn’t know what to do with it. Then the co-writing dance ensued, with him taking the lead, followed by me for a bit, until it started becoming much clearer that there was no way to move forward without it being about Hurricane Helene somehow.
While it was inspired by that, the song is also about overcoming adversity and understanding that it’s going to happen again. Just because you live through Helene doesn’t mean there’s not another storm coming right behind it. If that storm showed us anything, it’s that perceived climate safety in Appalachia is not true. Also, “mother” and “mountain” are not just a nice alliteration, but there’s also a feminine quality about a mountain. An inverted mountain is a valley – or a place you can seek refuge in – and if you go on top of a mountain, you might find yourself closer to some kind of spiritual awareness.
The song is much more a collection of images that relate to the archetypal images of mother and mountain. Maybe even the word “holy” in the title has something to do with the fact of how little modernity treats nature with respect. Maybe that’s what we need to do – not bring offerings, but bring out attention to it instead of riding around and abusing it like crazy.
On “Too Many Walls” you sing about the idea of home. Given that you moved to the states 25 years ago from Germany, what is “home” to you?
Home and time are two of the biggest themes we write about, and it’s longing that connects the two – longing for home, longing to belong somewhere, longing to live in a different period of time, longing to get over something. Over the last couple years, I’ve also started thinking more about how strange a thing it is to build a house, because you’re just enclosing space that’s been there all along. You’re building and calling it something that wasn’t there before, but the land was always there. It’s a strange construct, and at the same time we need shelter.
From an early age I didn’t feel at home where I was because I longed for a place where music was part of the everyday lived experience. But in Germany after 1945 that was completely out of the picture, because the Nazi regime had completely and absurdly abused any sense of folklore. Since I was longing for an environment where people played music, I went to Ireland for the first time with my wife when I was 18 since it was much closer than coming [to the United States], which we couldn’t afford at the time. I was amazed by the music coming out of the pubs there – it felt so natural, like it was rising out of the Earth.
That fascination carried over into my love of American roots music. In that sense, “home” is where I feel connected to a place through music since that’s my main way of expressing myself. Additionally, southwestern Appalachia and the Black Forest that I’m from in Germany can look astonishingly similar sometimes, so when I go back to visit my parents I occasionally feel like I’m navigating the mountains around Johnson City, [Tennessee]. When I’m in Johnson City I sometimes imagine I’m back in Germany. But Appalachia has more importance to me now because it’s where I live and long to be. If it weren’t for all the writing I do in Nashville and my work at Belmont, I’d be in Appalachia fulltime, because it just speaks to me. When I haven’t been in a while I can start feeling something deep inside me – it’s not a heaviness, but a feeling of “I just really wanna fucking go.” [Laughs]
What has bringing this record to life taught you about yourself?
It’s taught me that I know nothing about graphic design and should always let someone else handle that instead. [Laughs]
In all seriousness, it has taught me that while I don’t consider myself a great singer, I can still enjoy the way I deliver a song if I do it correctly. It’s also taught me that while I have great deficiencies as a guitar player, I do enjoy the way I play guitar and this record, where I’m keenly aware of everything wrong with my playing. Even Tony Rice said that about his playing.
It’s not a sense of having completed my journey as a guitar player, but quite the opposite. It’s more like I’m aware of what’s missing. It’s also taught me that staying on the path of creating and writing a lot. You have to be in it for the long game in today’s environment and be doing it for the right reasons or you’ll run yourself ragged. I already understood that a little bit, but now I understand it even better. Maybe that’s what it’s all about – gaining a little awareness and moving on.
After writing with Dan Auerbach for her 2021 debut, Real Me, and with Sturgill Simpson on 2023’s Kentucky Blue, Brit Taylor instead looked in-house to bring her latest effort, Land Of The Forgotten, to life.
Cue up her husband, Adam Chaffins. Taylor not only co-wrote seven of the album’s 11 songs with Chaffins, but asked him to produce the record, as well – his second straight after doing the same for Kentucky Bluegrassed (2024) as well. Together the two homed in on tunes rich in working class and Appalachian themes that push back and occasionally lean into narratives about the region and its people.
From the hillbilly manifestations of “Broke No More” to throwing all your ex’s possessions out on the curb (“All For Sale”), to the resilience of mountain folk (“Land Of The Forgotten”) and infidelity with the bottle (“Warning You Whiskey”), Taylor shows that Appalachia is much more than just a footnote or only worth mentioning when things go sideways.
“It puts a lighthearted spin on some of the tougher things about life,” says Taylor. “Not to make light of difficult times, but to remind us two things can exist at one time. And, [remind us] not to forget to take a look at the bright side too, and to not take it all so seriously.
“There’s a lot of awful things happening in the world that we need to be aware of and need to do what we can to change, but dwelling on it and ignoring all the good things around us in the process doesn’t help anyone.”
On the eve of the album’s March 6 release, Taylor spoke with BGS about motherhood, outsider perceptions of Appalachia, black sheep, and more.
Leading up to Land Of The Forgotten’s release you mentioned achieving a sound with this project that you’ve been trying to attain since first moving to Nashville in 2007. What was it you captured and how were you able to do it?
Brit Taylor: Just that bluegrass influence on country, particularly the late ‘80s sound of The Judds, Ricky Skaggs, and Patty Loveless. When I go back and listen to those things I noticed they’re all very acoustic driven. At some point all of that became really unpopular – fiddle, steel, and mandolin all went out of style for a while. We had a lot of fiddle on the last record, but [we’re] incorporating those instruments more than ever before on this album, which gave it a very “back to my roots” feel.
Everything, down to how this record is mixed, turned out just the way I wanted it to. A lot of it’s because Adam grew up [just over an hour away] in Louisa, [Kentucky] – so we listened to the same radio stations and the same types of Appalachian country music. Us understanding each other so well musically is what made this all click.
I know that most of the album wasn’t written with bluegrass in mind, but I find it interesting that you say this album is more bluegrass-y than Kentucky Bluegrassed. Are there any key differences between the two?
Even those bluegrassed versions weren’t “actual” bluegrass songs, because they still had drums on them. We made that record to showcase bluegrass versions of those country songs. We weren’t really shooting for a country record with that one, but the goal with Land Of The Forgotten has very much been to make a country record, but one that’s heavily influenced by bluegrass instrumentation similar to anything from Patty Loveless to Lee Ann Womack when she sings “Does My Ring Burn Your Finger.” On those songs you could strip the drums out and they would feel right at home as bluegrass songs even though they all come from country-leaning records.
You just touched on Patty Loveless (Emory Gordy) and Lee Ann Womack (Frank Liddell), both of whom recorded frequently with their husbands as producers as well. Tell me about that connection, both with them and your husband Adam, and how each informed the project?
It started out with me just making a giant playlist of songs I love that were all over the map with no goal in mind. But as I started listening to it I began noticing a lot of similarities between the songs on it, whether they were from Willie Nelson, Ricky Skaggs, Dwight [Yoakam], Patty [Loveless], or Lee Ann Womack. Then I noticed that a lot of them were produced by Emory Gordy or Frank Liddell, whether it was Lee Ann Womack or the Pistol Annies.
From there, I went to Adam and told him, “These are the things that I love – I need you to be my Frank and Emory.” [Laughs] They’re two of my favorites, and just so happened to have worked with their wives, so it made so much sense for me to do the same. Adam knows me better than anybody else and hears me sing in a billion different places. He just knows me, just like [Emory and Frank] knew their wives and knew what they wanted and how to get it as well as pushing and encouraging them at the same time.
Another family tie to this record is that it’s released only a few months after the birth of your first child, Beulah. What was it like bringing this project to market while also going through that experience?
We cut the record last January, and at that point I was not pregnant yet. We’d been talking about wanting a kid for a really long time, and this record came out exactly the way I wanted it to. When we found out about the pregnancy I was like, “I need to be as fearless about the personal decisions in my life as I am about music, and stop letting the stigmas about what the industry thinks of women with kids dictate the way that I live my life.” Or else I’m going to run out of time to get the things done that I want. So we just decided to take a leap of faith and it’s all worked out, as it often does when you trust the universe, that it has your back, and that everything’s going to be okay.
It was so much fun starting out the year cutting that record and then going on tour with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and Adam was with me. It was while in St. Augustine, Florida, doing that when we found out we were pregnant. I started back with them on another leg of the tour in July and showed up with a big belly, and it was so fun! I did that entire tour with no shoes. Jeff Hanna was always cracking up because I was just barefoot and pregnant on tour. [Laughs] It’s been really empowering to know that you can have it all, you just have to be brave and stop listening to the limitations that other people would like to put on you all the time.
Of all your albums so far, Land Of The Forgotten has some of my favorite wordplay. A prime example is “Warning You Whiskey,” a drinking song disguised as a ballad about an unfaithful lover. How did the idea for that one come about?
I love when songs have a twist or they’re not quite what you think they are. I also love a good story, so when my husband and I sat down with Adam Wright and he started telling us about this idea for a song called “Warning You Whiskey,” that sounds like you’re talking about a woman at first. I loved it from the beginning. We worked out the music and got that first verse and chorus written so fast that it wrote itself.
When we got to the second verse, I remember sitting there looking at both of them saying, “Man, I really want to kick this whiskey bottle’s butt!” [Laughs] Then my husband blurted out, “I’ll grip my hand around your long, skinny neck” and I just lost it. I jumped out of my chair because I was laughing so hard. Then Adam Wright popped out a line, I did the next, and within five minutes we had the entire thing written.
It reminded me so much of something Loretta Lynn would write and makes me think of women in my family that I’ve observed growing up. My mamaw really fought hard in the beginning of her relationship with my papaw, with him drinking, and she stuck by his side. Sometimes all he needed was a butt whoopin’. She’d just stand by his side and helped him through everything.
In the past you also haven’t hesitated to write a catchy song about getting through the daily grind, like “Rich Little Girls.” This album has two: “Lately I’ve Been Thinkin’” and “Around and Around.” Is there anything beyond that ties the ones on this record together?
“Around and Around” is just about life in general. It’s funny because everybody expected us to tie a really pretty bow on it in the bridge, but we just didn’t, because sometimes that’s how life is – we just keep spinning and spinning. Sometimes we figure out how to get out of the rat race and sometimes we don’t. The song is an observation of this girl who is finally becoming self-aware enough of her circumstances to stand outside of them and decide if she wants to change them or not.
As for “Lately I’ve Been Thinkin’,” it’s definitely inspired by the music industry. We were actually writing a different song that’s going to be on Adam’s record, but in the middle of writing [we] began talking about one of the award shows taking place that week, how much we hated it and all of the butt-kissing that goes on at them. Then [my husband] said, “Lately I’ve been thinking, I don’t like much stuff” and Adam Wright started cracking up. It was so funny because it all just started from a conversation. By the end of it, we all were like, “Well, it’s really not that bad. We get to sit here and write songs. We actually have it pretty good.”
It seems like many of the songs on Land Of The Forgotten originated from spontaneous writing moments. Is that a regular occurrence for you?
Those are my favorite songs. When the three of us write, we never sit down and think we’re gonna write a song for a specific person today. We just write what’s in the room, what’s moving us, and what we’re feeling. That usually ends up being something out of conversation and is oftentimes funny, because the three of us have the same sense of humor and [same] kind of outlook on life. I know a lot of people can get a bad taste in their mouth about co-writing and how like “white-coat” it can be, but when you find your tribe and you find your people, it’s awesome. It’s so much fun.
Earlier you discussed how distinctly Appalachian this record is. In my opinion, one of the best embodiments of that is the title track, “Land Of The Forgotten.” Was there a specific moment or place that inspired it?
I don’t remember if I wrote the song around when the floods happened, but I remember writing the hook down when all the floods happened back in my native Knott County in 2022. I feel like that’s the only time that we’re remembered, when tragedy strikes, and then we’re just kind of forgotten again until somebody can make fun of us. A lot of people have negative perceptions of what they think Eastern Kentucky or what hillbilly is, but it’s nothing like what people think. It’s about resilience, and strength, and honor, and family, and beauty, and folklore. Appalachia is so beautiful and so misunderstood.
I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to write a song as good as Darrell Scott’s “You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive.” I don’t know if I did that with this song by any means, but that’s always the goal when trying to write about home. I think that’s probably why I’ve never had a song about Appalachia. I’ve had a song about Kentucky in general, but it was more of a love story. I’ve tried to write it a million times, but I finally did one that I’m proud of, and that’s “Land Of The Forgotten.” When we put all these songs together, it quickly became a lot of stories about blue-collar life, surviving, and just how hard it is right now in this economy. Through that, “Land Of The Forgotten” became the theme of the record without even trying.
One of the album’s more lighthearted moments comes on “Crazy Leaf,” which sees you ruminating on that one black sheep we all have in our family. How did that one come to be?
When we sat down to write that – my husband, Jeremy Bussey and I – we started talking about all the crazy people we had in our families. It was Bussey who had the idea for the title, “Crazy Leaf,” which is a combination of these characters from our families into one song. But we didn’t want to pick on anybody too hard or put too much truth in there that you hurt somebody’s feelings.
My favorite thing was when I played it for my mom, and there’s that baptism line – “He got baptized for the fifth time, because the first four didn’t work” – where my mom said, “Your mammy used to say that if the water was too cold in the creek, the baptism wouldn’t take.” [Laughs] But in all honesty, it’s probably me – I’m the crazy leaf in my family.
From “Crazy Leaf” to motherhood and bringing this album to life with your husband as producer, Land Of The Forgotten has a whole lot to do with family. That won’t change anytime soon either with you and Adam going on a co-headlining tour together this spring. What are you most excited for about that?
I could not be more excited to be able to travel with Adam and for both of us to be able to do our own sets. We both work together a lot, but we’re still two individual artists as well, which I think confuses people sometimes. People will ask, “What’s your band name?” I’ll have to say, “No, I’m Brit Taylor and this is Adam Chaffins.” Maybe we’ll do a band thing eventually.
I’m also nervous because we’ll have the baby on the road for the first time, but that’ll also be really fun too. I can’t wait to show her pictures one day. I’ll be taking her on tour with me this summer out west with Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, too. She was in my belly through all those tours last year, so it’s gonna be so fun to have her on the road this time. My goal is to one day be touring bigger venues on a bus with my entire family there so we can travel the world together – that’s the dream.
What has the process of bringing Land Of The Forgotten to life taught you about yourself?
It’s a continuation of what everything keeps teaching me, which is that I just need to trust my gut and stop second-guessing things all the time. Adam has been a huge help with that. I feel like I can be hard on myself and always assume that somebody else knows better than me because they’ve got more experience. I don’t know if the creative process works that way. I think it only works when you’re true to yourself, and that’s something that isn’t always easy for me as a people pleaser and somebody that doubts herself a lot. So just learning to stand in my own truth and stand in my power and be confident in myself.
What other art forms – literature, film, dance, painting, etc. – inform your music?
Literature. It has probably helped my writing more than anything besides the act of writing itself. Wendell Berry has had a huge influence on me and he’s far and away my favorite writer. His prose is exceptional. There is a restraint and steadiness to it. He’s extremely prolific and consistent, which isn’t an easy thing to achieve. He says a great deal with very little and I learn from that every time I read a page.
There are many great writers I draw from in the same way: McCarthy, Kingsolver, McMurtry, Leopold, Abbey, Rooney, Hemingway, Faulkner, Burroughs – to name a few. I read widely, but tend to gravitate toward certain styles when I’m working on a project of my own. I’m always reading and if I’m not I make myself feel bad until I do. It’s a big part of the peace my wife and I have built into our days. When I’m in a creative season, I am a bit more intentional about my picks.
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do they impact your work?
I love the out of doors. I grew up on a cattle farm in Appalachia and was usually either outside or in trouble. I still spend as much time as I can fishing and hiking and – something that is likely unknown about me – I love rock climbing and have traveled the world climbing. I am also a geologist in my straight job, which especially early on kept me working outside.
Nature shows up in almost every one of my songs. It is not something I reach for. It is just part of how I see things. Being outside has always been another place I find peace. If things are bad, going outside almost always makes them better to a varying degree for me
Admittedly, I do get tired of winter and the blues that come with it. That makes its way into the songs, too.
Genre is dead (long live genre!), but how would you describe the genres and styles your music inhabits?
I don’t think much about genre. My songs usually start on an acoustic guitar, so there’s naturally some bluegrass and country in them. That’s the language I grew up around. But I’m not trying to recreate anything. I don’t read music or know much theory and I don’t really know what rules I might be breaking. I’ve always had a good ear and I let that guide me. I’m lucky to have close friends who are incredible musicians, and they’d dress me down if something was off.
If someone needs a label, Americana works fine. Beyond that, I try not to overthink it or limit myself.
What is a genre, album, artist, musician, or song that you adore that would surprise people?
I love hip-hop, R&B, neo-soul type music. I especially love ’90s early 2000s neo-soul. D’Angelo, Erykah Badu, Lauryn Hill, Tevin Campbell, Mario, etc.
I enjoy those genres as much if not more, at times, than bluegrass and country. It’s like reading, I put on the music I need in the moment and I don’t limit myself. I guess that would surprise people, but I think it comes across in my singing some and may present in future sonic choices as well. We’ll see.
Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?
Fried potatoes from a cast iron skillet, greasy beans from Mamaw’s garden, macaroni noodles with tomato sauce, and a chicken fried steak. I could think of a lot of musicians to share that meal with, but the one who keeps coming to mind is Jerry Reed. He was hilarious and super intelligent. A great singer with excellent tone, and he was even a writer for Elvis on a couple tracks.
There’s a story about Elvis asking for Jerry to play on “Guitar Man,” a song Jerry wrote. Folks on Elvis’s team had to go get Jerry from the river where he was fishing to come to the studio and play the guitar part. None of the other session musicians could get it quite right. Legend. He isn’t really revered in modern memory for how brilliant of a technical player he was. He’d be a fun person to share that meal with.
Before embarking on a music career, Emily Scott Robinson worked as a social worker. The two occupations, she says, really overlap with who she is as a person. Talking from her home outside of Telluride, Colorado, Robinson shares that being a performing artist and playing shows has “a similar quality of service to it and connection that being a social worker did…”
“One of the things I loved about being a social worker is being able to help people,” she continues. “[Music] brings me a lot of joy and purpose. I get so much feedback from people that my songs help them. That’s the most important and meaningful thing that my music could do in this lifetime.”
On January 30, Robinson will launch Appalachia, her third release on Oh Boy Records and her fifth album overall. Its 10 tracks reveal her uncanny knack for conveying empathy, comfort, and compassion through a set of songs that explore topics such as a friend’s suicide, a grandparent’s death, her own divorce, and the destructive effects of Hurricane Helene on her home state of North Carolina.
Robinson recorded Appalachia with producer/musician Josh Kaufman (Bonny Light Horsemen, Josh Ritter) in late April and early May of 2025 at his Dreamland Recording Studios, near Woodstock, New York. Having loved his production work on Anaïs Mitchell’s 2022 self-titled album, Robinson wanted to work with him. “I want to make my version of what [Mitchell’s] record is,” she explains. She was thrilled that Kaufman not only was available to produce the album, but was also very excited about working with her.
Robinson’s road to becoming a singer-songwriter began when she was 14, when she went to a “super hippie summer camp,” as she describes it, in northern Michigan. There she fell in love with acoustic music she heard the counselors play at night during “mellow time” – songs by folks like Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, Dar Williams, and Ani DiFranco. After camp ended, she learned to play her mother’s old classical Yamaha guitar. Robinson loved to sing, but only played cover tunes whenever she would perform at coffee houses and open mic nights.
Her life changed, in many ways, when she took a Planet Bluegrass Song School workshop in 2014 while working as a social worker in Colorado. Besides learning about the art of songwriting, Robinson also discovered how to make a living as a musician. She quit her social worker job the next year and didn’t look back. “I felt such a strong sense of connection and purpose when I sang for people. Their response was so powerful, and I just thought this really feels like something I should pursue.”
That Robinson has a gift for words feels like a genetic inevitability. Her mother worked as a journalist and her father taught English. As she describes it, Robinson learned how to tell and edit a story from her mother, and how to write in a direct and active style from her father. “My parents taught me how to write… that stuff is burned into my brain,” she states. “I’m my parents’ child.”
2026 represents a significant career moment for Robinson with the new album arriving in January and tours crisscrossing the U.S. throughout the year. She took time out from a snowy winter morning to speak with BGS about Appalachia and the roads she took to make her album.
It has been several years since your last full-length album, 2021’s American Siren. How did this album come into being?
Emily Scott Robinson: It took me about four years to write this record. These are the songs written in the aftermath of a lot of upheaval and change in my life. I went through a divorce in 2021 and then moved away from Telluride the next year. And even though I didn’t move that far – I moved about an hour away – I left the only community that had really been home for me for about a decade.
And there were a lot of endings that felt really sad. Both my grandmothers passed away. [But] I also became a parent. I am now engaged to my partner, who has a nine-year-old son. And that has been amazing. So, my life kind of completely changed. These are all songs written in the thick of that – and [the] surrender and joy and grief all happening at once.
Was there a song that really kickstarted this album?
The first song I wrote for this album – and then it was the only one I had written for like a year and a half – was “Hymn for the Unholy,” which is, of course, the opening track. And that felt like my anthem. I wrote that song [when] I was going through this divorce. It was New Year’s Eve and I just couldn’t even fathom this whole movement of setting plans and goals for the new year when so many things felt like they were ending or becoming really unsure for me. It was the only new song I had for quite a while. And then, in about the last year and a half, I wrote almost all of the rest of the songs.
“Appalachia” I wrote right after Hurricane Helene hit Western Carolina. There were a couple songs that I wrote at a writer’s residency in Texas, [including] “Time Traveler” about my grandmother who passed away. I wrote “Cast Iron Heart” on another songwriting retreat. “And Bless It All” was really one of these songs that emerged that I wrote really quickly, like an homage to this chapter of life [about] raising a kid [and having] parents aging – like my generation is now doing the same.
“The Time For Flowers” is a song that you had for a while. How did that find its way on the album?
“Time For Flowers” is on here because it’s a song that has never lived on a full album. A lot of my fans would come up to me after shows and go, “Which record is ‘Time for Flowers’ on?’” … I released it in 2020 in the summer [during the pandemic as a single] and it grew legs and traveled far and wide. People started to perform it at funerals and with their choral groups and they started to sing it in church and ask for arrangements. It became a song that meant a tremendous amount to a lot of people.
I put a lot of heart and a lot of craft into that song. But the song has taken on its own life and that’s really beautiful for me to be a part of. And it means a lot again in 2025, to people who are living in what feels like an increasingly dark time. I wanted to put that on the album and to sing it in the way that I perform it at my shows, which is just acoustic.
I felt like, on this album, there was a feeling of expressing compassion and forgiveness and reassurance. A message of “finding a sense of strength” not only for yourself, but for listeners as well.
The one cover on the album is “The Water Is Wide” and I was wondering why you chose that old folk song to include.
I love that you wondered that because, to be quite honest, I felt a very strong instinct to put this song on here and I didn’t really know why. Sometimes I just feel a deep sense that needs to happen and so I just trust it and do it. I love that song and I had planned on putting it on there. I think, if I were to explain it on a more logical or grounded level, I would say that I felt that song – as old as it was – still speaks in both a deep and a fresh way. The lyrics strike me as being fresh and a little unusual every time. And it felt very timeless but also fresh, and so I just was drawn to it.
Sometimes I write a song, or I put a song on the record, and I just go, “I will find out later why I had to do this.” But, genuinely, I’ll find out along the way why it is that that song begs to be on this record. Also, Josh Kaufman, my producer, was so excited when I told him I wanted to put that song on there. He loves old folk songs and making them feel a little bit new or breaking them down a little bit and rebuilding them. And so do I, so it just kind of felt like it fit.
“The Fairest View,” which follows “The Water Is Wide,” closes the album. It holds an old folk song vibe although listening to it, you realize that it’s not.
“The Fairest View” was actually not a song that even existed until the last 24 hours that we were in the studio. My friend [songwriter Lizzie Ross] and I have a mutual friend who died before we were in the studio together. He really loved music and had grown up in Western North Carolina. He died by suicide and we were really writing this song for him, and to him. … We finished it the night before the final day. We were in such a great groove of creative flow that this just made total sense
I sent [Josh Kaufman] this voice memo. I think it was like 11:30 at night. I was like, “What do you think about putting this on the album tomorrow?” And he goes, “I dig it. Let’s do it!” He said that there was nothing really like this on the record, but it felt like it still fit sonically, lyrically, and melodically.
What were the important contributions that Josh Kaufman brought to the recording process?
Really the magic of working with Josh – the thing I love the most – is when we first had our first conversation. We were talking about how we work in the studio and he said something along the lines of, “You know, you play the song and we all start just kind of experimenting and playing around on instruments. We’ll know it when we find it, because you can hear it and you can feel it in your body when you have found the thing.” And that for me is exactly how I work creatively and in the studio. I’m comfortable with that kind of workflow and so I was like, “Yep, that’s exactly how I want to work.”
There is a wonderful intimacy to your vocals. I got the feeling I was sitting on a couch and there you were singing from just across the room.
D. James Goodwin, who is the [album’s] recording engineer and who mixed the record, created a specific reverb treatment based on the room in Dreamland, based on the actual recording space. … He started to measure the exact EQ and decay of all these different points in the room and then created his own reverb setting that he calls “the Dreamland reverb setting,” which is just meant to sound exactly how it sounds in the room.
You do a great duet with John Paul White on the track “Cast Iron Heart.” How did he get involved on this project?
John Paul White is a great interpreter of songs, because he doesn’t put too much on them. This is like an acting principle, which is “the more you’re trying to act, the worse it is.” But if you’re allowing the song to come through you, and you’re not getting in the way of that and you’re being honest to that song, then that’s when the powerful performance really happens. And John Paul is experienced enough to really know that.
I knew that I couldn’t have somebody with a fully polished country voice singing this. I wanted it to sound like somebody who had lived. I know John Paul and I know that he has lived and he has a family and he’s been making music for years. He embodies the person singing the song – the actual voice of the narrator of the song – and it was such a gift that he said yes to this. He’s the sweetest, most generous artist and human, so that’s how he got involved.
This is your third release for Oh Boy Records – how did you get involved with them?
I got a message from Jody Whelan [head of Oh Boy Records and John Prine’s son] and he said, “We’re really big fans of yours at Oh Boy and if we can ever help you in any way let us know – we’d love to work with you.” And I was like, “Did I just get offered a record?”
I reached out to Jody and I said, “I would love to talk to you. I have a record that I’m about to make and we should connect.” I’m a huge fan of Oh Boy and John Prine. I signed a fantastically supportive and artist-friendly record deal with Oh Boy. And I go on the record to say that as often [as I can]. … I genuinely hit the jackpot when I signed the deal with Oh Boy. I love working with them. Their heart has been, and always will be, in the right place. I’m really, really lucky.
Are there things you hope listeners take away from the new album, or from your live performances as well?
I hope that people do feel fortified, encouraged, and hopeful when they listen to these songs because this record is about finding those bright spots and finding that hope in the thick of all the other parts of being a human. It’s about leaning on other people and finding that in relationships and in community. I also hope that this record will comfort people who’ve lost somebody they loved recently.
I want this record to be of service to people. I want it to reach them in ways that they need to be reached. I don’t want people to give up hope in this time in history or this time in our country. I don’t want them to give up hope in themselves and each other.
I think we’re increasingly in a corporate media landscape and a very engineered social media landscape that has a lot of voices that say there’s no hope; there’s no reason to fight, it’s too late. And I think the social worker in me and the political activist in me wants to yell, “That’s fucking bullshit!”
Mon Rovîa has kind eyes. Unassuming and watchful, he’s spent a lifetime reading the room and taking the temperature of the situations he’s found himself in. As a child, he was quiet. These days, he exudes calm. When he speaks or sings, people listen closely. If his eyes are kind, his voice is empathetic. Soft and soothing, it embraces the listener like a warm hug from somebody who knows how it feels to be lonesome and wouldn’t wish it on another. Only a fool would take this kindness for weakness. It’s a vulnerable strength, tempered over time in the fires of resilience.
By now, Mon Rovîa’s backstory almost feels etched into stone. Born in Liberia, on the Atlantic Coast of West Africa, he was adopted by Christian missionaries during the violent bloodshed of the Second Liberian Civil War. He traveled with his new family through the Bahamas, Montana, and Florida, before settling by the grandeur of the Appalachian Mountains in East Tennessee. From a young age, he has lived in complexity, contrast, and displacement, a questing soul searching for meaning, purpose, and his place in this world.
As he reveals in our Cover Story interview, he still hasn’t found what he’s looking for. However, through music, Mon Rovîa has uncovered a trail to walk along. In recent years, his distinctive Afro-Appalachian folk music sensibilities have earned him a devoted audience through social media, regular releases, and touring.
Across his debut album, Bloodline, he offers memoir and testimony, sharing yet more chapters from his remarkable story. Written and recorded in Los Angeles with producer Cooper Holzman, the album crystallizes his early promise into something timeless, sublime, and deeply needed. In late December, he made some time to reconnect with BGS.
This is more of a provocation than a question, but the highest compliment I could give your music is that it makes me feel that if we all listened more closely, there would be less need for questions.
Mon Rovîa: Thank you very much. That is beautiful. I’ll have to dwell on that.
When was the last time you cried?
I cried this year. That’s a crazy question, because I ask my friends at least once a year, “When was the last time you cried?” or “Have you cried this year?” What made you ask me that?
You seem like an emotional guy.
I guess I am. I’ve cried a couple of times this year.
It’s been a big year. How has your life changed over the last 12 months?
It’s interesting. From the outside, your friends and family see your life changing in a lot of different ways as they watch. Going through it as the artist, many things remain the same for me. I still spend a lot of time trying to reach something, and only I know where that satisfaction lies.
People can look at [what’s] outward and say, “Oh, he’s reached something.” The hard part, probably many artists go through this as well, is that deep down, the search always continues for something that hasn’t been answered. I couldn’t tell you what this is.
There’s the question of ego as well. I always think about these people, like Bill Withers, who were able to do what they needed to do before stepping away from the spotlight.
I hope I’m more of a Bill Withers. My personality leans towards silence and not being seen in general. I could see myself disappearing at a certain point. That would be nice.
Do you think there’s an inevitability to the pathway you’re on, or could you have become someone else?
I definitely think there are other things I could have been. I look back at the circle. The start of coming from Liberia as a young kid, surviving the war, being adopted and taken to the States. From there, I could have become many people. Perhaps it would have been sports, or a person who was not well-known, working a 9-to-5 job, clocking in and out. I also think about the choices I made. You could look at some of them and say, “Those were really bad choices,” but each thing is a step, a piece of this road we walk.
In the end, all of it became the better choice, because everything – the good and bad choices on the journey – led me to where I am now.
It’s great to spend a lot of time making and playing music, but everything that happens in between writing or recording songs is just as important.
You’re right. I did odd jobs. I worked the grounds, mowing lawns. I made flower beds. I was in tech recruitment. I worked at restaurants. Getting paid nothing. Getting yelled at more than getting paid. I took it in. I learned. All of these things became different parts of the story. They became different chapters of songs and elements.
I was thinking about what André 3000 said when OutKast were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame: “Great things start in little rooms.” I agree with that, but I also think great things start as a response to big expanses.
I spend a lot of time in a little room with a ukulele, just singing into the ether, but I need both: the silence of a little space, the expansiveness of the world, and the opening of that as well.
19th-century Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh had this thing about bringing permanence to the impermanent. A flower will last for a season, but his paintings of those flowers still endure with us today. We can immortalise something through painting, or do the same with song.
I find from the artist’s standpoint that is, perhaps, the goal: to make something that is immortalized, that surpasses your own life, and carries on when you’re no longer here or present. I think that would be the greatest achievement. If there were an end goal to make something that lives on longer than I do, that would probably be the biggest joy of my life as an artist.
What does water mean to your music, and could a river be considered a bloodline?
Water is the source of all things. Rivers remember where the headwaters lie. They know where they come from. They never forget, no matter how far they come from the source. Bloodline for me is exactly that. It’s a reclaiming of remembering. A lot of the time in the States, I tried to forget. I wanted to assimilate into an American way of life that is built on forgetting. Over time, music brought me back to remembering the cornerstone of my life, the headwaters – which are Liberia, West Africa – and the gift of being able to make something out of a lot of pain, turmoil, and uncertainty. So water is crucial.
When I think about your story, how and why you left Liberia, and what has happened since you arrived in the United States, I think about how this was all preceded by an even more complicated story. As you’re reminding us, it goes deeper and deeper.
There’s truth there, and it’s crazy to me, too. I love that you brought this up, because there are a lot of people who live on the land here in America who don’t even have that in their consciousness, don’t even understand the relationship between the two countries in a way that isn’t talked about. It’s complex. The Back-to-Africa movement. Monrovia after President [James] Monroe. It’s embedded in the very fabric of the country of Liberia. A lot of Liberians feel a kinship to America, but they don’t understand that America doesn’t think one bit about that.
A fascinating thing about cultural exchange is how, through the good and the bad, it can create new cultures. It’s so deeply woven into the foundations of country, folk, and bluegrass: the musical techniques, the instruments, everything. I imagine you often meet people who are excited to tell you about different musicians, scenes, and eras from the past.
Yeah, people have. Growing up, I was pretty locked into a religious space. I listened to a lot of Christian music, but I had no idea about mainstream anything. That wasn’t based on living in Liberia either; it was just the family I was adopted into. I’ve been enlightened by things in the past, and people have referred to music. More importantly, I’ve learned some things on my own from Appalachia and folk music. As a Black man, one of the things that kept me away from the [folk music] space for a long time was feeling like it wasn’t mine.
The truth of the matter, as you have brought out so well, is that a lot of these things do come from cultures that have mixed over time. Slaves were brought over from West Africa, but they brought those instruments, sounds, and sang those songs. That’s another thing that has been stolen along the path, whitewashed, you could say. It’s been beautiful to reclaim things as they’ve found me unknowingly. I’ve learned a lot by looking back on that. It’s been super special to know that I do have a heritage in this space. It’s a beautiful thing.
How important is food to your music?
Food? How important is food to my music? Well, as someone who doesn’t eat that much food, I tend to be quite empty when I make songs, play shows and stuff. I don’t know why.
Do you think you fast for your art?
Yeah, I fast for my art. Perhaps I’m more filled by what music brings to me lyrically and sonically. Food, I guess, is a necessity to live, but for the soul, it’s music. You’ve got your body, but then the soul has to be higher. What’s filling that for you? People have to ask themselves that question.
Something I notice everywhere is people looking to country music and the culture that surrounds it for some form of direction. We’re two and a half decades into the 21st century, living in what used to be considered the future, and yet so many people are looking backwards through rose-tinted lenses.
If we look closely, the rose is very much withered. You can look back and romanticize the South, and its culture, as everyone in the States is doing; they love to be cowboys and farmers, but you know the hardships and the pain that this land has brought, right? Let’s look back on that, if we’re also going to look back and romanticize this. The piece of clarity people often miss in the whole system is the truth, the full truth.
The truth is ugly.
The truth is ugly, but I’m wondering, though– at least for me, there was a time when it was ugly, but the acceptance of it in my own life has brought some sense of beauty at the same time. Once you see the truth – which you know well – it will never leave you. That’s why people are afraid of it. That’s why they never look at it. They don’t want that thing to haunt them through time.
You give a lot of yourself through your music. How do you fill your own cup?
Honestly, being in nature. Being back home in Chatt[anooga], and also being very far away from music. That’s how I refill, 100%. When I’m back home, I do little things, like going back to where I started, which is being on TikTok, playing for these people. I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. But they raised me up. So I give back that time. I’ll never stop doing that. No matter how big Mon Rovîa gets, I’ll always go back to the people in that space. That fills my cup.
Also, playing soccer. I play tons of soccer. Outside of music, it’s my favourite thing in the world. I would probably drop everything to be a professional soccer player.
If you’ve spent time in Europe, Latin America or Africa, you know what time it is. For many people in many parts of the world, soccer is more important than life or death. It is the game.
I never get tired of playing soccer. I play all the time. It’s my favorite thing and a big part of my joy. Also, my community here has been so beautiful to me. Whenever I get to be home for a long time, I’m just preparing to be filled, and then hopefully ready to pour it out when the road calls again.
It’s important for an artist to have a relationship with a place and its people. There is a value in being accountable to a community, and having a community that is accountable to you.
I would agree. They get to ask me questions about things I struggle with on the daily, and how I’m actually doing as an artist. People who don’t know me might say, “Man, touring must be the best thing in the world?” They’ll want to see if it’s just parties and going out every night in big cities. It’s not like that for me, but maybe it is for some artists.
How many years do you think it takes to become an overnight success?
I don’t know. Nobody knows the years someone has been working towards something like this. What’s your answer?
Five to ten, but people won’t always be transparent with you about how long they’ve been trying to get there for.
The other thing about being a musician or an entertainer is you’re operating in a space where you can easily spend 25 years being 25.
Yeah, and for some reason, it’s allowed. Maybe that’s why people don’t take musicians too seriously until they become really big. It always just seems like a hobby, or like you’re trying to stay young. I’ve always wondered about that. Even with my work, some people don’t understand that it’s my job. I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to pay some bills and live okay, but they’ll still talk to me as if I’m still looking for the dream. Like, “How’s that going? Are you doing okay?”
But maybe there’s a point: so many people grow older, but their mind and spirit stay the same age. I’m not sure whether our dreams should be all-encompassing. I think it’s good to dream, but when you have that big dream, you need to have little dreams as well, things that can come alongside the bigger picture and also bring life to you, because everything is fleeting, right?
Before we wrap up, I wanted to ask you something. When you think about everything that had to happen for you to arrive at this moment, how does it make you feel?
I’ve actually been thinking about this a lot, the feeling of it. Everyone around me is very happy about the things that have come to pass, but a lot of the time, I still feel a very great loss. I think about my mother, my father, my siblings, whom I have not seen, and everything that had to happen for me to come here, and come to it. I often wonder if I would trade all of that, perhaps, to look at my mother’s face, hear her voice, or remember what she looked like. I think all I can say is that it’s a beautiful sadness I’ll carry forever.
The late French illustrator Jean “Mœbius” Giraud loved to tell these stories that were essentially the same story. They’re all about someone who wants something more than anything, and, upon obtaining it, realizes they don’t want it at all.
I have had many thoughts of laying down the pen in that way. It’s a difficult thing. Joy for me is very elusive. I call it the elusive flower. In moments, I feel it, and it is amazing. A lot of the time, it’s very far from me.
I think that was how Mon Rovîa came to be, through my search for joy in all of these things that have happened. Really, happiness has been the connection with people. Having them relate to the songs, and the songs helping them on their journey to becoming.
My purpose is to focus on the human condition and the realities we all live day in, day out. I’m here to tell that story because it is the only one that is truthful currently. I’ll accept wherever that takes me. If it makes me super poor, great. If it makes me able to live a life aloof in the woods with some land and animals, great. At the end of the day, my path is set, and I walk it the way I must.
Happy New Year! We’re so excited to bring you our first collection of new music and videos for 2026. We’ve missed you over the past few weeks and, well, You Gotta Hear This…
Kicking us off, our old friend Joshua Britt returns with a new artist project, The Boy The Earth Sings To, and an official video for an original song, “Eyes Of God.” Falling on the continuum between gospel, sacred, and contemporary Christian roots music, the lush alt-folk track is built around the inspiration of a new mandola, tying the tone wood used to build the instrument to the forested visuals of the video. Meanwhile, Western North Carolina-based singer-songwriter Aaron Burdett unveils a new single, “Arthur’s Last Dance,” which pays tribute to folk dancer Arthur Grimes and his final performances at MerleFest before his retirement. It’s driving modern bluegrass appropriately perfect for flatfooting, clogging, and polishing those floorboards.
Then, from just up the mountains, Lonesome River Band also bring their first new single of 2026, “Bernadette,” written by Bob and Ginger Minner. Below, Bob offers his perspective on writing the tune, which he and his wife immediately imagined LRB recording, as soon as they had finished writing it. If you like crooked contemporary bluegrass that’s steeped in old-time mountain music – with a slightly dark, modal tinge – you’ll love this one.
Let’s continue up the mountains now, across Virginia and West Virginia to southeastern Ohio, where we’ll find the music of singer-songwriter Trey Hedrick and this new track, “Shoestring,” which features Tim O’Brien. It’s a testament to Hedrick’s grandpa, his relocation of the family to Ohio, and the way life, love, work, and place are passed down generation to generation.
Rounding out our collection this week, it’s a premiere we published elsewhere on the site this morning, as well. Celebrating his upcoming collaborative album, guitarist Bryan Sutton launches a hilarious and entertaining animated music video for “The Devil Went Down to Deep Gap” featuring Billy Strings, Del McCoury, and more. It’s a delightful reimagining of Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” that tells a fantastic version of Doc Watson’s origin story, pitting Doc’s style of picking against shredding metal electric guitars played by Sutton and Strings. You won’t want to miss this masterpiece of country, bluegrass, and flatpicking storytelling.
What a great way to kick off the year, right? There’s plenty to hear, love, and enjoy below. You Gotta Hear This!
The Boy The Earth Sings To, “Eyes of God”
Artist:The Boy The Earth Sings To Hometown: Franklin, Kentucky Song: “Eyes Of God” Album:The Quiet Voice Of God Release Date: November 7, 2025
In Their Words: “Years ago, my band played a show with Sierra Hull in Montana and that’s where she introduced me to mandolin builder Bruce Weber. Visiting his shop was unforgettable – an old schoolhouse where one room was filled with raw, uncarved slabs of wood that he would walk across, knocking on each piece, saying, ‘They all sound different, but some of them sing.’ It felt like he was listening for the mandolin already inside the wood, the way Michelangelo spoke about finding David inside the marble. Bruce built an octave mandolin for me that became the backbone of this album and while I was writing it I came across another Weber mandola. The first night I brought it home, I picked it up and wrote ‘Eyes Of God’ in one pass, as if the words and melody were already waiting inside that piece of wood. My favorite art has always felt more like discovery than invention.
“For the video I was inspired by time I spent in Bolzano, Italy, reading about the singing trees in the high altitude mountain forest – God placing the best wood high in the mountains, starved for air instead of down in the village. A reminder to me that making something great always requires adventure.” – Joshua Britt
Track Credits: Joshua Britt – Vocals, mandola, other instruments, songwriter Matt Menefee – Banjo Neilson Hubbard – Drums Colter Britt – Harmony vocals Sarah Drake – Harmony vocals
Video Credits: Filmed on location in the Colorado Rockies. Directed by Joshua Britt and Quincy Britt.
Aaron Burdett, “Arthur’s Last Dance”
Artist:Aaron Burdett Hometown: Saluda, North Carolina Song: “Arthur’s Last Dance” Release Date: January 9, 2026 Label: Organic Records
In Their Words: “I was first introduced to Arthur Grimes when I lived in Boone, NC, in the ’90s. He’d materialize now and then at many shows I was playing or attending over the years. So when I played a set at MerleFest 2024 with Steep Canyon Rangers and heard that Arthur was going to be there with Old Crow Medicine Show – to do his last dance before largely retiring – my interest was piqued. After our set, I was checking out other performances and, sure enough, got to see Arthur doing his thing on the Watson stage one last time. It was an event that deserved a few songwriting notes. Those notes I took that night are what turned into this song commemorating Arthur’s long career dancing with any and every band or performer who came through the High Country of NC over the past 50 years or so.” – Aaron Burdett
Track Credits: Aaron Burdett – Lead vocal, acoustic guitar Kristin Scott Benson – Banjo Carley Arrowood – Fiddle Tristan Scroggins – Mandolin Jon Weisberger – Upright bass Wendy Hickman – Harmony vocal Travis Book – Harmony vocal
Trey Hedrick, “Shoestring” (featuring Tim O’Brien)
Artist:Trey Hedrick Hometown: Wilkesville, Ohio Song: “Shoestring” featuring Tim O’Brien Album:Sing, Appalachia Release Date: January 7, 2026 (single); February 18, 2026 (album)
In Their Words: “‘Shoestring’ is a song about my Papaw, who was an incredible singer and multi-instrumentalist and the engine to the musical life of my immediate and extended family. Through him I came to the writers and songs that I still call on frequently in my own writings. Pap grew up in Parsons, West Virginia, and when work dried up or, more likely, after a need to move on after his brother Skip died in a mining accident, he moved north to southern Ohio. A move that anchored the geography of our family to southern Ohio after many generations in West Virginia and Kentucky. I didn’t try and likely couldn’t have written ‘Shoestring’ from any perspective other than reverent grandson, intentionally setting aside any precise detail. ‘Shoestring’ is about place, love, work, and life passed down, intentionally or not. I was honored to have Tim O’Brien sing and play fiddle on the track – Tim’s music has been an inspiration and has long meant a great deal to me.” – Trey Hedrick
Track Credits: Trey Hedrick – Lead vocals, acoustic guitar, songwriter Tim O’Brien – Lead and background vocals, fiddle Maya de Vitry – Background vocals John Mailander – Fiddle Ethan Ballinger – Mandolin Frank Evans – Banjo Phillipe Bronchtein – Pedal steel Jamie Dick – Drums Rhees Williams – Bass
Lonesome River Band, “Bernadette”
Artist:Lonesome River Band Hometown: Floyd, Virginia Song: “Bernadette” Release Date: January 9, 2026 Label: Mountain Home Music Company
In Their Words: “My wife Ginger and I write a lot of songs together and sometimes the ideas come from the strangest of places. ‘Bernadette’ came from when one of Ginger’s favorite authors, Shawn Inmon, who asked his fans to offer up unique women’s names to be used in his next novel. We were driving around and joking about names like Ethel, Maude, Calry, etc., and I just blurted out ‘How ’bout Bernadette?’ And out of nowhere I sang that name and first line. We got home and sat down and we wrote it in no time. It just fell out, so to speak. Plus, I always wanted to use the word ‘trifling’ in a song, so it seemed fitting for a woman like Bernadette in the story. We did a guitar and vocal demo of it and I sent it right to my buddy Jesse Smathers, because LRB was who we heard in our heads doing it as we wrote it. Thanks to LRB for cutting this one, we’re honored.” – Bob Minner, songwriter
Track Credits: Sammy Shelor – Banjo Jesse Smathers – Acoustic guitar, lead vocal, harmony vocal Mike Hartgrove – Fiddle Adam Miller – Mandolin Kameron Keller – Upright bass Rod Riley – Electric guitar Bob & Ginger Minner – Songwriters
Bryan Sutton, “Devil Went Down to Deep Gap” with Billy Strings
Artist:Bryan Sutton with Billy Strings Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee Song: “The Devil Went Down to Deep Gap” Album:From Roots to Branches Release Date: January 9, 2026 (single/video) Label: Mountain Home Music Company
In Their Words: “It was listening to Charlie Daniels’ original ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ with my youngest daughter, Lily. She has very eclectic and broad musical tastes. I’ve loved sharing music with her and checking out what she has discovered. We found some other covers of the original and one that stuck with me was Jerry Reed’s interpretation, where he makes Johnny a guitarist instead of a fiddler. I have been working on a duets record for some time, collecting recordings here and there with my pals, and knew I wanted to do something different with Billy, as he and I have a whole record of duet playing.
“Billy and I also share a love for heavy metal. I was trying to think of a way he and I could do something connected to this duets project that would allow us to play acoustic and electric. It all kind of came together when I realized this song would allow for that. The Doc [Watson] origin story came about thinking how to make this not just a cover, but more personal and fun. It’s also another subtle tribute to Doc, who would oftentimes change or add lyrics to a song in order to make it fit for him. I fashioned the story, made a little demo, and sent it to Billy. He was into it and we were off.” – Bryan Sutton
Lots of people would like to think their lives have made a difference – whether through their family life, or work, or some sort of creative endeavor.
However, even to approach the enduring heritage of the great musician Arthel “Doc” Watson, a person would have to achieve lifetime landmarks as imposing as the North Carolina Appalachian mountains that were his home. During a lifespan from his birth in 1923 until his death in 2012, Watson created a legacy of music, folklore, and goodwill that no one has entirely equaled.
First a little background: Arthel Lane Watson was born March 3, 1923, near Deep Gap – he is not from Asheville – in Western North Carolina. An audience member suggested the nickname “Doc” when his given name was found less than compelling for an entertainer.
His life story before and after becoming an admired folk musician has been often told, notably in Doc Watson: A Life in Music, a 2025 biography by Eddie Huffman published by the University of North Carolina Press.
Blind since infancy, Watson started to develop life skills and musical ability from an early age. He learned both formal and popular styles when sent to the state’s school for the blind in Raleigh at about age 10.
The boy was consumed by music and persistent in getting better at it. Watson had learned both the rudiments of harmonica and a few banjo tunes from his father, General Watson, before he went off to Raleigh. While living within the strict environment of the school for the blind, Watson learned braille and grew familiar with classical and church styles of music taught there. Perhaps as strong an influence as that education was fellow student Paul Montgomery, the talented friend from whom he learned guitar chords. Young Watson and Montgomery, later a well-known Raleigh pianist and children’s show host, shared enthusiasm for the popular music of the day, including jazz and big-band sounds.
His parents, Annie and General Watson, taught the boy skills of growing crops and basic carpentry, and he contributed to the family despite his blindness.
After years of mostly local performances back in Western North Carolina, it wasn’t until the early 1960s, when East Coast musician and historian Ralph Rinzler tuned into and promoted his far-reaching ability as a singer and picker, that Watson’s name gained national, then international attention.
According to an account at the Blue Ridge Heritage Area website Watson recorded over 50 albums and was honored with “the National Medal of Arts, a National Heritage Fellowship, the North Carolina Folk Heritage Award, seven GRAMMY Awards, and a GRAMMY Lifetime Achievement Award.”
As fans know, Doc Watson contained multitudes of skills, a breadth of ability that inspired this list of the five pillars of his musical and artistic legacy.
The King Flatpicker
Watson largely created the challenging fiddle-inspired guitar style that led many followers along a flatpicking trail.
It was during the 1950s, when playing an electric Gibson Les Paul in the local Jack Williams Band, that Watson developed a style that would transform the way the guitar was played in folk and bluegrass music.
Generally, earlier acoustic guitarists in roots-derived styles used a flatpick to create basic “boom-chuck” back up, perhaps throwing in some fills and Jimmie-Rodgers-style bass runs.
But when dancers at Williams’s gigs wanted music for square-dancing, Watson worked up single-note versions of fast fiddle tunes such as “June Apple” and “Bill Cheatham” on his Les Paul. This approach enables lead guitar pickers to achieve the same flowing, rapid attack that fiddlers used for tunes, many of which had come over from the British Isles in past generations.
It’s not possible to say that Doc Watson was the first guitarist to flatpick fiddle tunes. After all, it wasn’t until Watson emerged as a folk artist in the 1960s that the broader music scene caught on to his musicianship. And high achievers such as Arthur Smith on “Guitar Boogie,” Don Reno on “Country Boy Rock ‘n’ Roll,” and Bill Napier on the Stanley Brothers’ “Mountain Dew” – along with some jazz and blues players – all recorded hot-licks acoustic soloing before Watson did. Joe Maphis was also cranking out ultra-fast flatpicking numbers in the 1950s.
But it was Watson’s 1960s performances that created a precedent for a wave of guitarists who had to muscle up to the speed and dexterity he displayed.
A long line of guitarists at the top of the field – from Clarence White to Tony Rice, from Bryan Sutton to Billy Strings – all show Watson’s clear influence not just in recreating fiddle tunes, but also in rapid-fire picking and clean sound on a broad range of material.
Player and educator Alan Barnosky wrote in “An Exploration of Doc Watson’s Innovative and Joyful Guitar Stylings” for Acoustic Guitar in 2023 about the spread of this kind of playing.
“Watson amazed folk fans in the early 1960s by taking tunes typically reserved for the fiddle and reworking them for the acoustic with speed, clarity, and flash,” he wrote. “He never claimed to be the first to play fiddle tunes on a guitar, but for the majority of listeners at the time it was an entirely novel and groundbreaking approach.”
Another world-class, tradition-based player, Earl Scruggs, praised Watson’s adaptation of fiddle tunes as the two were joined by Ricky Skaggs for the 2003 The Three Pickers performance and album.
“He was the first man I ever heard on the guitar that was fooling with tunes like that,” Scruggs said in a Three Pickers introduction. “You had all these good G-C-D pickers – that’s chord positions – but I had never heard anybody that actually took over a lead like a banjo or a fiddle or a mandolin and do those tunes. He could do it.
“And what amazed me about Doc Watson’s picking, and still does, is he’s got that – I call it ‘mountain sound’ to his picking, and he’s one of the best to keep it in that mode of sound.”
New generations of players have immersed themselves in Watson’s style. When I interviewed him for a Bluegrass Unlimited article, leading guitar picker and multi-instrumentalist Bryan Sutton talked about being captivated by Watson’s playing during Sutton’s youth on Western North Carolina.
“Doc and Dan Crary were the first great influences on me,” he said. “Doc Watson was one of the first professional musicians/guitar players that I ever saw. He doesn’t live too far from Asheville, so I saw him play some different festivals and at Maggie Valley. So, he was the first one to really catch my ear as far as what you could do with the flatpick.
“My right hand – it may not as much anymore – but I remember at one time it was kind of like Doc’s. It’s kind of like the way Sam Bush plays, using the whole forearm and wrist involved in the playing, whereas with jazz players or Tony Rice it’s more of a wrist thing. I think I’ve got a little bit of both now.”
Billy Strings, the artist who’s likely doing the most to promote Watson’s legacy in the 21st century, sounded almost evangelical during a September 2025 interview for NPR’s Fresh Air.
“He’s like the ground upon which I stand, you know?” Strings said. “My dad played his music all around the house growing up. And by the time I could play guitar, you know, 5, 6 years old, I was learning those tunes, too. I might’ve been able to play some of them before I knew how to tie my shoes or something, you know?
“It was like, I was learning how to speak and talk and walk, and I was learning all these Doc Watson tunes at the same time. And it was just, like, a religion in my house, you know? His music is just – it’s the best.”
To see some of the top pickers in the field paying tribute, check out this video shot at the Merle Watson Memorial Festival – what would become MerleFest – in Wilkesboro, North Carolina, in 1992.
A Model Fingerpicker
From his first albums on, Watson regularly also played guitar with a thumbpick and index finger. As he noted with his customary self-deprecating humor in the DVD “Doc’s Guitar: Fingerpicking & Flatpicking,” “See, I just play with one finger and a thumb. I don’t use the sensible three-finger method that you should use on finger-style guitar.” (Watch below.)
Watson sounded great with that approach, making finger-picked tunes such as “Deep River Blues,” “Nashville Blues,” “Omie Wise,” and “Doc’s Guitar” fan favorites and objects of long study. For every striving guitarist who practiced hard on his fiddle-tune adaptations, plenty of pickers also worked on showcases such as “Windy and Warm,” with its alternating bass, pull-offs, note bending, and a jazzy minor sixth chord at its conclusion.
Watson’s fingerpicking often showed off his acquaintance with diverse approaches, as in “Deep River Blues,” with an E diminished as its second chord. It also illustrates the way he put his touch on existing pieces such as 1933’s “Big River Blues” by the Delmore Brothers, who played with flatpicks.
“There were two guitars, a tenor – a little four-string, and the regular flattop, and I never could get my guitar to sound like both of theirs did,” Watson said. “Then I began to hear brother Merle Travis, the late Merle Travis, on the radio. And I thought, Now, wait a minute. If I can steal me a lick off brother Travis, maybe I can learn ‘Deep River Blues.’”
Multi-talented Kentuckian Merle Travis (1917-1983) popularized a style in which the thumb plays an alternating bass on the guitar’s lower strings while picking the melody on treble strings. Watson also studied the work of the great guitarist Chet Atkins. The picking buddies released the album Reflections in 1980.
The centuries-old, transatlantic ballad “Georgie” would have once been sung unaccompanied, leaving Watson and others free to craft a brand new style of guitar back up. With no clear precedent on guitar, he might employ the flowing, almost classical patterns that became popular among folk revivalists.
And fingerpicking became the tool Watson used to play the blues that he loved and drew on so deeply, music he followed from the time he heard Mississippi John Hurt on the family’s disc player in childhood.
In the end, there’s no easy way to pin down the many elements Watson brought to his picking, musical points of view that enriched his listeners along the way.
A Standout Singer
Doc Watson’s vocal abilities don’t generally get as much attention as his top-drawer chops as an instrumentalist. However, he was also a tuneful singer with a natural, angelic mountain baritone.
Watson came along during an era when rougher-voiced vocalists such as Hobart Smith, Dock Boggs, and his picking buddy Clarence Ashley represented mountain singing to a growing audience. And Watson’s less mannered style likely contributed to acceptance among listeners less familiar with the high lonesome sound. His direct vocal approach was often heard in performances with no instrumental backing.
It’s useful to remember that Watson also enjoyed the smooth country vocalist Eddy Arnold so much that his son Merle Eddy Arnold was named not just after fingerpicker Merle Travis, but also for Arnold.
Tunes from the Tennessee Plowboy’s repertoire such as “Tennessee Stud,” “I Couldn’t Believe It Was True,” and “Anytime” also showed up in Watson’s repertoire. These were only a few examples of the eclectic side of Watson’s vocal approach, with emphasis on great material over genre labels.
Given his broad taste, Watson at times put some extra grit into his singing on a number such as “Blue Suede Shoes” from his Jack Williams days of the 1950s, later a concert favorite. But more often he sang songs straight, even on one like “Nights in White Satin,” a 1967 pop hit by British rockers the Moody Blues. With waltz-time guitar and plain singing, Watson makes the song come across as relevant to himself and listeners as songs by the Delmore Brothers and Jimmie Rodgers.
Watson’s first memories of vocal music came in church, and he prized the straightforward, no-vibrato sounds that carved such songs in his memory.
“If you love music, you have to listen from the time you’re big enough to notice music,” he told me when recording his 1991 GRAMMY-winning CD On Praying Ground.
“If you’re looking for old-time material in songs, those old songs that you heard when you were young were the easiest to put down.”
From his first commercial recordings on, Watson featured gospel numbers such as the a cappella version of “Talk About Suffering” from 1964 and “Down in the Valley to Pray” from 1966. Both radiate belief and unornamented clarity.
More recent listeners may know the latter song as “Down in the River to Pray,” as it was opportunistically relabeled to match a scene in the 2000 hit film, O Brother, Where Art Thou?.
Always A Song Man
Doc Watson had an impressively broad range of musical interests, perhaps markedly so, given the period in which he came along.
Country or folk music didn’t start appearing on commercial records until Watson was about two years old. In childhood he listened to down-home picking as well as church and gospel songs. It wasn’t until the 1930s that the family owned a radio that let them hear music beyond their 78-rpm record collection.
Virtually every great musician is a song collector at heart. And like Bob Dylan, Watson took on songs from tradition and added new elements. Take the mournful ballad “Omie Wise,” based on a North Carolina murder from the early 19th century.
In the 1920s notable old-time artists G.B. Grayson and Clarence Ashley recorded it with modal accompaniment that was neither truly major nor minor. When Watson recorded in the 1960s, he ventured into folky, arpeggiated picking that put it squarely into minor-chord territory, opening up the song to young folkies who couldn’t play fiddle like Grayson or banjo like Ashley.
In fact, Watson’s playing on “Omie Wise” occupied the same guitar realm as folk star Joan Baez’s playing on “East Virginia” and other traditional songs.
He also tuned into compositions by folk musicians Bob Dylan (“Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right), Tom Paxton (“The Last Thing on My Mind,” “Leavin’ London,” and “Bottle of Wine”), and Townes Van Zandt (“If I Needed You”).
Watson isn’t chiefly known as a songwriter, but he enjoyed notable success with “Your Lone Journey,” which he wrote with wife Rosa Lee. The starry duo of Led Zeppelin frontman Robert Plant and bluegrass’s own Alison Krauss released it as “Your Long Journey,” leading to what biographer Huffman called significant royalties for the family.
Watson’s greatest legacy in songs may have come with the wealth of lasting favorites – just a few are “Deep River Blues,” “I Am a Pilgrim,” “Banks of the Ohio,” “House Carpenter,” and “Shady Grove” – that made their way into the folk, old-time and bluegrass repertoire and could otherwise have been forgotten.
Ambassador for the Old-Time Way
This role for Watson may be the hardest to pin down, as it overlaps with almost all the others. By cleaving to his Appalachian heritage while also making the most of decades of change, Doc Watson was able to introduce countless fans to a rich, living culture.
“I don’t live in the past,” Watson told me in 1991. “I still burn wood in a furnace at the house, but I have heat ducts and a blower on it just like an oil furnace.
“I love to burn wood and I love to split wood. There’s a few of the old-timey things I love to do. I like good dried-apple pie and I like ‘leather britches’ beans.
“And I like to be at home, dadburn it. I hate the road.”
Watson’s long career of traveling to take his music to listeners, often in the company of his beloved son, Merle, nourished their taste for music that he built upon sold timbers of musical tradition.
Wade Smith, a legendary Tar Heel lawyer, told me once about his first experience of hearing Watson, at a small coffeehouse in downtown Raleigh in 1965.
“What word would I choose to describe how I felt?” Smith said for a later Raleigh News & Observer story. “Electrified, stunned at the speed of his fingers and the way he played single strings, and the clarity of the sound. Each note was like a piece of gold, so amazing.
“We stayed to the last note. When we left, I remember thinking that I had never heard anything like it and that in some way I had been changed by it, that I was in an altered state of existence.”
Watson’s national and international impact becomes more impressive given that he wasn’t heard outside his North Carolina stomping grounds until his late 30s. That’s when he honed his broad range of expertise into a mountain-based style that captivated and often amazed listeners at first hearing.
When the Society for American Music, a distinguished non-profit scholarly and educational organization, made Watson an honorary member in 2012, musicologist and musician Greg Reish paid tribute to Watson’s broad impact.
“As I discovered more of America’s traditional musical styles through my teenage years, Doc Watson always seemed to be at the core, an entrée into both older and newer styles,” Reish wrote. “Through Doc’s music I found my way to the pre-war music of the Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, and the Skillet Lickers; to the first-generation bluegrass of Bill Monroe and Flatt & Scruggs; to the classic country of Merle Travis, Chet Atkins, and Eddy Arnold; to the country blues of John Hurt and Frank Hutchison; and to the contemporary and progressive flatpicking of Clarence White, Norman Blake, and Tony Rice.”
Huffman’s book quotes the great bluegrass musician Roland White as he talked about the way his guitarist brother Clarence was caught up in Watson’s flatpicking after hearing him at California’s Ash Grove club.
“After seeing Doc, his picking became an obsession, an everyday part of everyday life. To play music and practice every day. Whether we played gigs or not, he was always playing music.”
Sixty years after White’s epiphany, Doc Watson’s music continues to gain and inspire new followers, whether through the picking and testimony of contemporary players such as Sutton and Springs, or through his own dozens of albums and videos. His legacy of tradition and innovation still flows like one of the ancient streams that nourish his cherished mountainsides.
Thomas Goldsmith is an award-winning journalist based in Tennessee and North Carolina. In addition to producing many hundreds of articles for newspapers and magazines, he edited The Bluegrass Reader and authored Earl Scruggs and Foggy Mountain Breakdown: The Making of an American Classic, both for the University of Illinois Press.
Few musicians have ever moved as fluidly between eras, genres, and generations as Doc Watson. From front-porch duets to grand-stage bluegrass revivals, Watson’s collaborations have a way of dissolving categories entirely.
His flatpicking precision, rhythmic calm, and vocal warmth made him the kind of performer who elevated everyone within earshot – young prodigies, genre pioneers, folk-tradition torch bearers, and musical iconoclasts alike. His reputation as a consummate accompanist was built not on showmanship or flamboyance, but on musical generosity and an intuitive sense of timing, phrasing, and expression that allowed others to shine while retaining his unmistakable voice.
Part of Watson’s power lies in the consistency of his musical identity. He never strained to fit into a new format or trend; instead, others bent gratefully toward his center of gravity. Whether playing an old-time fiddle tune, trading licks with a jazz-influenced mandolinist, or harmonizing with a younger bluegrass singer, he brought a sense of ease and groundedness that anchored every ensemble. That stability gave his collaborators the freedom to explore, improvise, and innovate – knowing Doc would be right there, steady and sure.
This sense of balance between precision and freedom made him a model collaborator for musicians across generations, and his impact can be traced through countless recordings, festival lineups, and mentorships of younger players.
Watson’s influence was not just technical but communal. He could guide a performance without overwhelming it, offering the ideal blend of authority and humility. In his guitar, listeners hear the voice of the North Carolina mountains, the pulse of Appalachian tradition, and the adaptability of a musician able to engage any genre without losing authenticity.
Today, YouTube’s patchwork archive of footage allows us to witness these collaborations anew: small moments of musical connection, sometimes real-time, sometimes reconstructed from archival sources. Below is a curated set of eight standout filmed or recorded collaborations that illustrate Watson’s reach. From storied duets with Chet Atkins or Earl Scruggs to meetings with newer-generation players.
“Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” – Doc Watson, Earl Scruggs & Ricky Skaggs (The Three Pickers)
This relaxed but virtuosic performance features Watson, Scruggs, and Skaggs playing with the ease of a porch jam made public. Watson’s crisp flatpicking forms a warm foundation, while Scruggs’ banjo drives with characteristic agility and Skaggs adds mandolin flourish and bounce.
The trio exhibits mutual respect and joy, and their lines interweave with natural conversation. The recorded performance comes from the 2003 album The Three Pickers. The energy and clarity of the musicianship exemplify Watson’s ability to anchor an ensemble while remaining entirely supportive, a model of intergenerational teamwork. It is a performance that displays the combination of technical mastery and intuitive musical empathy that defined Watson’s career.
“Tennessee Stud” – Doc Watson & Nitty Gritty Dirt Band (Will the Circle Be Unbroken)
Watson’s performance of “Tennessee Stud” on the Will the Circle Be Unbroken project exemplifies his ability to blend seamlessly with both established musicians and a younger ensemble eager to learn from him. His deep, resonant vocals float over understated but fluid flatpicking, supporting the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s harmony vocals and rhythmic drive.
Watson’s musical sensitivity allowed for a dialogue that bridged generations, bringing traditional songs into a contemporary context while retaining their original heart and vibrancy. This track also highlights Watson’s ability to adapt to the studio environment, shaping a sound that was both authentic and polished. The 1972 studio album is well-documented, though various YouTube versions may mix studio, rehearsal, or live takes.
In this medley, Watson and Chet Atkins engage in a playful, masterful guitar dialogue. Watson’s flatpicking exhibits crisp, percussive articulation, while Atkins’ thumb picking introduces a smooth, jazz-inflected counterpoint. Both artists navigate tempo and dynamics with precision, creating a performance that is both technically dazzling and deeply musical.
The track appears on the Reflections album and while some online performances derive from live shows or reissued audio, the studio recording itself exalts the collaborative interplay. This duet demonstrates Watson’s ability to move effortlessly between folk and jazz guitar traditions, honoring both while creating something uniquely their own. The performance underscores his adaptability, an essential quality in a musician sought after by so many genres and generations.
“Black Mountain Rag” – Doc Watson & Merle Watson
The father-son dynamic between Doc and Merle Watson is in full display in this live rendition of “Black Mountain Rag.” Merle’s nimble, rhythmic energy dances atop Doc’s grounded guitar tempo, producing an interplay that is conversational, playful, and intricate. Their shared history and years of touring allow for spontaneous embellishments and musical commentary woven into the tune.
This performance captures the essence of the Watson family legacy, showing how Doc nurtured both musical skill and expressive interpretation in the next generation. The piece also serves as a lesson in ensemble sensitivity, as Doc balances his playing to give Merle ample space while maintaining rhythmic and harmonic cohesion.
“What Would You Give in Exchange for Your Soul?” – Doc Watson & Bill Monroe
Watson and Monroe’s pairing on this traditional tune combines the latter’s piercing, high-lonesome tenor with the former’s warm baritone, creating a striking emotional contrast. Watson’s guitar provides steady, unobtrusive accompaniment, allowing the vocal interplay to take center stage.
This recording exemplifies Watson’s ability to adapt to any partner, responding in real time to vocal phrasing and tempo shifts. The performance demonstrates his interpretive sensitivity, highlighting how he could honor a song’s emotional core while integrating his own stylistic voice.
“Shady Grove / Summertime” – Doc Watson & David Grisman
Watson’s collaboration with David Grisman blends Appalachian folk with progressive acoustic styling. In this rendition of “Shady Grove,” Watson’s rhythmic guitar backgrounds Grisman’s mandolin flourishes, resulting in a lively, conversational back-and-forth. Improvisation is key, as both musicians respond to each other’s phrasing, demonstrating mutual respect and spontaneity.
This collaboration underscores Watson’s versatility, showing he could navigate between traditional melodies and innovative interpretations, elevating both in the process. It is a reminder of his role in bridging traditional and progressive acoustic music for audiences and colleagues alike.
“Amazing Grace” – Doc Watson & Jean Ritchie
Watson and Jean Ritchie’s collaborations were well-established, including performances at venues like Folk City in the early 1960s. However, the specific attribution of some YouTube uploads titled “Amazing Grace” is ambiguous. The Live at Folk City album recording is the most reliable source, showing their complementary styles: Watson’s gentle, precise guitar lines support Ritchie’s clear, expressive vocals, blending Appalachian tradition with personal interpretation. They represent the transmission of Appalachian folk music to wider audiences and the seamless melding of their similar sensibilities.
“Summertime” – Doc Watson & Mark O’Connor
Watson’s influence on multi-instrumentalist Mark O’Connor is well-known; O’Connor cites him as a formative inspiration and their collaboration remains significant as a symbolic bridge between generations. Watson’s teachings and style informed O’Connor’s fiddle mastery, illustrating Watson’s mentorship and the continuity of American acoustic tradition. Indeed, their shared repertoire speaks to the passing of musical knowledge and the sustaining of tradition through personal and professional interaction.
These eight performances above collectively highlight Doc Watson’s role not only as a primary musician, but as a profoundly generous collaborator. He created space for others to excel, whether alongside legends like Bill Monroe, Earl Scruggs, and Chet Atkins or with younger rising stars such as Alison Krauss and Mark O’Connor. Watson’s approach combined technical mastery with emotional intelligence, allowing him to respond intuitively to fellow musicians in real time.
His collaborations illuminate the breadth of his influence. Watson moved with ease between old-time Appalachian tunes, rag medleys, gospel-inflected ballads, rocking hillbilly sounds, and improvised jam sessions. Across these contexts, he remained unmistakably himself: grounded, warm, and adaptable.
By mentoring younger musicians, bridging generations, and seamlessly adapting to new musical contexts, Doc Watson demonstrated that tradition is not static; it is a living, evolving practice. His legacy continues to teach musicians the art of generosity, the importance of listening, and the beauty of musical dialogue. Perhaps in every collaboration, Watson’s spirit resonates, ensuring that his contribution to music endures across time, space, and audience.
Lead image courtesy of MerleFest.
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