Wasn’t That A Time: Dylan Goes Electric at Newport ’65

Editor’s Note: On September 27, 2025, the Folk Americana Roots Hall of Fame in partnership with the Bruce Springsteen Archives and Center for American Music held a collaborative symposium entitled Wasn’t That A Time: The Boston Folk Revival 1958-1965. Over the course of the day, attendees at the Arrow Street Arts Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, enjoyed sessions and panels on such subjects as Club 47, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan at Newport Folk Fest, a conversation with Peter Wolf, and much more. The symposium programming was captured and filmed, and over the course of the next few weeks we’ll be sharing select sessions with our audience right here on BGS. Tune in and enjoy learning more about how Boston was at the epicenter of the folk revival in the ’50s and ’60s. 

Our third installment focuses on Dylan’s 1965 appearance at Newport Folk Festival. Watch above, learn more below. (Watch the first in the series here. Watch the second in the series here.)

“Dylan Goes Electric at Newport ’65”

Speakers: Bob Santelli (moderator), Elijah Wald, Douglas Brinkley, Jeannie Brand, Court Carney.

About the Video: When Bob Dylan traded his acoustic guitar for electric at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, he ushered in a shift to the traditional folk scene. How did the audience and his fellow performers respond, and why? How did this change folk at the time and continue to influence the genre?

“Continuing the series from our Symposium, we tackle one of folk music’s defining moments: Dylan going electric at Newport ’65. What followed changed everything. This panel brings clarity, context, and insight to a moment that continues to shape American music.” – Casey Soward, President and CEO of the Boch Center


Check out the latest exhibits and events happening at the Folk Americana Roots Hall of Fame here. Learn about the 2025 inductees to the Folk Americana Roots Hall of Fame here.

BGS 5+5: The Naked Sun

Artist: The Naked Sun
Hometown: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Latest Album: Mirror in the Hallway (set for release January 30, 2026)
Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): “Fully Clothed Moon”; “Naked! Son.”; “The Naked Sons”

(Editor’s Note: Responses provided by The Naked Sun guitarist and singer-songwriter Drew Harris.)

What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?

I have a very vivid memory from when I was maybe four years old. My mom wasn’t home from work yet, so I was being watched at someone’s house – some kid I barely knew. I was only there once in my life, a strange one-off moment that almost feels like fate. They had one of those old Casio-style keyboards with preset drum loops and out of pure boredom I started messing with it.

To this day, I can remember the feeling of a sort of flow state and being sucked into the music I was making. It’s really that exact feeling that keeps me coming back to the profound play that is making music. Something clicked. When my mom came to pick me up, I didn’t want to let the keyboard go. Something in her must’ve recognized that spark, because not long after we were driving around to strangers’ houses looking for a used piano that we could afford. I started lessons soon after and kept at them for the next six or seven years.

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

We all spend a lot of time in nature. Tom, Dylan, and I are pretty avid cyclists. We have some incredible trails in and around Philadelphia that we spend a lot of time riding. Tim’s a trail runner and very recently took up bow hunting. James loves hiking the Wissahickon.

For me, the place that shapes my writing the most is the Delaware Bay. I walk those beaches for hours – staring at the tide, the sky, the sand shifting beneath me. I started doing it out of boredom, stuck at the shore when everyone else was gone, needing some way to fill the time. (Turns out: boredom = creativity.)

One night I walked all the way toward the Cape May–Lewes Ferry and watched a storm crawl across the bay – lightning slowly getting closer. It was beautiful and terrifying and overwhelming. I think that was the first moment I felt truly connected to nature, and something inside me clicked open. I’ve been returning to that shoreline ever since.

I think the ever-changing shoreline informs my music in a deep way. The beach is never the same twice – shaped daily by tides, wind, and waves, scattered with shells, rocks, horseshoe crabs, footprints, and whatever people leave behind. Every sunset lands at a slightly different angle, filtered through a new cloud formation or dropping into a clear sky without interruption.

Change.

Like the shore, our lives are constantly shifting – subtle in some seasons, dramatic in others. Music is how I process that movement. It lets me catalog who I was and who I’m becoming. When change feels heavy or uncertain, music is the valve that releases that pressure. Because the music will always be there, I know I can change.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

This is a really interesting question, because I think that, at least in my music, every song is about me in some way, shape, or form. Even when I’m writing from someone else’s perspective, when I pull the thread it always comes back to me. Even if it’s years and years after I’ve written a song I’ll look again with a fresh set of eyes and be like, “I thought that was about my mother, but damn, that was really about me.”

I remember writing in a journal years ago that all of my songs are really just letters to myself. And how could they not be? Even when I think I’m writing about someone else, I usually circle back later and realize it was me the whole time. It’s not that I’m hiding behind “you” – it’s that sometimes I don’t yet recognize the reflection I’m writing from.

But I’m increasingly drawn to exploring the true “you” in a song. The songwriters I admire most are shapeshifters – they step into other lives completely, almost like actors. They embody characters, perspectives, flaws, desires. They can disappear into someone else and still reveal something human and true.

That kind of writing fascinates me. It’s difficult – maybe the hardest thing to do, honestly – but I feel like it’s where I’m headed next. If writing has been a mirror, maybe now it becomes a window too.

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

Most people don’t expect this, but my all-time favorite band is the Canadian punk group Propagandhi. I first heard them at 14 or 15, walking into a head shop on the Wildwood boardwalk. It was angrier, smarter, sharper than anything I’d heard – political, passionate, direct. Perfect for a rebellious Catholic school kid

I’ve been listening to Propagandhi since their very first record. I’ve even been up to Canada to see them play and met Chris, Todd, and Jord. This style of music is so different from the music I make. I tried, believe me, I tried to write fast punk-metal riffs, I just wasn’t very good at it. (Propagandhi shreds.) I found Bob Dylan at the right age, taught myself how to play guitar and harmonica at the same time, and adopted a more folky sound.

But I think Propagandhi and folk share a similar ethos: anti-corporate, pro-people. I like to think that I’ve combined the two genres at times in my own abstract and artistic way.

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

I love to cook and have spent time working in kitchens as a line chef, and I even taught cooking for several years, so cooking, food, and of course music are always paired together. I have a little tradition when I go down the shore in the summer; the first summer meal that I prepare, which is almost always shrimp, scallops, and Jersey corn, I turn on “Mississippi” by Bob Dylan off of The Bootleg Series, Vol. 8: Tell Tale Signs. I just absolutely love this version of this song and it transports me back to making meals at my Mom Mom’s house down the shore.

Sorry, Bob, but since this is a dream meal, my dream meal is with Bob’s friend, Tom. My dream meal would be picking blue crabs, sipping beers (and probably a couple joints), listening to music, and chatting with Tom Petty. Tom’s a southern guy, so I think he’d appreciate some blue crab, corn, shrimp, potatoes, and of course a joint or two.

We’d sit outside down at the Jersey Shore and I’d let Tom control the aux and just shoot the shit while we imbibed. A crab feast is always really long, too, so I’d get some extra time to spend with my hero. Not sure I’d ask Tom any specific questions, I’d just want to listen to his tunes and listen to him tell me why he chose them, what he liked about them, what they remind him of, etc., while we sweat out light beer and fill up on blue crab.


Photo Credit: Bob Sweeney

The Five Pillars of Doc Watson’s Legacy

What a difference a Doc made.

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.

Lead image courtesy of MerleFest.

Explore more of our Doc in December Artist of the Month series here.

Wasn’t That A Time: Origins of Boston and Greenwich Folk Scenes

Editor’s Note: On September 27, 2025, the Folk Americana Roots Hall of Fame in partnership with the Bruce Springsteen Archives and Center for American Music held a collaborative symposium entitled Wasn’t That A Time: The Boston Folk Revival 1958-1965. Over the course of the day, attendees at the Arrow Street Arts Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, enjoyed sessions and panels on such subjects as Club 47, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan at Newport Folk Fest, a conversation with Peter Wolf, and much more. The symposium programming was captured and filmed, and over the course of the next few weeks we’ll be sharing select sessions with our audience right here on BGS. Tune in and enjoy learning more about how Boston was at the epicenter of the folk revival in the ’50s and ’60s. 

Our first installment focuses on the origins of the folks scenes in Boston and Greenwich. Watch above, learn more below.

“Origins of Boston and Greenwich Folk Scenes”

Speakers: Melissa Ziobro (moderator), Mitch Greenhill, Jim Brown, Jim Rooney, Tom Paxton

About the Video: “Recorded at the Wasn’t That A Time: The Boston Folk Revival 1958-1965 symposium presented by the Folk Americana Roots Hall of Fame, ‘Origins of Boston and Greenwich Folk Scenes’ traces the beginnings of the American folk revival through the voices of those who lived it. Moderated by Melissa Ziobro, curator at the Bruce Springsteen Archives and Center for American Music, the panel features Jim Brown, Jim Rooney, Mitch Greenhill, and Tom Paxton in a wide-ranging conversation about the artists, venues, and cultural currents that gave rise to one of the most influential movements in American music.” – Casey Soward, President and CEO of the Boch Center


Check out the latest exhibits and events happening at the Folk Americana Roots Hall of Fame here. Learn about the 2025 inductees to the Folk Americana Roots Hall of Fame here.

BGS 5+5: Meredith Moon

Artist: Meredith Moon
Hometown: Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Latest Album: From Here to the Sea (released September 12, 2025)

Which artist has influenced you the most – and how?

I’m a bit of a deep-dive Dylan archivist. I’m one of those people who knows every bootleg series and can never get enough of the intricacies and nuances surrounding the various versions of his works. So while I know I’m not unique in this answer, I’d have to say Bob Dylan.

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

I spend most of my time outside in an attempt to maintain my humanity, but I’m pretty sure I’ve spent the majority of my most meaningful/intentional time in nature up in the lake country of Ontario, canoeing in places like Algonquin Park, The Kawartha Highlands, Northwestern Ontario, etc. I’ve gone on quite a few trips that are generally about a week or two in duration; I did one solo trip (with my dog) in Southern Algonquin Park that lasted five nights and six days. When you’re out there, you know exactly why you’re there and everything you need just comes to you. If you know you know! My belief is that when we put ourselves in vulnerable positions we can access something way back in our DNA that sort of guides us on how to survive. So I like doing that every once in a while, just to remind myself that I’m still connected to that.

What’s the most difficult creative transformation you’ve ever undertaken?

Getting sober, hands down. It took me months after quitting drinking to remember that I was still a musician and that I could still craft songs. I think part of that is the sort of “biopic culture” that follows you around as a musician. That we all have to be drunk cowboys in bars in order to have validity within the Americana scene.

However, as soon as I got sober and actually talked openly about it, it turned out that the majority of musicians I looked up to in the scene were actually sober, too, all along. It came back to me eventually, but there was definitely a period of reinvention before I could get anything out.

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

I was real big on ’90s grunge as a teenager. Some may be surprised that there’s actually a pretty strong connection between that stuff and traditional American folk tunes – the structure, some of the changes, etc. When I was a kid, I would have songs by Hole next to songs by Odetta and Doc Watson on the same playlist. I just like songs that have a strong melody and focused lyrics. And if you look at the song that way, there isn’t much difference.

If you didn’t work in music, what would you do instead?

My first love was painting and probably always will be. I’ve done photography professionally as well through the years, as well as other crafts. So I suppose if the music weren’t around, I’d just switch to the visual arts.


Photo Credit: Someari Benson-Jaja

Is Adam Wright the Poet Laureate of Music Row?

Adam Wright is a songwriter’s songwriter. An artist’s songwriter. A poet whose medium is best set to music. And not just any music, but the absolute highest echelons of bluegrass and country – radio, real, outlaw, Americana, and everything in between and beside. He writes daily from an office nestled between Music Square East and Music Square West in Nashville – the fabled Music Row.

His songs have been cut by stars like Alan Jackson, Lee Ann Womack, Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Brandy Clark, and Robert Earl Keen. In bluegrass, bands like Balsam Range and Lonesome River Band have carried his originals high up the charts, and he’s co-written with many players in the genre, like Sierra Hull, for example. His songwriting and its distinct, intentional, and artistic voice has gained him award nominations from the GRAMMYs, the Americana Honors & Awards, and the IBMA Bluegrass Music Awards.

Since early February of this year, Wright has been leaving a trail of musical breadcrumbs online and on streaming platforms, teasing out his brand new album, Nature of Necessity, in four parts, which he calls “sides.” Along with singles peppering the release cycle throughout the following months, the prior three sides of the project finally convene with the fourth today, September 25, as a coalesced and cohesive project of 18 songs. The novel delivery mechanism for Nature of Necessity feels like an extension of the intentionality Wright brings to each of these literary, textural, and fantastic songs. They each stand alone, certainly, but together they sing.

These are not Music Row fodder, or craven attempts at radio hits, or tracks churned out day-in-and-day-out for volume and viral potential. These are passion projects. Ideas and stories that stuck in Wright’s creative craw and demanded much more deliberate treatments. It’s not as though songs written with the bottom line in mind can’t be this successful as works of art – they often are. It’s just that it’s immediately tangible to the listener that these works by Adam Wright aren’t just some of his best, they were clearly written and produced without a single thought towards saleability. Rather, Wright and his creative partners – especially producer Frank Liddell – gave each of these songs the artistic treatment they deserved on their own merits as stories and tableaus, vignettes and pantomimes.

If you remember when Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2016, there was a whole lot of “discourse” on the internet as to the actual literary value of songs and lyrics. It’s a painfully on the nose, forest for the trees moment to even have to accept the premise of that debate in order to refute it. But with a writer like Adam Wright – ever so rare in country and roots music and becoming even more endangered still – it’s easy, direct, and demonstrable connecting the dots between literature and songwriting. Nature of Necessity being 18 compelling points on that trail. With this album, Wright should perhaps be offered a term as the poet laureate of Music Row. Let each of its four sides stand as a resumé.

I really love the sonics of the album, the production. I’m a bluegrass banjo player, so when I listen to records I want to hear the pick noise, I want to hear the room, I want to hear the distance between a singer’s lips and the microphone. I want it to sound like music and I want it to sound like a moment in time.

Granted, I listen to a lot of music that doesn’t check any of those boxes and I like it a lot for sure, but the first thing I noticed about this album was that it sounds not just live, but alive. Can you talk about that and can you talk about how you accomplished it? It feels like, having heard so much of Frank [Liddell’s] work as producer that he was probably a perfect partner to accomplish that production style, too.

Adam Wright: Yeah, he absolutely was. And we wanted the same thing. We wanted it to be live and to sound live. With all the flaws inherent in performance, like a full unedited, undoctored performance.

‘Cause I’m like you – I’m a pretty poor listener currently but I have, in my long life of listening, listened to an awful lot of music and studied a lot of it. I know when I’m listening to a song that was gridded and then a singer came in and sang very carefully and then they cut it up and got it right. Because I’ve made records like that, too.

You sound your best that way, you truly do. It is so flattering to have someone do that to you and then listen back and go, “Wow, I sound fantastic.” So what I’ve enjoyed, for some reason, [is] getting used to what I sound like, giving it my best effort on a play down all the way through, one whole take, and go, “That’s what I sound like.”

It’s like looking at yourself like in a hotel mirror. [They] are the worst mirrors in the world. Like you go in the bathroom in the hotel room and you look awful and can’t figure out why. Something about the lighting or the quality of the lighting or where they’re placed. Every time I’m in a hotel mirror, I’m just like, “What am I doing out in the world?”

It’s a little bit like that. You listen back to yourself, play this song, and you go, “Man… that is not perfect.” There are things I just really dislike about the way I sing certain things on this record, the way I played. I hear me failing the whole way through. ‘Cause we did track it live. Me and Matt Chamberlain and Glenn Worf tracked us a three-piece, me on acoustic and singing with bass and drums. The idea was just to keep all of that as it is, intact, which we did.

I told Glenn, I said, “You’re the lead instrument. No one’s coming to save us. If something has to happen, we just have to do it right now.” We recorded it with that philosophy. The meat of it is my playing and singing with Glenn and Matt and we didn’t fiddle with it. The caveat was, “Okay, we can add things, but this has to remain what it is.” Whatever we did has to be live as it happened.

We did it a bunch of times. We did every song like seven times. So if I didn’t get it, is it gonna get better? No. That’s how I sing that line, obviously. There was some freedom in that … I’ve just gotten to enjoy it.

These feel like songs for you and not songs to sell or to get cut or to pitch on Music Row. Like, they feel like songs that, as they came out of you, you may have been squirreling them away, caching them for yourself for the future. I wanted to see if that was true or if that resonated with you. To me, they’re poetic and they’re literary without being “pick me” or “try hard.” They’re really thoughtful. I love your lyricism because it’s not too esoteric. But, these traits aren’t exactly regarded as commercial. So how did this collection end up… collected?

That’s exactly how that went. And thank you for the kind words, too. I do write every day for a publisher. Usually that means co-writing. I co-write almost every day of the week. Whether I want to or not. I’m usually writing with younger artists that want a record deal or have a record deal and they have some ambitions about the commercial music industry – and for some reason they thought I could help them. [Laughs] As misguided as that is, that’s usually what our job is in that moment. I don’t think a lot about, “Hey kid, I got a hit for you.” My brain just doesn’t really work that way. I just try to write a really good song that I think is tailored towards that particular artist.

I do a lot of that, but I would never try to force one of these ideas like [that] are on this record on someone that is trying to do something like that. This is a different endeavor. I do categorize it differently. That co-writing with people for their records or for whatever they would like to do is almost like a day job. And these songs are my night job. So they are very different. It feels like a different writing brain altogether. The process of writing ’em is very different. It’s not two hours of looking at each other. Some took me weeks, just because I couldn’t unlock ’em, but I kept tinkering away. It’s a much different thing.

I want to find out the deepest realization of whatever the story was or the idea or the character that I decided the song was gonna be about. Just follow that rabbit through the woods as deep into it and as dark as it got, that’s what we were gonna do. It’s rewarding! It’s a lot of work and it takes a long time and I’m so busy at the moment. I don’t know if I could write some of those songs right now. If you told me to write a song that had a lot of Latin in it about watching the dawn, I’m not sure I could pull it off. [Laughs]

But you know how it is when you find these things. You get a hold of this little spark, you follow it, and then at some point it dims a little. Then you’re looking for another spark to light up. I’m currently between sparks – I’m writing every day, but I haven’t found a new thread that I just can’t wait to chase yet. But sometimes you get a little hint of it.

Let’s talk about some of the music. On “Dreamer and The Realist,” are you the dreamer? Are you the realist? Is it about you?

I never really decided if I contain enough pragmatism to be both a dreamer and a realist. Like in some ways I am. Like when my wife says, “Hey, we’re going to Disney World,” that’s what we’re doing. I would never decide to go to Disney World [on my own], because I don’t like fun. [Laughs] But once I know I’ve gotta go, then I can get pragmatic about it.

But aside from those types of things, I’m pie in the sky. If I could stare out a window 10 hours a day every day for the rest of my life and not starve to death, I would do it.

Thank you!

All I really want to do is walk around the world and roll around inside my own brain. That sounds fascinating to me forever, endlessly. And not because I have a fascinating brain, just because I think it’s fun to just go, “What if” and then, “What if” and then, “What if.”

I feel like this is a long way of trying to say, I feel like everyone is some combination of a dreamer and a realist. Or you couldn’t function. But certainly nobody’s all dreamer or all realist, I don’t think. I think we all compartmentalize our dreaming and our realism to certain areas of our life and hopefully we each find someone that compensates for, or augments, [ourselves] in ways. And that’s never perfect. There’s always like a dueling going on with all that stuff. But I love the push and pull of it; within myself and within a relationship. There’s music in all of that I’ll always find it very interesting. The song really is within the same person.

With “All the Texas,” which features Patty Griffin, one of the first things I thought when I heard it was of Lyle Lovett’s “That’s Right (You’re Not From Texas).” Plus, I was thinking about this moment in time with Texas and politics and the culture wars. Country music tends to feature this thinking like, “Everyone loves Texas and you should too!” “Don’t we all agree, Texas is great??” And then you look at what’s happening in Texas and you’re like, “Oh my gosh, Texas. What the hell?” I’ve had all the Texas…

Help us help you, please! Exactly.

Can you talk to me a little bit about that song? Because I have a feeling that there’s much more going on than just the way we’re all feeling about Texas these days.

It really was written before Texas got so Texas-y, recently. I don’t remember what year it was, but it was probably four or five years ago. Texas is always pretty Texas-y, but this was before it got super Texas-y. It was just about a night opening for Patty Griffin there at the Moody [Center] in Austin. It was just a whirlwind of a trip; flew in day of show, ran around Austin for half an afternoon, and then played a show.

She’s so supernatural. There’s just something like… sorcery around her. Anytime you’re around her, she doesn’t come off that way. She doesn’t walk around like talking wizard speak or anything; she’s just such a lovely, cute, normal, funny individual. But there’s still something that swirls around her that is just supernatural.

With all of that, I was like jotting things down, like the whole 24 hours that we were there. I just kept getting like little snatches of things and they all started to have this kind of mythical quality to ’em. Some of it’s literal, the Driskill and all of that stuff was true. But it turns into a sort of dream logic, mythical stuff – which is like watching [Patty] perform. It was an exercise in playing with almost like a journal entry of that experience and then distorting it with mythical language or symbolism.

I also love “Weeds” – and not just because Lee Ann [Womack] is on it. But also because I am obsessed with wildflowers, with native gardening, and habitat restoration. Something that struck me about that line, “Heaven is a meadow with no weeds” is perhaps heaven is a place where we finally understand that a “weed” is a social construct, right? A weed is a plant that we’ve decided is in a place where it shouldn’t be, but maybe we’re the ones where we shouldn’t be–

Yeah, that’s right.

Maybe we changed so much of the environment that we look out and we see a weed, but that plant has been here all along. And [the habitat is] probably supposed to be all weeds.

Exactly.

When I heard “Weeds” I also thought of Dolly’s song “Wildflowers” and the idea of, “What is the difference between a wildflower and a weed?” So, in my own mind, I heard that line as maybe you get to heaven and you realize all these weeds were wildflowers the whole time. Maybe I’m projecting. [Laughs]

I don’t know how the farmer’s perspective developed [on that song], I just don’t remember. And I’m not trying to put any sort of romanticism on it, it just didn’t come to me. I don’t remember what the jump was, but I remember why I started the song initially. I was at the library looking for something new to read and I came across this book, it was like a catalog of late-1800s farming equipment and the techniques and things. You could order out of these catalogs in like, 1870-whatever.

It also had articles about how to fix your wagon or what to do about this particular tractor part. How to deal with a stubborn mule or a pig that wouldn’t do what you wanted them to do. I thought it was fascinating, and the language of it – I love lingo so much. I love getting into some endeavor or line of work or character where there’s lots of language that I haven’t heard before. Like specialized language to a particular job or whatever. This book was full of it. I was just fascinated by all of it.

The whole thing about the last verse about the pig, all of that, it’s just outta the catalog. Those were all things [from the book]. Like, “Are you dealing with a hog who’s ill-formed? And unquiet in his mind? Here’s what you can do.” I found it all so interesting.

Then the middle verse about the tramp, to me he was dressed in soldiers’ clothes. I imagined he’d been shot and was laid over this farmer’s fence. It would have been just at the close of the Civil War era stuff. I wanted all of it to hang together, but with all of these strange things going on the overarching thing is this farmer going, “I can’t get rid of these weeds.” Why does he care? I don’t know. I just liked the guy [because] the thing that sort of kept him going was that his eternal reward might be a meadow without all of these weeds in it.

Your career has intersected with bluegrass and has been part of your career in so many ways. You’re a picker – which is one of the first things I noticed about this album, you guys tracking it live means we get to hear you pick the guitar. All these bluegrass folks have cut your songs, you’ve been nominated for an IBMA Award. What does the genre mean to you? And of course, the inseparable community that comes with it. How does that fit into the constellation of how you make music, songwrite, and be creative in general?

That’s interesting. I love the world of bluegrass. Maybe I’m just a little particular. Like, if you looked at all genres of music as slices of a pie, there’s really only a sliver that I really love. Out of any genre. Whether it be jazz or a big band or blues or bluegrass or classic country or rock, there’s really only a little bit of it that I really like and most of it, the rest of it I find I can leave alone. Not quite for me.

But I always said, good bluegrass might be the best music ever. Like, when it’s good and it’s right. I wish I had started trying to play that kind of music when I was younger. I got fascinated with it too late to physically do it at a level that I appreciate. I can distinguish the difference in the nuances of really great players, but I’m not able to do that. I don’t lose a lot of sleep over it, but I’ve probably got carpal tunnel trying to figure out Tony Rice licks a few times in my life. There’s so much of it that I really like and I love.

I’ve never really sat down to try to write bluegrass songs. I just write songs. Like you were talking about this interview going under the Good Country category, I’ve always sat somewhere in the mushy in-between of folk, singer-songwriter, bluegrass, and country. I’ve just always existed somewhere in the middle of all that stuff. Some of my favorite artists have done that, as well.

Some of my favorite bluegrass artists were folkier or bluesy-er. Del McCoury or Doc Watson. Tony Rice was such a genre evader. I always appreciated that about certain bluegrass artists. But writing-wise, I just always wrote songs. And because of the nature of what I’ve ingested, they lend themselves fairly well to more traditional bluegrass arrangements. They always play everything a lot faster than I think they’re going to. [Laughs]

Last night at the Bluebird [Cafe] I did my version of “Thunder and Lightning,” which is a moonshining song of mine that Lonesome River Band cut. I think I’m playing my version fast, like it feels fast to me. And then I hear them do it and it’s about twice as fast as I play mine. It sounds great when they do it, but if I try to play it that fast it sounds ridiculous.

I write some with Sierra Hull, she’s so much fun to write with. It’s funny, she hardly plays when we’re writing, which I had to get used to. ‘Cause the first time I wrote with her I was like, “Oh I can’t wait to just watch her play!” And I don’t even know if she touched the instrument a couple of times, just to check a chord. But I got to like her so much and enjoy writing with her that it didn’t matter. [Laughs] …

My dad was a piano player – and still is. His dad was a piano player, too. So I started on piano when I… I think I was like four. I was kinda tugging on their shirt going, “Hey, I wanna play piano!” And they’re like, “Yeah, okay. Sure.” But they did let me, I started, and I did like classical piano for years. Then I went to saxophone and then I heard a Chuck Berry record and I needed a guitar. Today. Right now. This afternoon.

I was talking to a friend of mine who is a bluegrasser, saying, “I just don’t know how you guys do it, the flatpicking. How are you doing this?” And he goes, “You remember when you were learning Rolling Stones songs on a Stratocaster when you were a teenager? Most of these guys were playing D28s with grown men at festivals then.” When they were that age, that’s what they were doing. Picking with grown men.

Who were having pissing contests with those children. [Laughs]

Yeah! Sorry kid, not today. [Laughs]


Photo Credit: Emily McMannis

For Tift Merritt, Time and Patience Have Made the Difference

Tift Merritt never thought she’d end up back in her hometown of Raleigh, North Carolina. For about 15 years she toured through America and Europe to support a number of exceptional albums, particularly 2004’s Tambourine. Released on Lost Highway Records, that R&B-influenced LP earned a GRAMMY nomination and elevated her profile among audiences who admired the detail in her songwriting and appreciated her hard-to-define musical style.

After nine years of living in New York City, Merritt wrote her ticket home in 2016 and welcomed a daughter, Jean, that same year. Following the release of a studio album in 2017, Merritt largely stepped away from performing to pursue other ambitions, including the renovation of a historic hotel called the Gables Motel Lodge in Raleigh and working as a practitioner-in-residence at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina.

“I think we have this sort of unnatural expectation of what performing life is, what creative life is, and you can’t flower all the time,” Merritt tells BGS. “So, it’s been really nice to be away. And it feels really fun to be doing some gigs and be back.”

Merritt’s new album, Time and Patience, gracefully shines a light on her musical moments from two decades ago. Most of the recordings are homemade demos; four others are studio outtakes from the Tambourine sessions. A 20th anniversary edition of Tambourine has also been reissued on vinyl.

Ahead of her first AmericanaFest appearance in more than a decade, Merritt reminisced about writing the title track of her new collection, hearing Dolly Parton’s music as a kid, and the personal decision she considers “one of the best things that ever happened.”

I’ve read that your dog, Lucy, was watching you as you recorded these demos in your kitchen. What was it like to have her with you? Was it a little bit of companionship?

Tift Merritt: Oh yeah! At the time, I lived on a farm outside of Chapel Hill in North Carolina. My boyfriend went on a trip and I stayed home to get down to writing, because I’m a Capricorn in that way. [Laughs] At that point, I had had Lucy for almost 10 years and she was used to staring at me and staring at my notebooks. But she was such a good girl and we had a lot of years where I had a great writing routine when I wasn’t on the road. I’d be writing, then taking walks, then writing… It’s interesting to think back about those days when that’s all I had to do. [Laughs] I didn’t have somebody else to take care of! What did I do with all those hours?!

What was the goal in recording these demos? Were you trying to get someone to listen, or was somebody interested in you already?

I had already done Bramble Rose [in 2002] and the label told me to go home and write a hit. But they didn’t want to spend any money for me going to the studio. Those recordings are what I sent my label and my manager. That was the big audition.

Wow, that’s a tall order: “Go home and write a hit.” How did you receive that?

You know, I was 27 years old and I realized the precarity of the position that I was in. Someone had ambitions for me, which was a really good thing. It’s a lot better than people not having ambitions for you. At the same time, I was very determined to keep my integrity. I always wanted to be a career artist. I didn’t have aspirations to have big hits. I didn’t have aspirations that were purely commercial.

I would try to be very determined to just do excellent work in my own voice. They also told me that I was not allowed to be an Americana artist, because that didn’t really exist at that time and there was no money in it. You know, it was just a weird time. It was a weird time to be a woman in that industry. It still is, it always is. And certainly, a young woman. I mean, nobody trusted me.

What did they not trust?

My judgment, my writing, my band, how I dressed myself, that I knew how I wanted my picture to appear. None of it. It was always a struggle and part of that is because I have strong artistic opinions, I’m sensitive, and I’m not stupid. I came out of a very rigorous writing program and to walk into Nashville where it’s like, “Oh no, it’s not a hit,” I’m like, “That’s not criticism I can do anything with.” Again, I was glad that people had ambitions for me, but [I was told] my songs aren’t good enough. My band wasn’t good enough. And that sort of added up to, I’m not good enough.

The label would trust [the album’s producer] George Drakoulias, but they wouldn’t trust me. And this is not an unusual story: “You don’t trust an artist! And you certainly don’t trust an artist who thinks they’re a writer!” I think there was very much a power dynamic at that time, where you separate the singer from the band, and you separate the singer from the song, and you can get them to do what you want to do. I didn’t want to do any of that.

Your band was such an important part of your sound. How did you put them together?

Well, I was married to the drummer and I didn’t want to be slick Nashville. We were all North Carolina people. We came up together, cutting our teeth in clubs. The label did not want my band to play on Tambourine. And so that band was Mike Campbell, Neal Casal, Maria McKee, and Don Heffington. I trusted George enough to surround me with people who were all friends of Maria McKee, basically, and spoke the same language as I did.

Being from North Carolina, did you grow up around bluegrass? Or did that influence your musical direction at all?

I think the Everly Brothers and harmonies and acoustic instruments did. I wasn’t totally into bluegrass. I was more into songs. My dad had an extremely eclectic record collection, a lot of which was influenced by the radio, which was eclectic at that point. He had Aretha Franklin and Bob Dylan and Dolly Parton and all sorts of stuff. He was real song-oriented and kind of a folkie himself. Lots of Dylan songs, lots of finger picking. So, in some way, I would say that I’m more of a folk musician because I learned to play from my father by ear and he learned by picking out the songs that he heard that he loved. They were all that sort of “touch your heart” kind of thing.

Were there any musicians whose melodies inspired you?

I can remember singing Dolly Parton songs with my dad, driving carpool. And she always has such amazing melodies. There were some amazing pivotal records for me, like Emmylou Harris’ Quarter Moon in a Ten Cent Town and Bonnie Raitt, Bonnie Raitt. Also, as a writer, those early Joni Mitchell records. She is so creative, melodically and with the guitar. It’s never boring.

I always think I’m a much better writer than I am a musician. I try to bring, first, a rigor to what I’m trying to say in words, that it’s something worth saying. And then I try to do the same to the melody, so it’s something worth hearing. It’s not necessarily something fancy, but it’s something interesting and layered.

How old were you when you picked up the guitar?

I started picking it up from my dad, probably at 12 or 13, when all the boys were starting to do it. It was like [in an unimpressed voice], “Oh my God, I can do that, too.” Probably in my middle teens is when I really got into it. I didn’t think I could sing. I didn’t think people would come to a show or anything like that. I just loved doing it and I thought I would be a writer.

When did that shift for you?

In my early 20s. I started a band and we had some sparks kind of quick. That was really lucky. We were in the right place at the right time in Chapel Hill. And then I just didn’t stop getting gigs… until I did!

Have you played a lot over the last nine years?

I toured with my daughter for the first two years and then I said, “You know what, kiddo? This isn’t enough for you.” I thought she deserved roots. At the time, that felt like a big failure, like I hadn’t turned a corner where I’d get a bus and a nanny and make all of that doable. Seven years later, I think it was one of the best things that ever happened. Because I was able to – for the first time in my adult life – not be on the road and not be trying to fit into the creativity that is pretty narrow that the record industry offers. I mean, it’s the “three minutes and 30 seconds.”

So, I ended up doing a lot of other things that made me feel like I was more of an artist, rather than less of one. I’ve also had this incredible time raising my daughter. We actually just did our first real tour together in Europe and she loved it! I mean, I’ve jumped out here and there and done shows, but my focus has been on other things, mainly my daughter and figuring out how to take care of us.

On the song “Time and Patience,” there’s a glimmer of hope. It’s like you’re saying to yourself, “Hang in there. You can do this.” And there’s a verse where you’re telling somebody else, “I believe in you, too.” Do you remember what was going on in your life at that moment?

I do! I remember very, very much so and I do remember writing that song to myself about how frustrated I was, that nothing I was writing was a hit. I often get insomnia, especially when I’m writing. Like, I can’t get it out of my head. And I really did see the sun come up and I got up and I wrote that song, and then I made grits. Grits are such a good thing when you’ve had insomnia and go back to bed!

It’s funny because my dad has always loved that song. I am not somebody who looks back a lot. I’d much rather look forward. But it’s funny to hear that song now, where I was kind of trying to get myself through something really specific. And now, I’m in a place where my life is not at all what I imagined it to be. But it’s actually better than I imagined it to be and I couldn’t have imagined it. That feels like the timing is special. Maybe that was one of those songs that I didn’t really understand then that I understand a lot better now.


Photo Credit: Morgane Imbeaud

Danny Burns’ Roots Music Journey Through the South

My new album’s theme, along with the theme of this Mixtape, is a roots-inspired journey through the South, with songs that evoke the feeling of traveling across its landscapes and into the heart of the Deep South. I hope the fans enjoy the journey of these songs and all the sounds and people it takes to make them come to life on Southern Sky – it takes a village.

That village comes to life across the nine-track journey of Southern Sky, where Irish roots fuse with Southern soul driven by Dobros, fiddles, and rich storytelling that soar with Appalachian tradition and Southern warmth. Inspired by the textures of the South, the spirit of the album is like Allen Toussaint’s Southern Nights, where Appalachian tales intertwine with the deep twang of the South.

Southern Sky features a multitude of musical titans – Vince Gill, Tim O’Brien, Ricky Skaggs, and Sam Bush to name a few – all contributing to the exceptional sound that I strive for. – Danny Burns

“Summer in Siam” – The Pogues

I always loved this tune, growing up listening to the Pogues and having met Shane many moons ago.

“My Old Friend the Blues” – Steve Earle

Steve is one of my favorites. I’ve had the honor to sing with him, open shows with him, and hang on his bus. His songs are epic; this is a great example of that.

“Southern Nights” – Citizen Cope

I first met Clarence Greenwood in New Orleans when I was driving him, Neal Casal, and Jon Graboff (the Cardinals) around while they were playing Tipitina’s. I fell in love with Clarence’s songs and his performances. Another great American artist and songwriter.

“Whenever You Come Around” – Vince Gill

I’m a huge fan of Vince and this track is about as good as it gets. I’ve always admired his songs, his voice, and everything he brings to the table.

“Locals Only” – ERNEST

I first heard this song down in Mexico during the pandemic while hanging out on the beach in Puerto Morelos. It became a bit of an anthem for those days by the water.

“Waiting On You” – Cecilia Castleman

A truly killer talent. Cecilia can play, she can sing, and I’m sure her skills as an engineer and producer are just as strong. This song is fantastic.

“Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground” – Willie Nelson

This has always been one of my go-to lonesome Willie tunes.

“That’s How Every Empire Falls” – John Prine

Epic song written by RB Morris out of Knoxville. I love both versions, but it was John’s take that first introduced me to it.

“The Lucky One” – Alison Krauss & Union Station

What can I say about Alison’s voice– absolutely world-class. Pair that with a world-class band, production, and song and it’s just unbeatable.

“Years” – Sierra Ferrell 

This is pure ear candy. So intriguing and instantly captivating. It feels amazing and sounds incredible. Perfect work!

“Colony” – Damien Dempsey

A heavy hitter in the Irish scene, this track is a prime example of his finest work.

“Settle For A Slowdown” – Dierks Bentley

I really loved this album; it feels like a perfect introduction to where country meets bluegrass with a modern twist.

“Señor” – Tim O’Brien

Love Tim and his take on this epic Bob Dylan song.

“Linger” – Áine Burns

Love Áine’s take on this Cranberries hit – can’t wait to hear more from her before the year’s end.


Photo Credit: Jim Wright

Josh Ritter’s Muse
Is Like a Honeydew

Idaho-born singer-songwriter Josh Ritter has released a dozen studio albums over the past quarter-century, crafting an elegant body of work. A few years back, he earned the ultimate compliment in tunesmith circles when Bob Dylan covered one of his songs, “Only a River,” co-written with Bob Weir.

By now Ritter is well-acquainted with the wisdom of following the muse wherever it leads. Recently, however, he was moved to take a step back and focus more on the muse itself rather than the destination. That inspiration began with “Truth Is a Dimension (Both Invisible and Blinding),” a visionary song from his latest batch of compositions. Beautifully simple and unadorned, it’s just voice and guitar as Ritter summons up myths and memories surrounding “the one who got away.”

“Truth…” turned out to be one of the 10 songs making up studio LP number 13 for Ritter, the whimsically titled I Believe in You, My Honeydew, which releases today followed by widespread touring well into next year. Along the way, he’ll be posting regularly on Josh Ritter’s Book of Jubilations (one of the better artist Substacks out there) and at some point he’ll get back to working on his in-progress third novel. Fiction writing has turned out to be yet another thriving subset of Ritter’s career.

“I have a rough draft done,” he reports. “My wife Haley reads all my first drafts because she’s my best reader, so she’ll tell me the problems I need to fix. I’m excited about this one. I’ve written two other full novels since the last one came out, but they don’t have the spark this one does. It’s nice to have an ongoing project you can work on a little at a time, take a break and let it marinate.”

In the meantime, there’s lots to be excited about regarding I Believe in You, My Honeydew. BGS caught up with Ritter by phone from his home in Brooklyn.

You recently wrote a Substack post about first drafts, which you likened to a sculptor’s “acquisition of the stone” that will eventually be carved into a statue. An elegant way to visualize the slog of writing a book.

Josh Ritter: My true writing journey began through songs, which was the first form I really connected with. Writing songs, you can edit very quickly and on the fly. But after years and years of that, I was really struck by the different pace of editing when writing a novel. It takes no big effort to change things in songs. But with a novel, there’s just no getting around that you’re heaving big lumps of stone around – paragraphs that you have to haul from one place to another.

That makes it a lot heavier, but it can also be a joyful act. Pulling the rock is so exciting, that initial spark of inspiration and desire to heave this impossible stone. It’s beautiful when the story is exposed for the first time, all these rich characters. Same as a song.

Your first novel, 2011’s Bright’s Passage, actually started out as a song. Does that happen often, where a piece of writing starts as one thing but becomes another?

As a writer, what I have is water that will fill whatever container I put it in. Songs have a shape that can hold a whole story that could be a novel – like Springsteen’s “The River,” that could be a novel. At the same time, it’s fun to have novels as a different mountain to climb in your mind. Songs are something you can get to quickly, but you might also want to do this other kind of writing that takes a long time and a lot of love. Then you have to decide the economy of that: Is it important enough to you to be worth it?

I’ve always thought songs are like corridors where there are doors but not rooms. Turn on a song, listen to it, and you’re walking down that corridor. And off the corridor, the rooms are your own thoughts and memories, wondering about everything from what to make the kids for dinner to the nature of God. You can hear stuff on the radio that leads to profound questions that are not about that moment, but would not happen without the song. It’s really beautiful. Sometimes you just want to follow songs behind the door, wherever they go.

From your new record, “Truth Is a Dimension (Both Invisible and Blinding)” is such a beautiful, heavy, heartbreaking song. Listening from the outside, it feels like the heart of I Believe in You, My Honeydew. Does it feel that way to you, too?

There are certain songs I feel fortunate to receive, which is what that one felt like. It unfolded in such a quick and finished way, with such clarity, and it gave me so much to draw from. Not just the subject matter, but this idea I became obsessed with about truth becoming changeable. There’s a metaphysical aspect, but also more physical than we give it credit for. And as I was writing it, I realized I was writing this with a muse. Had to be.

Afterward, it occurred to me that this was not something I could’ve done by myself. Hemingway used to say that we all get lucky sometimes and write better than we can. But it all depends on who you’re writing with in your mind. Helps to have a third party in there, between the head and the heart.

That was the first song I wrote for this record, and the rest unfolded out of the same general idea. What I hoped to do was perceive a muse as something fuller than what I had appreciated in the past. To assume that a muse is a spiritual acquisition, that didn’t feel right. And to have “lost” one’s muse implies you had it to begin with. No one likes to be “had,” you know?

The bittersweet vibe of that song reminds me of one of my favorite songs and videos of yours, 2010’s “The Curse.”

That’s another one I fell into. A lot of the story songs are like a trance, with the song unfolding as it’s happening. The song is only as long as the trance lasts, and when it’s over it’s really done. I’m almost glad it doesn’t happen all the time. That sense of revelation is so powerful, and I don’t want it to wear off. I imagine it’s the same feeling as hitting a golf ball really, really far.

On that song and others, you really have an affinity for waltz time.

Oh, I love it. Waltz time is such a beautiful architecture that feels like a Viennese street, really fundamental and blocky. It’s a stone you can build on, a lot of melody can go on top of a waltz. So sweet and dark. If I could do it every time, I probably would.

So with the muse, do you have an actual mental picture of what it looks like? A visual manifestation?

It’s not something I can anthropomorphize, but the closest I’ve found is honeydew. It’s familiar and weird, almost self-luminous. Cut it open and it’s this mess of wires and biology in there. It tastes strange but also good when you eat it, unearthly but also familiar. Music is my way of exploring the euphoria and unexplainable elation of experiencing that vision. Sometimes it seems like ideas and feelings from other worlds are fearful, and I’m comforted by the idea that they can be communed with.

So, how to communicate with this thing? Because when you come right down to it, I couldn’t even assume it knew English. It could read my mind without knowing the language. So I had to teach it about things I love, invite it into this experience of being a 48-year-old man who writes songs for a living and lives with his family in Brooklyn. I had to be open to this other life force, show gratitude and offer it a place at the table.

The songs came out of that and I like playing these songs we worked on together. I wanted this record to be fun. I liked the idea of it being high-flying but also earthy. Like seeing something celestial at a Friday night bonfire party with Solo cups, one of those occasions with friends listening to music together and looking up at stars. That’s as holy a moment as can be found. I wanted to write about that moment as the setting for a soundtrack of that liminal passing as dusk comes on.

What other songs on this record do you like best?

I’m proud of “Noah’s Children,” which I remember as just a marvelous fun time to make in the studio. You could just feel it develop. I brought it in with that strum and quickly realized that Rich Hinman’s amazing guitar-playing really gave it the percussive slink I wanted it to have. It became something I really wanted to be singing at that moment.

“Kudzu Vines” was fun as well, just turn everything way up. And starting the record with “You Won’t Dig My Grave” was intentional. Records are about a moment in the time and life of an artist, and that song’s definitely about surviving bullies and forces that seem dead set against humanity, dragging us downward from our potential. Sometimes the only way to defeat someone like that is to outlive them.

You mentioned that this record was fun to make. Have some of your other records been more of a struggle?

In different ways, every record is never separate from the lives of the people making it. I’m sure every member of my band would have a different answer but [2023’s] Spectral Lines was very difficult to make. It was during the pandemic and also following my mom’s death – like [2013’s] The Beast In Its Tracks followed my divorce. Those were moments of personal crisis, living in that moment and what came out of it. Often there was not joy. But there was need and there’s some joy in that.

So yeah, some records are harder to make than others, but that almost doesn’t make it into the equation as soon as it’s done. You’re proud of it and that bad feeling goes away. I guess there’s a reason we do things twice. Whatever mountain you climb, the hurt is forgotten if you love it enough.

Now this one was all recorded in a way that’s the most fun for me, everybody together in a room, just a great time in Minnesota way out under the stars. No reason for it not to be a good time. I’m very proud of the story and its conclusion.

Long ago, you started out intending to follow your parents into the field of science – until taking organic chemistry in college at Oberlin. Maybe they were disappointed at first, but given your successes they must be pretty sanguine about your career choice.

I always say, never let college get in the way of your schedule! On the one hand, I was really disappointed not to be whatever idea I had at that time. At the same time, I was profoundly impressed with how many of my peers were doing things of just magical intent of purpose. And I was left there thinking, “Okay, this is going to change some things. I have to think about this because I’m not going to be who I thought I was.”

But my parents took it well. My mom died a few years ago and my dad is living in Minnesota with his new wife. It’s been fun, he comes out to the shows. When your mom dies, suddenly you don’t have someone to show your booboos to. I’ve been fortunate that he has become that for me, someone to share both victories and griefs with. Seeing parents go on to new lives and loves is a beautiful thing. It’s one reason why this is such a happy record.


Photo Credit: Jake Magraw

Basic Folk: Paul Brady

Bob Dylan once called Paul Brady a “secret hero” and meant it as a compliment. The Irish songwriting legend has not been bothered by the fact that his profile has not risen as high as some of his peers. Starting off in the world of traditional Irish music, Brady spent time in the hugely influential Irish group Planxty until they disbanded in 1975. After that, he and bandmate Andy Irvine recorded a record of trad music together. In 1981, Brady released an album of original songs titled Hard Station that was based on his experience of growing up during The Troubles in Northern Ireland. It was a huge left turn for him stylistically and in being so personal with his writing. After that, Brady’s songwriting career took off; he has written songs for Bonnie Raitt, Santana, Tina Turner, and many others.

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In our Basic Folk conversation, Brady reflects on his upbringing and how music served as his reliable companion. He also discusses his parents’ artistic influences, particularly his father’s passion for acting and how it shaped his own stage performances. We touch on themes of perfectionism, impostor syndrome, and the inherent pressures of the music industry. Additionally, Paul talks about his latest massive box set, The Archive, which features rare demos, live recordings, and unique collaborations, offering a comprehensive look at his extensive body of work.


Photo Credit: Stuart Bailie