Tag: California

There’s an Edge to Abbie Callahan’s Sugary Country

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

There’s an effortless charm to singer-songwriter Abbie Callahan’s persona when you first encounter her via vertical video. Beautiful and whimsical makeup, adorable wardrobe, hyper-femininity, and a Gen Z polish to her social media presence are all complicated in the most fascinating ways by her music itself. Landing somewhere in between witty and incisive pop country like Kacey Musgraves and gritty, train-hopping Americana such as Sierra Ferrell, you’d be well served not to make assumptions – or to sell Callahan’s songs short based on appearances.

This is not a book you can accurately judge by its cover. Callahan’s songs will reel you in with her sharp, impactful vocals, her deft wordplay and solid hooks, and a wink and sly smile around every lyrical corner. Tracks like “Simon Says” will have your head bobbing before you even realize the devastation and trauma woven through the lyrics. A new, as-yet-unreleased number, “OptiMystic” – debuted, as Callahan tracks often are, on TikTok – lays out her worldview pretty tidily:

I’ve been known to be a little easy on a Saturday
Known to smoke a cigarette and throw up in the alleyway
Checked off greed and lust in a church pew
Had confession in the Red Door bathroom

Who can really say where you can talk to Jesus anyway?
Anyway…

If you were to engage with and enjoy Callahan’s music without any deeper inspection, you’d still come away with plenty. But the real appeal here is that the sweet, sugary veneer on these songs is only to bring you in. It’s the tinges of bitterness, the tannins, the “something much deeper going on below the surface” that will bring you back again and again. However you zoom out or zoom in on Callahan, her lyrics, her process, and the way she brings her songs directly to her listeners there’s subversion, a deliberate and inspired flouting of expectations.

@iamabbiecallahanWho can really say where you can talk to Jesus anyway… anyway🧚🏼‍♀️🔮♬ OptiMYSTIC – Abbie Callahan

Callahan is intentionally leveraging the way she’s perceived outwardly and visually to “Trojan horse” her way of making music into a country industry that’s often loath to platform artists like her, who build fandoms and idiosyncratic styles on hyper-femininity without apology. Like Dolly, Loretta, Kacey, and so many others who’ve come before her in that age-old country tradition, Abbie Callahan is onto something.

We caught up after a gentle spring rain in Napa Valley, as Good Country attended Live in the Vineyard Goes Country and caught Callahan performing as part of the event. Finding ourselves in such a stunning location, we began our interview chatting about country’s relationship to place and how well-suited this music is to the many settings it finds itself in.

I wanted to start by asking you about country’s relationship with place. Country music is always about place – rural places, urban places; farms and ranches; California, Tennessee, Iowa. We’re at Live in the Vineyard Goes Country here in Napa, so I’m thinking about country and place, and I wonder if you think about country’s relationship to place – and about how this music is so appropriate for so many different contexts, whether you’re in Napa or playing a honky-tonk or a festival. How do you think about country’s relationship to place and to land? It’s interesting to be here in a place like this with everybody sharing a few days in such a beautiful setting.

Abbie Callahan: That’s a great question. Usually I think about it in context of place in genre. It kind of is the same thing to me. My music with a band or just with guitar, I can make it fit into whatever genre I want – I feel like that in place, too.

But here [in Napa] it’s spring and the flowers are everywhere, it feels like they are one and the same. Especially my last project, Grossly Aware, with all the flowers – and we have the garden [right beside us] and all that. It feels like this is the perfect spot for me to be.

Two weeks ago we were back where I’m from in Iowa. It was gloomy and rainy and we were playing a bunch of the new stuff. It was, I don’t know, probably a little bit out of place, ’cause it was all fun disco [music]. But maybe it added to [the impact], because it was so gloomy and getting rained out. I don’t know how [my music] relates to place, but I feel like I can make it whatever I want, which is kind of nice. Kind of fits anywhere.

Well, being in California for this interview makes me wanna talk about “Strawberry, California.”

We went there yesterday! We drove through it. It was my first time actually there. We went over the Golden Gate Bridge and I was– I’m from Iowa, so I’m from like, not much. [Laughs] So it’s cool that music can bring you somewhere and you get to see all the things. I don’t think I would’ve been able to see the Golden Gate Bridge and come to California [without music]. Or be in Napa for country music. Napa’s outside of my tax bracket, so it’s nice to be here. [Laughs]

One of the things I noticed when I was listening to “Strawberry, California” to get in the mood for us talking in California is the banjo playing. I love that the banjo is playing the melody along with your voice. And I love that you evoke bluegrass in your music so often. Could you talk a little bit about that song and having banjo in it, and about the bluegrass touchpoints across your catalog?

I was in a rock band that played in downtown Nashville. That’s how I paid for college. I was playing ‘90s grunge, so I’d go home and I want to listen to the opposite. That’s how I found bluegrass – just how simple and deep everything is. It’s different than how I write and talk. It’s so concise and wrapped up so well that I just envy it, in a way. I love listening to it, ’cause I feel like I can learn a lot. But then my setup, my band when I play, is a bluegrass setup. It’s upright bass, me, guitar, fiddle, another guitar. We just added drums, which is a big step.

But that’s when I started listening to bluegrass, ’cause it was like a palate cleanser. I don’t listen to a lot of modern country, because that’s the space I’m in. When I listen to it too much, I feel fatigued from it all. So bluegrass is a nice outlet. It just feels refreshing to listen to. I wasn’t raised on it or anything, so I feel a little bit like an impostor, but I love it so much.

Charlie Worsham played banjo on “Strawberry, California.” He played throughout the whole record, Grossly Aware, on guitar and banjo. “Strawberry, California,” it was tricky to get it right with a band, because of the time changes and how intricate the guitar is. But I pulled it up for him in the studio, he listened to it once, and he was like, “Wow, this is tough.” Listened to it twice, and then had it perfectly. I was like, “What in the world?!” He’s a freak. So good.

I really enjoyed listening to it. And then I also have been listening to your new single, “Drag, Queen.” I love it in so many ways.

It’s a little controversial.

Of course, it’s a little controversial, but also it’s 2026. They can catch up or we don’t need them. [Laughs] I love that, again, you’re subverting expectations. And again, it’s traditional modern country with that big hook, the wordplay is great. The sort of wink and a smile about it. But also I love that it sounds so bluegrassy.

Yeah, it’s the grassiest song I’ll be putting out this year. It’s super grassy. It’s so fun to play live. I played it on tour with Carter Faith this spring. Her audience was so perfect for it, ’cause they love weed and they are awesome. [Laughs] I played it on tour with her and it was probably my favorite song in my set.

I wrote that song last year – last June – and I posted it right away and it’s just been my favorite. I think it’s silly, but it has a lot of layers to it. I had a song, “Marry Jane,” blow up on TikTok. It was my first thing that ever did anything on TikTok, so I got hate for the first time. Which is always an interesting experience. It was all like balding, middle-aged old men being like, “Is this a song about a lesbian or a song about weed??” And I was like, “It’s about both, duh.” [Laughs]

Have you ever heard of an entendre? Yeah, no, you haven’t.

Double it. [Laughs]

[Laughs]

Anyway, it was so funny. But that’s why I wrote it. I was like, “They’ll hate this.”

@iamabbiecallahan Wrote this one yestersay, Marry Jane💌🍃 #maryjane #singersongwriter #nashville ♬ original sound – Abbie Callahan

I also wanted to ask you – femininity and hyper-femininity in country are also traditions. The performance of femininity by folks like Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn all the way to k.d. lang. I love the way that you inhabit femininity and it’s so clear that you do not feel like it’s a burden, or that it weighs you down, or that it’s something that you could be penalized for. But I wonder how you feel like it’s received – especially on social media, like you mention, TikTok. Do you ever feel like you’re penalized for your femininity?

You know, I think as we’re starting to talk to labels and all that, yeah. I think if I was a man with this amount of monthly listeners and success so far, I would have a deal already. In that way, it’s definitely hindering, but it’s not gonna stop me from anything. I will have more leverage in two years, and that’s fine. [Laughs] But whatever. But because it’s so raw and real and feminine, I feel like my audience is all girls. It’s been really nice. I feel like I can be myself, say whatever I want, and I don’t have to worry about it. [I can] dress however I want – and dress strange – and be something to look at and not just, like, pretty, you know?

And the girls get it. I love it. I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. It’s what I prefer. …

Another song that really jumped out at me is “Simon Says.”

The production of it started with just me in my room on guitar on TikTok, and then people were like, “I need a full strings version of this. I need a banjo version of this. I need a pop version,” all these different things. When we recorded it for the first time the demo had a synth on it, which is the banjo part. That’s how it started. I knew that wasn’t how it was gonna end, but it was like in demo jail for a year and a half. And I was like, “It has to have that element,” and then it just worked out for the banjo.

I did have a question about TikTok, so it’s interesting to hear you talk about how you’re in the comment section, you’re seeing what people say. It’s interesting to me that you’re responding in your creative process as well. Like what you just said about “Simon Says.” You’re listening to the fans being like, “I need this, I need that.”

If they want an acoustic version I’m like, “If you’ll stream it, I’ll do it.” Without a label right now, that’s been amazing. Something will blow up and in a month and a half or two months later we can have it out. You can’t replace that. It’s been really nice.

How do you feel when you’ve done a bunch of reps of a song, or when you’ve taken it from TikTok, to demo, to recording, to bringing it to an audience – do you feel like the song changes meaning? Do you feel like “Simon Says,” for instance, will always have that tinge of sadness and trauma to you? Or do you feel like the audience takes it, it changes, and then you get up on stage and you don’t feel that anymore? Or does that feeling always stay with you? ‘Cause as a songwriter myself, I feel like I re-traumatize myself every single time I play one of my songs. Is that how it feels to you with a song like that?

I have to write about what I live. I can’t just write to write. I have to put myself through stuff. It’s whatever – “tortured artist,” you know. Every line in there is real, so it’s definitely re-traumatizing.

But I guess it was my first tour, my first time singing it on stage, I was thinking about the writing of it a lot. ‘Cause it’s something so magical, that three people are in a room – or two people or just me – and then now I’m in front of 1,000 people and some of them know the songs. I don’t know, something about that is so special. I wish my co-writers were there to see it. It’s such an intimate thing.

There’s a little bit of a healing moment there.

Totally. It kinda changed what I was thinking about, especially with “Simon” and a lot of the next project. All of it’s co-written, which is different for me. I was just thinking about the people that made it all come to life. When we were in the studio, little ideas that people had. It’s so cool.

So it’s like, less sad now. I guess it depends on the situation. If it’s me on TikTok, I’m getting into the sad headspace. But in person I’m like, “Oh my gosh, this is so fun. My favorite people helped get me here.” I’m like singing “Simon Says” with a pep in my step. Like, what is going on?! [Laughs]

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Photo Credit: Catherine Powell

Our Trip to Live in the Vineyard Goes Country

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Country music is all about place. Songs and locale, joined together. It’s a relationship so ubiquitous within the music we often lose sight of it, forest for the trees. But there would be no country music without… well, the country – or without rural places and their communities; without farms and ranches; without Texas or California; without Appalachia or the Southeast. Country also wouldn’t exist without urban centers, and the country folks who migrated to cities to find work, or reunite with their families, or build a better life. Even in concrete jungles seemingly divorced from country ideals, whether drawn by homesickness or nostalgia or longing for home – real or imagined or aspirational – country music and place always go hand-in-hand.

Lucky for all of us, this is a genre well-suited for a variety of places, from honky-tonks to front porches to internationally appealing festivals. Or even Napa Valley, California, vineyards.

Last month, we attended Live in the Vineyard Goes Country, a production of Austin, Texas’s Forefront Networks, an intimate three-day event that effortlessly denoted and celebrated that relationship between country and place. Guests, industry professionals, and country artists – from festival headliners to fresh discoveries – gathered at gorgeous locations on April 21, 22, and 23, throughout Napa and Napa Valley to enjoy stripped-down and essential performances, gourmet farm-to-table meals, delicious organic and biodynamic wines, and the lovely weather, views, and settings of California’s wine country. The eighth installment of the country edition of Live in the Vineyard, it showcased the genre with an elite yet still approachable level of quality, care, and intention.

Guests enjoyed a welcome reception featuring Jackson Dean, Lauren Watkins, and Chandler Walters on day one, sipping bubbles at Chandon in Yountville during golden hour. From there, separate groups of attendees were sorted into waiting coaches to be swept off to dinner for delicious food paired exquisitely with local wines – and still more small, up-close-and-personal musical performances. Our green group dinner, for instance, were treated to hilarious and touching stories and songs shared by Lauren Watkins and her husband, hit songwriter Will Bundy, at Cakebread Cellars over jaw-droppingly delicious chardonnay and perfectly lacquered short ribs.

 

The sun shines on Raymond Vineyards on day three of Live in the Vineyard Goes Country.

Though days one and two were punctuated with bursts of spring rain, throwing a logistical wrench into the works, the Forefront and LITV teams reacted with grace and ease, allowing attendees to relish the rarity of rainfall in Napa Valley without a second thought, and increasing the magical feeling of country music and country people basking in such a space. Day two began with the Texas Music Scene Tailgate, featuring performances by Sunny Sweeney, the Braun Brothers, and a songwriter round including Wade Bowen, Shelby Stone, and Cody Canada. During the live taping for Texas Music Scene’s long-running TV series, guests relaxed between sets by strolling the grounds, eating fresh Napa-grown produce, enjoying complimentary wines and sweets, and ducking in and out of the Frog’s Leap Winery barn to catch country songs sung amid the bright brass vats.

The Braun Brothers (L to R: Micky, Gary, Willy, and Cody)– known from Micky & the Motorcars and Reckless Kelly – swap songs and stories while performing at Frog’s Leap Winery for the ‘Texas Music Scene’ Tailgate.

On the evening of day two, the entire Live in the Vineyard Goes Country entourage traveled together to the Uptown Theatre in gorgeous downtown Napa for the headline show of the event, featuring sets by Abbie Callahan, Alex Lambert, and Marcus King. Once again performing in pared-down, intimate setups for the around 800-seat venue, the crowd was nevertheless animated and engaged, hooting and hollering as if they were polishing the floorboards for rowdy, full-band sets on a stage wrapped in chicken wire, rather than a gilded theatre in wine country. Even in as manicured and lovely a location as Napa Valley, the old saying holds: You can take the folks out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the folks!

Marcus King performs for the Uptown Theatre audience at Live in the Vineyard Goes Country.

On day three, already feeling like Live in the Vineyard was much too short, attendees gathered at Raymond Vineyards in St. Helena, California, for one final hoorah, a lovely send-off brunch featuring a mimosa bar, lemon-blueberry pancakes, JCB Wines, and performances by Frankie Ballard and Zach John King. In the shade of palm trees and snacking on scratch-made frittatas, it was clear – from start to finish – that Live in the Vineyard Goes Country gives this genre, the folks who make it, and the fans who love it the treatment they all deserve. Yes, country is made for barn dances and radio shows and flatbed trailers in pastures, but isn’t it made for Napa Valley, too? For barns aging fine wine, for farms growing gourmet salads, luxurious wines, and handmade breads?

Country is a music for everyone, for every setting, and for every place imaginable. The GC team was excited to be on hand for Live in the Vineyard Goes Country 2026, capturing lo-fi photos with our trusty Camp Snap camera and reflecting on how delicious country music can be when it’s made with this level of intention and care in a beautiful setting such as this. Scroll to enjoy even more photos and dispatch notes from our trip with LITV to Napa Valley.

If you missed Live in the Vineyard Goes Country, don’t worry, Forefront Networks have more music and roots music events on the docket so you, too, can experience country in gorgeous places like this. For a near-immediate fix, Hill Country Reserve will take place in November 2026 in Fredericksburg, Texas. And stay tuned for future editions of LITV, Elevation Bear Creek, and more from Forefront.

All photos by Justin Hiltner, shot on Camp Snap.

John Reischman: Between the Salish Sea and Salt Spring

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

There are no U.S./Canada border wars when it comes to John Reischman. The revered mandolin master was born in Northern California but has lived in British Columbia since the early 1990s. His longtime band, the Jaybirds, are a quartet that includes two members who are also based in British Columbia (bassist/vocalist Trisha Gagnon and banjoist Nick Hornbuckle) and two who reside in America (fiddler Greg Spatz lives in Eastern Washington and guitarist/vocalist Patrick Sauber is from Southern California).

Their latest album, The Salish Sea, refers to the body of water between Vancouver Island and the British Columbia mainland. The record is their first since 2017’s On That Other Green Shore along with being the first to feature “new” guitarist Sauber on the entire album. The song “The Salish Sea” not only serves as the album’s title, but also is part of an original “Bluegrass Concerto” that Reischman was commissioned to create for FreshGrass in 2024. The honor is just one example in a long line of accolades for Reischman, who began his career in the Bay Area bluegrass/folk scene of the 1970s (including a stretch with the Tony Rice Unit) before moving to Canada, where he started the Jaybirds as well as performing solo and in other groupings.

In recent years, Reischman has seen his song “Salt Spring” become something of a modern bluegrass classic. He spoke with the BGS from his home in Vancouver about “Salt Spring” as well as The Salish Sea, his famous Lloyd Loar mandolin, and how he got into bluegrass music.

What was the process of putting the new album together?

John Reischman: There was one venue in Washington State where we had a residency. It was in the fall, in a beautiful spot. It was just ideal. So we took the extra day, worked up like six new tunes, and then started performing them right away. I guess this was October of ‘23.

And then you recorded the album in Vancouver?

In December of ‘23, I wanted the band to check out the studio here in Vancouver, where we ended up ultimately recording. I just want to make sure everybody was cool with it. I knew I liked it, because I had used it for my solo record, New Time & Old Acoustic. They all liked it. At the end of any tour we had that was close to Vancouver in 2024, I’d book a day or two in the studio, and we’d go record two or three or four songs. We were able to perform all this material mostly before we recorded it. … And it was great, because we’d be warmed up from the tour and we’d go in and track some tunes.

This album was the first in a while, and also the first that Patrick Sauber was fully on it.

Right, On That Other Green Shore came out in 2017. That was kind of the tail end of our time with [guitarist] Jim Nunally being a band member. He was exploring other things and decided he’d leave the band. We had a few more tracks to do… and we had some dates on the calendar.

I thought of Patrick immediately, because I’d known him for many years and I thought he’d be good. So he signed on for a tour and then another tour and it was just like, “This works great.” We asked him to join and he immediately said yes. He was a great fit.

How did the Jaybirds come together in the first place?

I didn’t really set out to have a band, except for the fact that I had a solo record called Up in the Woods. There was a local festival, so I put the band together to help promote the record. Seemed like a good idea. And I liked playing with all those people and it just continued on.

It’s called John Reischman and the Jaybirds, because I conceived of it. My name was probably the most well known at the time, but I wanted to be integrated into a bluegrass band. People present stuff, and I almost always accept it. Mostly it’s a pretty democratic presentation, I think. That’s what I like. It’s not Gladys Knight & the Pips.

Can you talk about the title track and how it’s also part of a larger project?

I had been asked to write what they call a “Bluegrass Concerto” by the East Coast festival FreshGrass, and I came up with these three tunes that work together. The first tune was the first movement, which ultimately was called “The Salish Sea.” I thought this will be my contribution to the new Jaybirds record, because they were involved with the performance of the Concerto.

We performed it [at FreshGrass in 2024] and I really liked the idea of having two mandolins and I’ve always loved two fiddles. I knew Darol Anger was going to there, so I asked him if he’d play twin fiddles on it. And then Sharon Gilchrist is a good friend and great mandolinist; we’ve played a lot together, and I asked her to play a mandolin on two of the three pieces.

I’ve got to acknowledge David Grisman, because the music is influenced by his “Dawg Music.” It’s also the sound that I initially heard on his first solo record, The David Grisman Rounder Record. He incorporated harmony mandolin on a lot of it.

It must have been very inspiring and gratifying to receive this commission.

You know, I’ve written a lot of tunes and a lot of folks have learned my tunes, which is really gratifying. But to have been commissioned to write this and have the confidence of this great festival and organization, yeah it was.

I had plenty of time to work on it and the time that it mostly came together was when I think my wife was visiting family. I had the house to myself. That first piece, in particular, really developed over a period of time. The second one [“The Family’s Farewell”], I came up with the A part pretty quickly and it took a while to get a bridge for it.

The third part [“The Little River Ramble”] was similar. … The thing about the concerto format is the third movement typically has an extended solo section and it’s often a bender where it’s just the featured soloist playing solo without any accompaniment. But I wasn’t really comfortable so much with that. I thought, I’ll just have it break down and I’ll solo all through there but have it build back up.

I’m really happy with the response it has gotten. Even playing it just as the five-piece band, I think the band sounds great on it. It’s only like icing on the cake when the twin fiddles and the twin mandolins are there.

And this spring, you’re going to record the entire concerto?

At the end of March, we’re going to be on tour on the East Coast and the FreshGrass Festival has a recording studio. They offered to make the studio available, so we’re going to record that just as we performed it, with Darol and Sharon joining in. That will be part of a solo record, even though I’m using those musicians. And I have other sessions planned. I’ve done one session that will add to the whole thing. Those three tunes of the concerto will just be one component of the new recording.

“Salt Spring,” one of your older songs, has become a highly popular instrumental now in the bluegrass world. How much of a pleasant surprise has that been?

It’s kind of remarkable to me that it’s as popular as it is. I mean, I’m not complaining. It’s great. … But it’s interesting how it’s just traveled all over and people think it’s just a traditional tune in some circles. They have no idea that it was composed by me. That’s cool, too.

The Jaybirds recorded it and it came out on a CD in 2001. We were at a music camp with some folks from Colorado and they learned it. I think that’s largely the beginning of it getting circulated among other people – where they took it back to Colorado. They’re the “patient zero,” I guess.

I know that a certain generation of Berklee students were playing it a lot, and maybe a bit later – maybe 10 years later. It’s pretty cool having people play your tune when you’re not there. That CD was never available digitally until recently, but we made a video of it around 2011… and that was the source, I think, for a lot of people learning it.

And then you recorded it again with Molly Tuttle, Alex Hargreaves, Max Schwartz, and Allison de Groot on your 2021 solo album New Time & Old Acoustic.

I didn’t have all the material when I started that whole project, but I knew I wanted to re-record “Salt Spring” with some of these younger musicians who had grown up playing it.

What do you remember about writing it? And why do you think so many musicians have gravitated to playing it?

I was on Salt Spring Island [in British Columbia] staying with some friends and they had a little old turn-of-the-century Martin small-body guitar. I was just playing the guitar and I was playing out of a D chord shape, and the A part of the tune just kind of took shape under my fingers. It was memorable enough that I don’t think I had to record it to remember it. The B part was just this little phrase I would play on the mandolin, just noodling around … so I just kind of stuck it on there and it worked pretty well.

I think the thing about the tune is the basic melody is very simple, but the way I played on the mandolin, the technique I use, is not quite cross-picking. But it falls into a right-hand pattern that sort of mimics the way the frailing banjo is played with that “bum-ditty, bum-ditty, down-down up, down-down up” pick stroke. So, these extra “down ups” are drone notes and that just kind of enhance the whole overall effect. Because of that, it lays out really nicely on the banjo. Then on the fiddle, you can add drones and add to it that way. And on the guitar also, you can fall into that kind of “bum-ditty” pattern as well.

I think you can learn the tune pretty easily. It’s not super challenging like some fiddle tunes where they’re very detailed in the melody. It’s pretty straight and so I think that’s partly why people gravitate towards it.

You grew up in Northern California. How did you get interested and involved in music, specifically bluegrass music?

Have you heard of a guitar player named Robben Ford? He grew up in the same town where I did in Northern California. He was in a high school band with my neighbors. I must have been 12 or 13. They were rehearsing on a patio and I went over to listen. I was interested in music and I heard them play the Freddie King tune “Hideaway,” which Eric Clapton recorded on the John Mayall & the Blues Breakers record. My brother Steve had that record. I recognized the tune and I thought, “What? This is impossible. This sounds as good as the record!”

From then on, I was just focused on trying to play the guitar. I had taken guitar lessons prior to that, but it didn’t really work. But there were guitars around the house. So that was the thing that really sparked my interest in learning to play. But I was open to all kinds of music. I’d have access to the PBS station KQED and they’d often air Pete Seeger’s Rainbow Quest, where he’d have different folk musicians, bluegrass musicians, old-time musicians. I thought, “Oh, this is cool!” And then the mainstream presentation of bluegrass with The Beverly Hillbillies, having Flatt & Scruggs on it, and the Dillards and the Country Boys playing on The Andy Griffith Show.

At some point, I had access to a mandolin, which I associated [with] bluegrass music, and taught myself to play it. I tuned it to an open chord for a long time, like a banjo, which was incorrect. And I didn’t use a pick. But eventually I got things squared away.

I discovered the John Hartford Aereo-Plain record. I saw them on TV as well. That was very inspiring. Then I discovered Norman Blake and Vassar Clements. I come to find out they had their own records. … That first Norman Blake record, I couldn’t believe it. I just flipped over that, and I thought, “This is so great!” And I’d heard Doc Watson at that point, so I just got really interested in it, and focused on that music, primarily.

So, was the Good Ol’ Persons your first significant band?

Yeah, it was the first real pro band I was ever in, and I was a fan of theirs before that. I [had] lived in San Francisco for a short while and saw their original lineup, which included all women. And it was exciting to get the opportunity to play with these folks. Because I was living near Eugene, Oregon, and I was just playing the mandolin all the time – a lot with my brother, Steve – but I wasn’t in a band, and I was working on a farm, just part-time. And a friend from the Oregon bluegrass scene had joined them and they needed a mandolin player. He said, “I know a guy.”

That placed me in the Bay Area, which was a great scene. There were lots of good bluegrass bands. And the Grisman Quintet was there. … But the thing that set Good Ol’ Persons apart was their original material, because Kathy [Kallick] is a fantastic songwriter. And Paul Shelasky, who was in the band, also wrote great songs. That opened the door for me to try and write tunes – because, “Oh, these guys write tunes. I’ll try it.” I wrote a few and people liked them. That just gave me encouragement to keep at it, which I have done.

So consequently, when Grisman and Tony Rice parted ways, Tony was aware of me. He’d heard me play at the local bar. He wanted to put a band together and needed a mandolin player. So, I went to the audition and he hired me.

You are well known for having an antique Gibson Lloyd Loar mandolin. What do you think makes those mandolins so special?

I guess that [mandolin] was kind of the ultimate expression of Gibson mandolins. But there’s plenty of new makers and a lot of them are using that basic design. So, aesthetically and as far as the craft of the instruments, some of these builders are way better than the Gibson mandolins were to look at, but the Gibsons have 100 years of aging and playing.

I think the playing of the instrument contributes hugely to its sound. Because, if there’s a Lloyd Loar that left the factory and went into someone’s closet and never came out for 50 years, I don’t think it’s going to sound like one like mine that has been played consistently over time.

I feel fortunate to be the caretaker for this great instrument. I think for most bluegrass musicians, it’s not only the music, but it’s the tools. These vintage instruments, like the Martins from the ‘30s and ‘40s, and Gibson mandolins from the ‘20s, and old banjos, it’s just a vibe that goes along with the music and aesthetic.

Photo courtesy of John Reischman.

Welcome to Meels’ Critter Country

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

There are plenty of country subgenres out there, but quickly rising up-and-comer Meels has carved out a unique new niche. The California-born singer-songwriter calls her sound “critter country,” a fitting term for her playful but grounded brand of country-leaning roots music, which takes cues from folk of the ‘60s and ‘70s, traditional bluegrass, and classic country a la Loretta Lynn or Willie Nelson.

On her recently released new project, Across the Raccoon Strait, Meels takes listeners on a colorful, far-reaching tour of critter country and in the process announces herself as a fresh, genuinely exciting new voice in the broader roots music ecosystem.

Folks are taking notice – Meels is one of the first handful of artists signed to the newly rebirthed Lost Highway Records, with a legacy of artists like Lucinda Williams, Lyle Lovett, and Johnny Cash, as well as another left-of-center singer-songwriter, Kacey Musgraves, who was announced as the first official signee when the label relaunched last year. Meels has shared stages with artists like Molly Tuttle and Old Crow Medicine Show, and will appear with Margo Price, Carter Faith, and Nitty Gritty Dirt Band this spring.

Below, BGS catches up with Meels about songwriting, “critter country” and signing to Lost Highway.

In the lead-up to releasing Across the Raccoon Strait you shared that this batch of music feels truest, holistically, to who you are as an artist. Can you elaborate on that? What do you think enabled you to express yourself so fully?

Meels: As a writer and a producer and a songwriter and a singer, I really trust my gut and just follow the wave. With these songs, it was just me doing that. A few summers ago, before I made the project, I dove deep into the country classics – like Loretta Lynn and Marty Robbins and Dolly Parton. I got super inspired, the floodgates opened, and I just started writing like crazy. I grew up on a lot of ‘60s and ‘70s folk and my uncle is actually a bluegrass musician. He gigged around town where he lives in upstate New York. So I was already introduced to that world, but I took a deep dive and felt really inspired. The project just kind of poured out of me.

Would it be fair to say you found some unexpected connection points or overlap in those genres – the bluegrass and folk you grew up with, then the classic country you dove into?

Oh, totally. I also was trying out my own take on all of these genres and, again, trusting my gut with production and with the songwriting, to find a space within the genres that felt right for me as an artist.

You describe your music as “critter country,” which I just love. And that seems to encompass more than just your sound, as you’ve developed this really strong visual aesthetic in your videos and artwork, too. How did the concept “critter country” first come to you?

That came naturally, too. I grew up surrounded by a ton of critters in the woods in Northern California and found myself using animals as metaphors for my life. I went to NYU for music, and I took a branding class. I remember all of my peers were coming up with all these cool names for their genre. The teacher was like, “Oh, come up with a name specific to your genre and who you are as an artist.” I was still figuring out who I was as an artist in college and when I was looking through my lyrics and finding all of these “critter” similarities, I was like, “You know what? Critter country, that has such a nice ring to it.”

Take me back to the early days of making Across the Raccoon Strait. Was there a moment or idea that kicked off the creative process for you?

I think it was probably “Out West.” That track, in itself, encompasses the whole idea of the EP. I wrote it in New York when I was still living there and I’d just decided that I was moving back to California, back to my roots. I was just so excited about the idea of moving back out to the West Coast that the song came ripping out of me in my New York apartment. So that was a catalyst for me. I wrote most of these songs – that are about California and about home, actually – in New York when I was in a state of longing for home.

Did having that physical distance from your California home, and maybe the benefit of hindsight, help you write those songs?

I think so. My whole life, I have felt the most creative when I’m in California. New York is very overstimulating and there’s a lot going on all the time. I feel like, when I was living there, I was very much just absorbing everything that I could, but I wasn’t really writing so much until I was like, “Yeah, I’m gonna move back.” Then all of the sudden, I just started writing like crazy.

Something that stands out in your songwriting is how freely you use humor in your lyrics. You tackle some tough subjects, but never shy away from playfulness and to me it makes the stories feel more realistic, because in real life our experiences are often mixed bags. Are you consciously trying to inject some lightheartedness into your writing or does it just happen that way for you?

I don’t know. I do find myself making little jokes in my songs all the time. For example, in “The Wizard” I’m writing about a heavier topic: my struggles with OCD for my whole life. But I’m writing about it in a way that I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m just trying to put it in a way that’s maybe a little more digestible, and a little silly and a little funny, to help myself work through it a little more. And maybe to make it more digestible for my audience, too. Maybe I use humor as a way to cope.

“The Wizard” really does nail that balance of sharing something difficult and vulnerable while giving a little wink and nod to the listener.

I love a wink and a nod.

Speaking of that song, when you do get into vulnerable territory in your writing, do you ever feel fear or hesitation? And if you do, how do you engage with those voices?

To be honest, I feel like when I’m songwriting I’m at my most fearless. Since I was young, it’s been my way to put it all out on the table and not be afraid. I think me writing in these little critter metaphors, or using humor – maybe that’s my fear talking, I don’t know – but when I’m writing I just want to lay it all out on the table. It’s my one true release, so I try to do it without fear.

It sounds like you had a fantastic group of collaborators working with you in the studio. What was your time together like?

It was so wonderful. We recorded at a studio in Oakland called Tiny Telephone [owned by John Vanderslice]. They actually had old telephones that worked all over the studio. And they had everything you could want and more to play with and to get creative with. The space itself was incredible. We had an incredible engineer named Danielle, and she was also so important in the creative process, you know, running the vocal through this weird flanger and making moves that were so creative and so unique and so cool.

I also co-produced it with Peter [Groenwald] and Mark [Campbell], who made my first record with me, so that felt really comfortable and really safe. I knew nothing was off the table. I could bring up any idea, no matter how stupid I thought it was, and we would try it. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. But we had such a good, natural flow in the studio. I brought a lot of friends, too, to play in the band, which was just really great.

You can hear the looseness and camaraderie in the music, in a way that I’d assume can’t be replicated without having close relationships with the players.

I’d always wanted to track a whole record live to tape. And we did that with Across the Raccoon Strait. We didn’t use any click [tracks]. It was just like, “Let’s get this next one tight, guys, let’s go.” We were all having a lot of fun with it.

When I’m in the studio, making music is such a collaborative thing. Even if it’s my song, every musician that I bring in is going to bring something unique. I really love to let them loose and let them rip. We can pull back where we want, but everybody in there plays an instrumental – no pun intended – role in making the music great.

This is also the first project you’ve done as one of the initial signees to the newly relaunched Lost Highway Records. How did you get hooked up with them and what does it mean to you to work with such an historic and impactful label?

This record has opened a lot of doors for me. I made it a little over a year ago and I was like, “I’m gonna quit my day job.” I was living with my grandma in Pasadena. She’s 86 and she’s so cool. “Marsha June” was actually written about her. So, I was basically like, “I’m just gonna give this thing a go.”

I sent this record around to literally anybody that would listen to it. I would send it to venues, because I’d just moved to LA. I was like, “Hey, I haven’t played a lot of LA gigs. Here’s my new record. You want to book me?” I was just kind of fearless about that, too. Some artists are so precious with the new stuff and don’t want to send it around. But I was sending these songs around before they were even mastered.

Eventually, I started working with a manager, I started working with an agent, and then I got a lawyer and did the whole thing. I talked to a lot of great labels, but when I met with Lost Highway I knew that it was the right direction. I’m so, so happy that I’m working with them. It really does feel like a family. It’s such a close-knit team and everybody really cares. … So many of my favorite artists have put music out through Lost Highway. Its legacy just runs so deep. I’m the hugest Johnny Cash fan in the world – and a Willie Nelson fan, and Lucinda Williams. It’s kind of absurd to me that my name could be looped in with all of those other names.

Photo Credit: Jim Hughes

BGS 5+5: Jesse Appelman

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Artist: Jesse Appelman
Hometown: Oakland, California
Latest Album: Where We Go (released February 20, 2026)

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

For me, music is about community, connection, and collaborative creation.

It’s about the intimacy of singing harmony with someone, or finding musical ideas that only occur to me because of what someone else just played. I’m in awe of people like Keith Jarrett who can carry a full solo show, but my musical voice only feels complete in collaboration. I play best when I have things to respond to.

I leave most festivals with at least one new real friendship, forged through a shared language and the vulnerability of playing music together. There are not a lot of spaces where this can happen so easily, especially once you’re past your 20s, and they only exist because people keep showing up and participating.

I’m most interested in the music that results when musicians prioritize the collective sound while still bringing their full and unique personality to the table. When everyone listens and tries to make everyone else sound better rather than demonstrating their own ability. It’s easy to take for granted the ability to sit down with strangers and create music in real time but we are so lucky to get to do it.

Genre is dead (long live genre!), but how would you describe the genres and styles your music inhabits?

I don’t think anyone involved in this record ever discussed what genre of music we were making. Not John Mailander, who produced the album, and not the band (Eli West, Sami Braman, and Emily Mann). We talked a lot about the how and the why. We talked about density and space, groove, melody, interaction, texture, and flow. Nobody asked if they should be playing these tunes like bluegrass, old-time, Americana, or anything else.

So what kind of music is it? It’s the sound of these particular musicians playing these tunes, trusting their ears and instincts, and adding their unique personalities to the stew. Bluegrass is certainly in there, and old-time, and probably some jazz and classical, but it’s not a conscious “little bit of this and little bit of that,” it’s just what comes out when we play without thinking too hard.

I remember listening back to the tunes at the end of the first day in the studio and John said something like, “Isn’t it cool how you can do all this planning and arranging and preparing, but you have no idea what the album will sound like until you start making it?”

Some musicians immerse themselves in a single tradition or lineage and spend a lifetime going deep inside it. I listen to a lot of stuff like that, and it’s some of my most beloved music, but when I play I’m most interested in what happens when you agree on priorities and principles, and let musical identity emerge. My priorities come from lessons learned from musicians in my West Coast string band community. Some get called innovators, some traditionalists, but all share a commitment to deeply-felt, collaborative, and highly personal music-making.

Music is an activity and genre is a labeling system; the best I can do is focus on the activity and get the right people together and trust that the result will sound like us.

If it needs a label, maybe string band music that breathes?

What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?

I have a loose mental checklist that I try to review before I go on stage or into the studio or even to a jam. I don’t succeed at all of them all the time but it’s a north star to aim for.

The first is from Chick Corea:

1. Play only what you hear.
2. If you don’t hear anything, don’t play anything.

This is simple and sometimes really hard. To me it means that every note should exist in my mind before it comes out of my hands – whether it’s a particular texture when playing backup or a phrase in a solo. Even down to the tonal color, dynamics, and articulation. This takes deep focus and deep listening both outward to the band and internally to your own ideas. When I listen to my favorite improvisers – Jim Hall, Stuart Duncan, Keith Jarrett, David Rawlings – I hear this level of intentionality.

The second is from John Hartford: “Style is based on limitations.” This means giving myself permission to play within my actual capabilities rather than the ones I wish I had. If I have to take solo over something that is outside of my comfort zone in terms of tempo, harmony, or whatever, I search for the most musical solution available within the boundaries of my own technical and conceptual limitations. This might be something simpler and more spacious than what I might feel like I’m supposed to play, and consequently truer to my own voice.

The rest of the checklist: Stay relaxed in mind and body. Listen deeply at all times. Never sacrifice groove or tone to execute an idea. Never go on autopilot when playing behind someone else’s vocal or solo. Search for the most beautiful idea, not the cleverest.

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

My happiest place outside of music and family is underwater. I scuba dive and snorkel for the same reasons I play music. It feels like a portal into another universe. Diving requires an intentionality of every movement that I try to apply to making music. Your time underwater is limited by the air in your tank, and the more you exert, the faster you breathe. Every muscle movement costs you air and time, and the best divers carry themselves in the water with a calm and economy of movement that is almost meditative. It’s a flow state that slows your breathing and lets you focus your attention fully on the environment around you. I make my best music when I find that same state and put most of my awareness on what’s happening around me.

I find a lot of inspiration in California’s landscapes and colors. Kelp forests, rocky coasts and windswept coastal meadows with washed-out browns and green, golden hills dotted with green oaks, the pale gray granite of the High Sierra. There’s an aesthetic minimalism to these environments that I think shows up in some of my music, like “Lyell Fork,” a stream that flows from a glacier on a high peak in Yosemite and flows through alpine meadows and over granite slabs before joining the Tuolumne River. Or “Montaran” which is a stretch of coast south of San Francisco. In both cases I thought those tunes sounded like how those places feel.

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

Waking up to my kiddo climbing in bed for a cuddle. Breakfast, immediately followed by some quiet unstructured time with an instrument in my hands with an extremely good cup of coffee, before all the details of life fill my brain. A hike or bike ride with my wife. Some silly afternoon play time with my kid. Cooking mapo tofu for family dinner. Tunes and songs in the evening with a few dear friends. Someone else sends all my emails for the day.

Photo Credit: Giant Eye Photography

Basic Folk: Laurie Lewis

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

A foundational participant in the ’70s Bay Area bluegrass scene, Laurie Lewis knows the power of collaboration. She’s been a part of an ensemble in recent years that’s called Laurie Lewis & the Right Hands, with Laurie on fiddle, guitar, and vocals, Brandon Godman on fiddle, George Guthrie on banjo, and Hasee Ciaccio on bass. That group plays a huge part in her new album, O California!, a collection of songs that explore our own places in the natural world and in each other’s hearts. It also serves as a love letter to her home state. One standout track, the traditional “Fair and Tender Ladies,” is a duet with Ciaccio, which brings the song’s cautionary tale to life. In our Basic Folk conversation, Laurie talks about what it’s been like to learn traditional songs before actually catching their meaning, long after figuring out the tune.

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Lewis emphasizes the communal and collaborative nature that defines her musicianship. She recounts her early exposure to music played socially when her father and his friends gathered at their home to play classical music when she was young. She credits that experience with solidifying her decision to learn to play, so she could have as much fun as they did. Laurie also opens up about her path to finding independence from her father’s expectations and her eventual return to music through modern dance and folk tradition. She touches on her passion for nature, recounting transformative hiking experiences, and reveals her thoughts on collaboration and mentorship within the music community.

Additionally, Lewis reflects on the profound impact of losing her voice in 2021 and the emotional journey of rediscovering her musical identity. We wrap up our conversation talking about her friend Alice Gerrard, whom she covers on the new album. After we hung up, Laurie emailed me an addendum about Alice that I wanted to share: “I forgot to say, when you asked me about Alice Gerrard, that I also greatly admire her community involvement in the music she loves, as evidenced by her starting and running the Old Time Herald for so many years. She’s a remarkable person. Plus, she trained her dog to fetch a beer out of the fridge for her and then put the empty can in the recycling!” Incredible.

Want more? Check out our recent Cover Story interview with Laurie Lewis.

Photo Credit: Dawn Kish

Laurie Lewis’ O California!
Was Made With Open Ears
and Open Minds

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

It’s noon in the Bay Area, and singer-songwriter/multi-instrumentalist/producer Laurie Lewis is sitting in her backyard on what she describes as “a beautiful sunny day.” She spent her morning pulling up oxalis, and now she’s painting a railing she purchased at Urban Ore.

“It’s a good handrail for our front steps and along the walkway for my partner, Tom,” she says, “so I’ve been sanding it, wiping it down, and painting it.” Later during this interview, she’ll continue pulling up weeds, noting, “It’s very liberating for me, getting my hands in the dirt. It feels really good.”

The reason for today’s call is Lewis’s new album, O California! Like its predecessors, it’s an emotional palette of songs – five originals, five traditionals, and a cover of close friend Alice Gerrard’s “Sweet South Anna River” – that blend the many genres influencing her work, from bluegrass to country, jazz, and even a hint of rock. O California! features the stellar musicianship and vocals that define Laurie Lewis and her band, The Right Hands: Brandon Godman (fiddle), Hasee Ciaccio (bass), and George Guthrie (banjo, guitar).

A two-time IBMA Female Vocalist of the Year and a two-time GRAMMY nominee, Lewis is no stranger to BGS readers, as she’s been featured many times. Dedicated fans are also deeply familiar with her longtime partner, mandolinist Tom Rozum, and his Parkinson’s disease diagnosis. “He’s doing pretty well,” Lewis says. “He had spine surgery in November and he’s recovering very well from that. He had been living with intense sciatica pain for a year and a half, and the pain is gone, so that’s great.”

What would you like readers to know about O California!?

Laurie Lewis: Let’s see… all kinds of things. I wrote five of the songs on the album and they’re all over the map, so they’ll say, “She’s got a lot of different musical influences.” We’ve also drawn from the folk tradition and some great traditional songs and thrown that in the mix. It’s all done with the same four people and same four voices on beautiful acoustic instruments. Sonically, it’s really nice. You really hear the personalities of these particular four people working together. It’s what made me want to make the album.

This is album number 25 in your catalog. Artists often speak of albums as chapters in their lives. Which chapter is O California!?

This chapter is this band at this moment in time, these particular four people. I wanted to celebrate our working relationships together. It’s something that wouldn’t have happened at another time in my career, because I wasn’t working with these particular people for as long as I have been on this album. They are all on the previous album, but that was me calling all the shots. This is me settling in, listening to everybody, and trying to make a whole out of the four parts.

How did this approach make the creative process different?

Usually I come into a recording situation with more of an idea of what I want a song to sound like. This one, I came in with snippets and vague ideas for [the band] to have their way with it. We collaborated on arrangements and we listened to every idea. It’s not that I don’t listen to other people’s ideas at other times, but generally there might be more input than just three other people if I’m doing that.

I’m a collaborative artist. One of the reasons I play music is because it’s my best way of communicating in the world. And that is, for me, to an audience. But it’s also true for me to my bandmates and other musicians. It was fun to say, “We’re making a band album. This is what it’s going to be. We’re going to let people toss out songs.” “How does this sound?” “Oh yeah, great. Let’s do that.” It was, “How shall we do it?” “I’ve got an idea.” “How about if we do this?” It’s a very free and open feeling.

[The band are] all very open-eared and open-minded about the music. It doesn’t have to be the way Earl Scruggs did it, or the way Bill Monroe did it, or anything. It doesn’t have to fit into a neat bluegrass category. I’ve played with musicians in the past who have been more or less open, and all it takes is one more closed-off person to direct the band in a particular direction.

You’ve stated in the past, paraphrasing here, that writing is sometimes specific and sometimes spontaneous, sometimes it’s almost random, sometimes it’s unfinished. What was it this time, or was it some of each?

I’d say it was some of each. With the song “O California,” I was writing lyrics in the studio. I did a scratch vocal and changed the lyrics three times before I came home and overdubbed an actual vocal. That’s unusual for me, that it was in such an unformed state when I got into the studio, but it’s when we had the time and I knew the bones of it were good. Some vocal lines, some lyrics, just were not right yet, but I knew what it was about.

When did the songs start coming together as an obvious collection? Was there an intention in mind, a theme, when you all got together?

We started this project in a different way than I have other projects. We had little tours booked, so we would get together a day early before every tour, because we all live in different parts of the country. They would fly out here, we’d rehearse a song, get what we wanted down, figure it out, and then go on our tour and play it every night. We’d have a studio day booked on the day we got back from the tour, so we’d go in and record whatever we had worked out the week before and played on the tour. It was a fun way to approach a project and it spaced it out over a long period of time. It took close to a year.

When it’s spaced apart that way, how do you make it feel like a collection, rather than recording individual pieces of music?

Because it’s all us. It’s like an old friend – you can pick up the conversation right where it was. You haven’t changed your tone or your relationship with each other so drastically that it doesn’t fit together. It would be different if I were doing something like that over a year and just getting together with whoever I thought was the right person to play on a particular song. Then, the only thing that would hold it together would be my production values.

Do you still write ideas on notes, or have you tech-ed your way up to phone apps?

Oh, no. I write. I like to write with a good pen or a pencil on a piece of paper. I will make notes sometimes on voice memos, but mostly that’s it. I’m old-fashioned. I feel like there’s something that happens, the tactile feel of a writing utensil on the paper, that is easier for me to get a thought out than to sit at a keyboard. I’ve been known to still write letters, in fact.

We live in a world of texts, emojis, phone scrolling, and what’s being called “an epidemic of isolation.” Bluegrass is associated with festivals, musicians getting together and jamming, and community. Is this still true?

Oh, definitely. In fact, here in the Bay Area it’s having a real resurgence of community jamming culture. That’s always been at the basis of bluegrass. It’s what everybody wants to do – get together and let their instruments do the talking, let the songs do the talking. It’s a wonderful thing. I love it so much.

You mentor and teach at workshops and music camps, where you connect with younger and up-and-coming musicians. What do they want to know? What do they need to know?

One of the things that I try and impart to people is the importance of finding your own voice, because many young musicians have heroes they want to emulate. That’s how you learn, but at some point you have to find what you want to say with your voice and your instrument. That’s one of the things I try to emphasize and help people feel confident that they have something to say and their own way of saying it.

There is intergenerational connection at these camps and workshops, contrary to the ageism on both sides, that society seems to push: “What do those kids know?” or “What do those old people know?” What is your perspective?

There’s still a lot of that, but luckily there are enough people, young and old, paying attention and willing to listen to each other. It’s especially helpful when there are youth music camps and stuff like that, because then the kids have each other, but they also have their mentors there. They’re there because they want to learn, and it’s usually the older people who are teaching them, but then they get to be with their cohorts, their age group, and that helps a lot.

I certainly learned a lot from teaching at kids’ camps. When I first was asked to teach at a youth-oriented fiddle camp, I thought, “I can’t do that. I don’t know how to talk to kids. I don’t know anything about that stuff.” I said yes because I tend to say yes to things, and I found it to be so enlightening and so important in my life. It’s very enriching.

On a 2021 FolkWorks podcast, you talked about The Good Ol’ Persons playing a trade show luncheon years ago in front of a room full of drunk men. You described it as being “thrown to the wolves.” Many years later, how are we doing?

In terms of women musicians out in the world, there are so many more, and it is so great to see. And the technical abilities – you can’t fault it. You can put Molly Tuttle up against any guy. It’s been some huge steps forward in the time I have been in the music business, but it’s still very male-dominated from the top. It takes generations to change things like this, these ways of thinking, and now there’s a real cultural backlash happening and I don’t know how that’s going to play out. Women have made huge strides and maybe that’s just going to be taken away. Every generation has to fight the same fights, apparently.

Overall, how is bluegrass doing, to your eyes and ears?

That’s a really hard question for me to answer. Honestly, there’s a part of it that has gotten very entrenched in staying within a particular genre. I hear a lot of songs by people singing in a bluegrass style about bluegrass music, or their cabin home and I think it’s in danger of becoming a trope instead of a living, breathing art form.

Luckily, there are enough people out there creating in the art form and doing great stuff. There’s so much of everything happening all the time now that it’s going in all different directions at once. There’s good stuff and bad stuff, and it all depends on your point of view.

Who is making an important contribution, in your opinion?

I hear a few things now and again that I respond to and like a lot. I’m not very impressed with a lot of technical brilliance. I want to be made to laugh and cry, and if it doesn’t do one or the other or both, I’m not all that interested in it.

In terms of bands, Mighty Poplar can do it, and the duo Paper Wings, two young women, Emily Mann and Wila Frank, who I actually met at a fiddle camp when they were teenagers. They’re pretty wonderful. And I always like hearing what my old friends are coming up with in terms of songs and writing. I love hearing whatever 92-year-old Alice Gerrard is coming up with. She has a way of putting her finger on the pulse of what’s happening in the world and is pretty great.

In 1998, you recorded a song called “The Refugee.” Twenty-eight years later, here we are …

Oh, I know. I find it unfortunate that [that] song is still so incredibly relevant – or more relevant. I find it very unfortunate that song has not outlived its message. It’s terrible. I wrote it when Guatemala was in such bad shape, people were fleeing, and there was all this backlash. It’s an empathetic song. These days, empathy – there’s a whole movement, “empathy’s a bad thing.” It’s so crazy.

In a 2020 interview with BGS you said, “Music has a real way of being able to soothe and heal grief.” Could you talk about that healing power, not only as a songwriter, but also as a lover of music, a listener?

Oh, yeah, it’s true. I stand by that. There’s nothing like it. It’s such a direct conduit to the heart. A song can sneak in and express something for you that you had no words for. It can help you, as a songwriter, to figure out a way to express what you might be going through in a way that makes it universal. You put it out there in the world, everybody can feel it and relate to it, and it makes you feel a part of something greater than just your little dark cell that you might be stuck in, or your own personal grief.

It has helped me deal with things, with grief in my life, to be able to learn a song that makes me cry. Every time I hear it, I learn it, and it becomes part of me. It becomes part of my way of being able to express myself, or to write a song that every time I start trying to sing it, I’m in tears or something. You learn to work through your grief by embracing it musically. It’s an incremental way of dealing with things, and it’s really healing.

It’s a sense of support through the company of songs that speak to us.

Yeah. You are not alone. Especially with all the internet stuff, people spend a lot more time not with actual other humans, having conversations or whatever. To hear something, to listen and understand that other people are going through the same alienation or grief or loss, or whatever it is that you are experiencing, makes it easier to bear.

The French author Jean Giono, who wrote The Man Who Planted Trees – I wish I could find this quote – said in an essay that an artist’s duty is to express yourself for all the people who don’t have the words or the art to express themselves. It’s your duty in society, your job, to put it out there for everybody who can’t.

Photo Credit: Dawn Kish

The Glittering Golden Grass of The Brothers Comatose

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Addie Levy: I am.

Tell me a bit about the inspiration for that song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave Hause on Only Vans with Bri Bagwell

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Dave Hause is a rock ‘n’ roller based in California. We share a booking agent that sparked our friendship, so I was very excited to have this conversation put on tape with my new friend, Dave. We talk about prioritizing your time as a musician, twins, touring being a gift, syncs and music supervisors, and his own music festival, Sing Us Home Festival. Dave’s new album …and The Mermaid is out now.

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Today on Only Vans, I have my new rock and roll friend, Dave Hause (pronounced like “pause”), thanks to our mutual booking agent who we both love and adore – looking at you Alex Fang at New Frontier. We chatted via Zoom, because Dave was home in California before heading out on his giant multi-country tour to support his new album. It’s called Dave Hause …and The Mermaid.

We don’t talk enough about Will Hoge and how he produced a few of Dave’s records, because time flies while we chat about Dave’s journey and his incredible Sing Us Home Festival that he puts on with his brother, Tim. The former leader of beloved Philly punk rockers The Loved Ones is clearly loving this chapter of his life with his band, The Mermaid. He almost makes me cry with his kind and inspirational words about placing our value in ticket sales. Go listen to the new record! It rocks.