Tag: Country Music

Jarrod Morris on Only Vans with Bri Bagwell

Posted on by Shelby Williamson

(Editor’s Note: Only Vans with Bri Bagwell is the latest addition to the BGS Podcast Network! Read more about the podcast coming on board here. Find our episode archive here.)

Fellow Texan, country musician, and podcaster Jarrod Morris joins Only Vans on this week’s episode to discuss being “cool,” hygiene, meat, and the origins of farriery. This is a hilarious and honest conversation and it was so great getting to know Jarrod.

LISTEN: APPLE • SPOTIFY • AMAZON • MP3

Find Jarrod’s music, podcast, tour dates and merchandise here.

Thanks to our sponsors for this episode, The MusicFest at Steamboat, Lakeside Tax & CH Lonestar Promo!

Watch Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs’ Stunning Performance of “Fast Car”

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Since the Grammy Awards ceremony on February 4, the country and folk music worlds have waited with bated breath for the Recording Academy to share a stand-alone video of Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs’ stunning collaboration on their mutual, cross-generational hit, “Fast Car.” Late last week, the Academy made our dreams come true – you can now watch the performance in its entirety. (View above.)

The song was a highlight of the Grammys’ primetime telecast and, to its global audience and more than one commentator, signaled a sense of unity and come-togetherness that many feel is woefully lacking in the current zeitgeist, news cycle, and pop culture content machines. Chapman seemed to glow while Combs quite obviously basked in her limelight, content in sharing the stage and the iconic song with one of his childhood heroes. Chapman, something of a recluse in the past two decades, occupied the enormous Crypto.com Arena stage with a quiet confidence and an undercurrent of joy. An electric energy emanated from her guitar strings as she picked the unmistakable melodic hook. Then, on the song’s soaring chorus, the two sang in unison, finding power and common ground in a lyric that has now been sung, heard, and enjoyed by millions more – and entirely new generations.

In the audience, celebrities and musicians like Taylor Swift, Michael Trotter of the War and Treaty, Brandi Carlile, and many more sang along boisterously, indicating the staying power of the song and its lyrics – and the long-lasting adoration held by so many for Chapman.

“Fast Car” will continue to resonate long into the future – and not just on road trip playlists. It’s a perfect, sonic example of the angst endemic to the American dream, of queer placemaking and history-telling, and of all the ways a story so specific, granular, and microscopic could feel entirely universal and relatable. There’s a reason why so many listeners have needed reminding that Combs didn’t, in fact, write the song himself – no matter who we are, where we come from, or who we love, we all so easily see ourselves reflected in “Fast Car.” We’re each hungry for that reflection; “Fast Car” is satiating and then some.

For a brief moment during the Grammys’ 66th Awards Ceremony, we were all contented, joyful passengers in Chapman and Combs’ cosmic “Fast Car.” Let’s each take time to continue to inhabit that moment, as we navigate the traffic of our busy, distinct, distracting, and often divided lives.

 

Yes, That Is Rhiannon Giddens Playing Banjo on Beyoncé’s New Track

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

During a series of high profile Verizon ads during yesterday’s Super Bowl, Beyoncé announced that her upcoming Act II following 2022’s incredibly popular dance album, Renaissance, will find the globe-crossing singer/creative powerhouse returning to country. As music journalist Marissa Moss points out in a brand new post for the country newsletter she co-founded, Don’t Rock the Inbox, Beyoncé Knowles-Carter’s relationship to the genre is nothing new – as far back as 2007 the Texas born-and-raised artist rode a horse as she entered the iconic Houston Rodeo, an internationally known, marquis event in her hometown. Across the decades, Knowles-Carter has constantly utilized her music to remind her audience of her Americana roots, with songs, tracks, and production values that regularly reference country and roots music idioms. At the Grammy Awards on February 4, she wore a modernist couture cowgirl get up – a motif that has been peppered throughout the visuals for Renaissance and its world tour. As Lana Del Rey had just announced her next album, Lasso, would be country, the world wondered – why is Beyoncé wearing a cowboy hat?

But Beyoncé’s relationship to country goes deeper, still. In 2016, as Moss and many other journalists and industry insiders pointed out in reaction to last night’s announcement, Knowles-Carter appeared with The Chicks (at that time still referred to as The Dixie Chicks) in a fiery medley performance during the CMA Awards. The trio joined Beyoncé on her countryfied Lemonade track, “Daddy Lessons,” before morphing into a barn burning all-skate on the Chicks’ Darrell Scott-written hit, “Long Time Gone.”

These new songs, which were initially unveiled exclusively on the streaming service Tidal, are built on the “Texas Bama” terroir that all of Knowles-Carter’s music is intentionally rooted within. “Texas Hold ‘Em” begins with a full, warm, fretless old-time banjo, playing a looped, intricate melodic hook. If your ears perked up during Act II‘s teaser video upon hearing the five-string, you are correct – the banjo and viola on the track were performed by the one and only Rhiannon Giddens and were tracked with Demeanor, Giddens’ nephew, another roots music innovator and genre blender, acting as engineer.

It is beyond apropos for Beyoncé and her team to tap Giddens here, someone who has also built a career and prolific musical output on holding together seemingly disparate influences, textures, tones, and styles. It speaks to Knowles-Carter’s aptitude for not only trying on and exploring new or relatively unfamiliar idioms, but also inhabiting them wholly, intricately, and intuitively. It seems obvious to state, but Beyoncé is no roots music carpet-bagger or opportunist putting on “poverty tour” cosplay just to bolster her bottom line.

Though the production style and arrangements here are decidedly interconnected with Renaissance, the beats and underscoring beneath and around the clawhammer banjo and finger-picked acoustic guitar don’t feel entirely like Avicii’s “Hey Brother” or similar, more heavy-handed attempts to intermingle string band music with house, disco, and dance. Ultimately, these two tracks feel less like a “stomp & holler” money-grab/chart-grab and more like post-modernist line dancing music, carrying forward the placemaking and space-holding of her 2022 album. This is music about gathering, moving, and polishing the floorboards with a pair of cowboy boots.

As MacArthur “Genius” and New York Times columnist Tressie McMillan Cottom points out in a NYT blog entry on the new tracks, the most country-sounding aspects here don’t originally stem from “country” at all: “‘Texas Hold ’Em’ sounds like a Maren Morris-style bop, with many of country-pop’s current themes,” says Cottom. “There is a good reason for that. Those themes are very R&B and hip-hop coded: harmonies, danceable hooks, trap percussion and call-and-response.”

In the mind of this writer, though, “16 Carriages,” the proverbial B-side to the more glitzy and grabby “Texas Hold ‘Em,” is the most remarkable of the two singles currently available from Act II. It’s a Beyoncé train song, one that straddles the divide between urban and rural, city folk and country folk, hillbilly music and rhythm and blues. This is a deft balancing act, one that collectives like the Black Opry and artists like Mickey Guyton, Brittney Spencer, Black Pumas, Buffalo Nichols, Julie Williams, and yes, Giddens, have been demonstrating to the roots music industry and its fans for years and years, now. Such a balance can easily go awry, but as we know, Beyoncé so rarely goes awry – even in a would-be treacherous foray into this well-guarded and gatekept genre.

@black_was_genius Replying to @🌚 you asked, i responded. #beyhaw #blonde #takeover ♬ original sound – Tressie McMillan Cottom

These two songs, but “16 Carriages” especially, illustrate how important it is to view music such as this not as aberrations from a country music norm, but as distillations and representations of what has always been possible in country. Especially if we let arbitrary, moralistic, and bigoted “rules” and expectations fall away and we let artists – whether the most famous in the world or the busker on the street corner – be who they are, unencumbered and empowered by their identities, in all of their idiosyncrasies and complications. Beyoncé’s Act II will showcase that we really do all belong in country, whether your hat and boots are literal shit kickers or are overlaid in hundreds of disco ball mirrors.

Photo courtesy of Tidal.

When You Listen the Land Speaks

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: Sign up here to receive Good Country issues when they launch, direct to your email inbox via Substack.)

An often nameless, faceless character present in all country music is land. In a genre commonly referred to as country & western, land is a constant presence, whether foreground or background, evoked or painted, longed-for or spurned. Another nameless, faceless character that comes hand-in-hand with country and its relationship to land is colonialism – white supremacy, genocide, and imperialism advanced by music that claims to simply center nostalgia, rurality, and an “old fashioned” way of doing things.

This kind of revisionist history in country music – a sanitization of this nation’s past and present, in order to fit into widespread myths, around which this genre and our national identity is built – is no less pernicious simply because it is common and pervasive. It’s important to not only acknowledge country’s relationship with land, but to also attempt to deconstruct the ways that these roots genres perpetuate colonialist ideals and norms.

Can Good Country exist if it must deny the history of the land it professes to love? Can Good Country exist if it must deny that there would be no “country & western” without Indigenous people? These are questions that we feel are essential to ask, right out of the gate, even if their answers are not so simple. Good Country hopes to be a place that can represent all kinds of country music, but it cannot do that if we accept, uninterrogated and unexamined, that country’s relationship to the land must be good, moral, wholesome, and just.

At the heart of the second edition of Counterpublic – an artistic activation described on its website as “a civic exhibition that weaves contemporary art into the life of St. Louis for three months every three years…” – just south of downtown and the towering Gateway Arch, sits Sugarloaf Mound. From April to July 2023, Counterpublic included twenty-five public art installations at a variety of locations, including Sugarloaf Mound, a sacred site for the Osage People and the last intact mound in the city. In earlier eras, the area was home to many thousands of Indigenous people – and the largest city in what would become the United States, Cahokia.

Adjacent to Sugarloaf Mound was the first Counterpublic installation and site, a collaborative piece that wove together sculpture, land, and music by mother-and-son artistic duo, Anita and Nokosee Fields. Anita Fields (Osage/Muscogee) is a fine artist who works in many media, but especially clay and textiles. Nokosee Fields (Osage/Cherokee/Muscogee) is a critically-acclaimed and in-demand old-time fiddler, equally at home in country and Americana as in old-time and string band traditions, and with a great deal of expertise on Indigenous fiddlers and Indigenous fiddling.

Their piece, WayBack, which was curated by Risa Puleo, is synopsized as such:

“Created in collaboration with her son Nokosee Fields (Osage/Cherokee/Muscogee), Anita Fields’s (Osage/Muscogee) WayBack invites visitors to gather in physical relation to each other, to Sugarloaf Mound, and to Osage ancestors, history, and legacy. When the Osage Nation purchased part of Sugarloaf Mound in 2007, the sacred site was reabsorbed into the Nation through the auspices of property, extending Osage territory from the site of their displacement in Oklahoma back to their ancestral homeland. Atop this site, forty platforms are installed, modeled after those found at Osage events in Oklahoma. Each platform is embellished with ribbons that reference Osage cosmologies of balance between sky, water, and earth. Nokosee Fields’s composition for wind instruments invites further consideration of the earth from which the mound was constructed, the sky that unfolds above the platforms, the sound of the Mississippi River on the banks below the quarry and the wind that flows through the surrounding trees that transform first into breath. After the exhibition, the platforms will travel from St. Louis to Tulsa where they will be distributed to Osage community members completing the link between the current home of the Osage Nation and its ancestral homelands.”

“Middle Waters,” the labyrinthine composition by Nokosee that acted as soundtrack for the installation, its platforms, and the adjacent mound (listen via the Counterpublic site here), perfectly illustrates how adept country music – and its textures, styles, and traditions – can be at capturing the ineffable, spiritual qualities of land and our relationships with it. Fiddle, field recordings, wind instruments, voices, and more intermingle in a piece that feels as organic and grounded as Anita’s sculptures.

Now, after the installation’s closing, each of the forty platforms constructed by Anita and displayed at the Counterpublic site will be moved to what’s now called Oklahoma, to be distributed to members of the Osage community and to have a continued life, further illustrating how art, music, and land gain all of their meaning from the communities that interact with and rely on them.

On the occasion of Good Country’s inaugural issue, we spoke to Anita & Nokosee Fields about WayBack, “Middle Waters,” the Counterpublic exhibition, and how humans, land, music, and art intersect and combine.

Could you just take me into the inspiration and the conception of WayBack and how you started working together and collaborating on the piece, not only with each other, but also with the land and with the site? Um, maybe Anita, do you want to start?

Anita Fields: Sure. Over two years ago now I was contacted by Risa Puelo, who was one of the curators chosen for the Counterpublic triennial in St. Louis. [Risa] asked if I would like to join and explained their purpose, what they were doing, and what their groundwork was for the triennial. She said, “I know your whole family are artists, so if you would like to invite somebody from your family to participate with you, that would be absolutely fine.”

But let’s begin with what their goal was, and that was to talk about the difficult histories of a place. St. Louis is certainly one of those. The reason that I was asked to join was that, for the Osage People, St. Louis, Missouri – and even further than that – is our ancestral homeland. It’s a large area, including St. Louis, Missouri, Arkansas, and even further than that in the beginning, migration from almost the East Coast to the Ohio Valley, to where our written and documented history begins in Missouri. So that was our homeland and there are documented villages there, still, and lots of history there, because after Lewis and Clark’s expedition we held the trade there. After Lewis and Clark, we started interacting real heavily and marrying with the French, partially because the French were trying to hold onto political power through the fur trade.

That is our history there [in St. Louis]. And then of course came displacement. A series of treaties started moving us out of that area, ‘til we came into Kansas. We had a reservation there and then we sold that reservation and with that money we bought what is our reservation today from the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma. That’s it in a nutshell, and of course it’s way more complicated than that.

Nokosee and I don’t live in close proximity to one another, so I was like, “Oh my gosh, is this going to be able to work over the phone and Zoom? That’s going to be kind of difficult!” Then an opportunity arrived for me to go to Bogliasco, Italy for a month-long residency. I asked if I could bring a collaborator, and that’s where we landed for a month – on the Mediterranean, in this beautiful, beautiful, beautiful place, on the coast of Italy, not very far from Genoa. We schemed and dreamed and planned. And it was very difficult trying to arrive at a place where we were both happy.

Nokosee, I wonder how, as a songwriter and composer, you began approaching this? How did you take your musical vision and dovetail it with the physical vision, with the sculpture, and with the place? What was the process like as you sat down in Italy to start creating together?

Nokosee Fields: When we were both in Italy, I had a little field recording kit that I had been using. I would just roam around the grounds recording things. There’s the ocean right there, there are all these really intense waves happening, a lot of sounds to be had. There was also a poet, Robin Robertson, who was a fellow there at the foundation and I asked if he wanted to do any collaborating, because we had a lot of time there – it was a testament to the importance of having space and time to have creative thoughts. Which, I feel it’s really rare. For a lot of artists, you have to hustle a lot. We were there for one month, I was getting very regular sleep, I was eating three nourishing meals a day, and getting some exercise. And again, it’s also in this beautiful location, and we were surrounded by really smart artists. It was just a very stimulating, nourishing, and calm environment. I was able to actually have some visions and clarity. And I was able to indulge a lot of things – where, you know, most of the time I’m just barely piecing things together to make money or to pay rent.

It began with [Robertson] reciting a poem, then I started layering him reciting this poem with the waves and different sounds from around the grounds, manipulating them. I like the idea of using really intricate, small, detailed, fine sounds – using a really sensitive mic – and then turning that into something else. Or, pitching it, layering it on top of people’s voices or singing, or maybe something a little more recognizable.

For me, the space and time to have all of that creative flow happening – it took what felt like a month of just space to finally get somewhere with something. It was eye opening, a testament to needing space and time, because we kinda flip-flopped back and forth on what we were gonna do. I wouldn’t say we were struggling, it was just that we were in this new place and jet lagged. Our project was not hands-on, because it was just all conceptual, so it was a little difficult to land on something.

I do want to talk about the site, because – obviously I’ve only seen the photos – there’s an interesting juxtaposition of this kind of dreamlike soundscape for the piece with “Middle Waters” and then the site itself feeling somewhat shoehorned into modernity. You have the river there you have the highway here and of course there’s a billboard incorporated into the piece, as well. Anita, can you talk about how you wanted to play around with that juxtaposition with this sacred site that now is somewhat entrapped by modernity and by settler culture?

AF: There’s always a backstory surrounding my work, and how I came to be. I was born on the reservation and spent a lot of time with my grandmother, who was full blood, and I’ve chosen to be very close to my culture, even as an adult. As much as I could, I did what my grandmother did for me for my children, to make sure they have a place there, [in my culture]. In my own work, as I became older and older, I would be inspired by things that come from our worldview, which is a very complex worldview, but it’s very beautiful.

We still have those values. As a modern person, those values are still in place – you know, where I’m from. You can witness them in how we interact with one another, a lot of times. I think that is a very beautiful thing to know that what my ancestors left for us you can still recognize. A lot of my work surrounds that kind of thought, that there is another way of looking at the world that is not just a tunnel vision of, “We’re all like this and we’re going to go to the mall forever.”

And that’s our worldview; it’s way deeper than that. Through art, that’s a beautiful place to be able to tap into those kinds of thoughts and values. So I wanted, because that is our original homeland and that is such an important site, I wanted to be able to bring in this sense that we’re reclaiming that space again, marking it as ours, and [saying] this is who we are. I want people to know this is who we are.

Those wooden platforms are actually found throughout [our culture]. I’ll describe it to you this way, because this is the way I write about it: They have been around for a very long time. My earliest memories of them are when I was a young person, a young girl going around with my grandmother, and I would see them outside of large Osage homes or outside of our dances.
At camps, people have family camps, and these platforms would be there and you’d see older people putting their blanket down and sitting on it and then maybe somebody giving them a glass of lemonade or a Coke. And then they’d light up a cigarette and they’d be just visiting and laughing away with a relative or a friend.

And it always looked very calming and peaceful to me. Those are the kind of memories too that I often tap into. But it’s also much deeper than that. What I was seeing there was, yes peaceful and calming, that was happening, but I was also witnessing survivors who had gone through a lot just for us to be able to be here. There are always these links.

What better place to be able to bring those [platforms], because that is the place that we had to survive from, to move from St. Louis. I’m always interested in giving people a glimpse into who we are. It’s not my job to talk about ceremony or rituals or any of that kind of thing. But I want people, again, with that thought in mind, I want people to know who we are and that there’s a different way of looking at the world and it comes from very complex, intelligent thinking and is based on observing nature and the cosmos. These values and these systems are still here for us today.

With the platforms, we started by going to Google Maps, downloading maps and images, and the site was kind of big, so it wasn’t working with one platform. And we just kept going, “Guys, that platform is gonna drown in that big space!” It’s beautiful to be able to work with a great curator because between our conversations with all of us we decided, if the money can be found, maybe we can have more – it began there. That is how those arrived and then we topped them with designs that are familiar to us as Osage People. We painted those on there, designs that are used in our ribbon work clothing – which comes directly out of our interaction with the French, when we started trading for ribbons and needles and threads and thimbles and that kind of thing. This kind of interaction with the French and our time there totally changed our culture forever.

…You know, with working with clay as long as I have, one of the things I feel very deeply about is that the earth holds memory. That has been revealed to me, just because of how clay is made over time. I’m certain it holds the memories of who was there, wherever in the world.

I mean, in Italy, a couple of times when we would travel to these places and then we would read about the history, I felt that there, too. No matter where you’re at there are always the similarities to what has happened in history – “the conqueror” and “the conquered” – these stories are all threaded together and similar. I couldn’t see WayBack without sound in any way, shape, or form. It just wouldn’t have the punch that I was looking for.

I did want to ask, where are we at in the lifespan of the piece? I know that the plan is to distribute the platforms to Osage community members back around Tulsa. I just wonder where you’re at in that process?

AF: Yes, it was temporary and as soon as Counterpublic closed, I think it was within two weeks, they were picked up and shipped back to Tulsa to the [Tulsa Arts] Fellowship. The Fellowship is storing them for me. Then I got a call from the First Americans Museum in Oklahoma City, which is I think in its second year. They have a beautiful courtyard plaza and they have built a mound-like area where you can witness the solstices. The curator was at the Counterpublic closing and she said, “I want to bring these to First Americans Museum, what’s the plan for these as soon as this is over?” Well they took half of them and then half of them stayed here, displayed at a place called Guthrie Green in Tulsa for about a week. Yesterday, the ones from First Americans Art Museum were delivered to the Osage Nation. I want to distribute them to the Osage community. In my mind I’m like, “What am I going to do with 40 platforms when they return? What’s going to happen with these and who owns them?” And actually that was [curator Risa Puleo’s] suggestion: Is there any way these could be returned to the Osage community?

People are excited about it, those that know about it. Not a whole lot of people know. I’m trying to keep it [quiet] ‘til I get it all figured out, but they’re excited about it. I’m excited about it, too, because that is another way to make art accessible. To bring it back to where you come from. Because those folks are totally my inspiration, and I say this at every turn, whenever I have the opportunity. You’re my inspiration. Your grandmother, my grandmother, every interaction I’ve seen throughout my life. This is my inspiration.

Nokosee, I wonder, do you see a similar way of bringing “Middle Waters” to the people? Do you see a lifespan for that piece beyond this installation? Or do you think it’s a moment in time and it’s onto the next work?

NF: Yeah, I think it’s just a moment in time. I might edit it, but I’m pretty pleased with it. If anything, it’s more of a reason to want to do more sound installations, sound art kind of things. I’ve been wanting to transition to that kind of work. As much as I’ve enjoyed touring – and I’ll probably do it for as long as I can – I find it to be pretty taxing. It’s tons of fun, but I think I need something that’s a little more cerebral, a little more isolated, a little more supported, and also a place for my voice and creativity. I feel like I’m kind of waking up from an obsession where I just got into traditional American music, traditional fiddle. Now that I’m steeped in that world and I feel like I’m really a part of it, I also feel like there’s a lot of it I just don’t really care for.

This sounds really uppity, but making traditional fiddle music feels kind of separate from [country], it’s just melody. I like the foundational aspects of music and the research and tone, things like that. And I like it because it’s not really tied to lyrics, it’s not putting on a type of personality, like lyrical content [does].

That, to me, is often just perpetuating settler mythology about old-time music. There are a lot of things that could be said about old-time music that are also problematic. Instrumental music is where I really jive and get into stuff, but I’ve also had to constantly interface and participate in lots of country music or lyrical music that has content that, to me, just feels like propaganda with really rudimentary, basic understandings of the land.

It feels like a type of erasure. It’s just kind of designed that way – maybe not maliciously – but it’s just so deeply woven into how things work in this country. …I find a lot of country music today, a lot of the younger, popular stuff, it feels like it’s about convincing white people that they’re white or something. There’s this pseudo-woke take on country music, which I think is fine, it’s just not radical enough for me or something. It’s like it’s just enough for people to kind of maybe get their outlaw fix.

It still doesn’t work for me and I still find it very rudimentary and actually not very confrontational or very deep, as far as what’s actually going on in the world or on this continent.

Sign up here to receive Good Country issues when they launch, direct to your email inbox via Substack.

Lead Image: Anita & Nokosee Fields via Counterpublic.
Image of Anita Fields: Courtesy of the Artist.

Headline text from Anna Tsouhlarakis, “The Native Guide Project: STL.” Billboard and digital signage. Curator: New Red Order. Counterpublic 2023, Sugarloaf Mound Site.

NEWS: BGS Announces New Brand, Good Country

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

BGS is proud to announce the launch of a new brand in 2024: GOOD COUNTRY. By this point, you may have seen or heard mentions of Good Country on our site, at our events, and on our socials feeds as we prepare this exciting new expansion for our readers and fans.

Launching in mid-January 2024, Good Country is a curated, bespoke email newsletter that will highlight all good country from across the roots music landscape. Every other week, GC will deliver high-end country music reporting, long reads, playlists, videos, and exclusive content from your favorite country artists direct to your email inbox. As you scroll, you’ll dive into the deep and broad world of Good Country, from gritty and raw Americana to glitzy and glamorous radio hits, from bluegrass supergroups to southern rock ensembles and swampy string bands. Sign up for Good Country now.

“Good Country is a brand new horizon for BGS,” says managing editor Justin Hiltner. “But, at the same time, it’s nothing more than a reinforcement of our values as a media company and roots music community. Country – like its family members bluegrass, folk, and Americana – is more than just music, it’s a lifestyle, an identity, a way of being. There’s so much good country being made out there right now and we know our audience agrees. Whatever ‘good country’ means, you’ll know it when you hear it. And you’ll hear plenty of it in this newsletter!”

Each issue of Good Country will center features, think pieces, and interviews penned by the best writers and thinkers in country music highlighting not just the biggest names in the genre, but new and upstart artists as well. Exclusive newsletter content will live alongside deep dive playlists, sonic explorations, and thoughtful examinations of what country is, who makes it, and to whom it can belong – everyone.

BGS co-founder, actor, activist, and musician Ed Helms, will be featured in each issue as well with “Ed’s Picks,” artists and bands selected by Helms himself, direct from his own listening.

“From the very beginning, BGS was forged on a foundation of celebrating the full spectrum of roots music fans and artists,” explains BGS co-founder Amy Reitnouer Jacobs. “This community has never been one thing, nor has it been static. It’s a diverse, expansive, and ever-changing art form. The same can and should be said for country music. And that’s why now is the perfect time to create a more representative media landscape. It’s time for Good Country.”

Good Country’s first issues will feature music, art, and content featuring Zach Bryan, Sierra Ferrell, Amanda Fields, Veronique Medrano, Shania Twain, Chris Stapleton, Vincent Neil Emerson, Brittney Spencer, and so many more. No matter your entry point to this music, with our new brand and newsletter you will find endless Good Country to enjoy. Interact with content in your email inbox, on our website, and on our social media – wherever you are, Good Country will meet you there.

Good Country isn’t about deciding what is or isn’t good country music. Good Country is a place. It’s a way of looking at the world, a way of enjoying music. If you think it’s good and you think it’s country, then you’ve found Good Country.

Sign up now to be one of the first readers to receive Good Country direct to your email inbox. And, begin your exploration of Good Country with our BGS Class of 2023: Good Country year-end list.

Photo Credit: Zach Bryan by Trevor Pavlik; Vincent Neil Emerson by Thomas Crabtree; Sierra Ferrell by Bobbi Rich.

Basic Folk – Miko Marks & Rissi Palmer

Posted on by Shelby Williamson

Rissi Palmer and Miko Marks have been laying the foundation for country musicians and fans who are Black for almost 20 years. Back in the early 2000s, both experienced the trials and tribulations of being Black women in country. Despite their successes and large growing fanbase, they were separately discouraged by the ceilings and roadblocks they encountered from the white-dominated industry. Even though they each nearly quit music, they discovered a deep and meaningful ally and friend in each other. Now, they are back in the spotlight in a different era that has seen a rise of Black musicians – and The Black Opry in Nashville. Recently, Rissi and Miko have been touring together and we got them both on the show to talk about their parallel experiences, their friendship, and what they’ve been up to recently. It was a sincere honor and a blast to speak with these inspiring women.

LISTEN: APPLE • SPOTIFY • STITCHER • AMAZON • MP3

This month The Bluegrass Situation is highlighting The Black Opry as Artist of the Month. Basic Folk, a part of The Bluegrass Situation Podcast Network, is proud to present this episode in collaboration with our BGS motherhost.

Photo Credit: Cedrick Jones

WATCH: Charley Crockett, “I’m Just a Clown (Billy Horton Sessions)”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Charley Crockett
Hometown: San Benito, Texas
Song: “I’m Just a Clown (Billy Horton Sessions)”
Album: The Man From Waco Redux
Release Date: May 26, 2023
Label: Son of Davy/Thirty Tigers

In Their Words: “Listening back to Waco, I’d had an idea to do a part two in the style of Marty Robbins’ Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs or Johnny Cash Sings the Ballads of the True West. I guess I’ve always been turning in these Western folk ballads from the very start. I’ve always been a folk songwriter, and if your tune really holds up you oughta be able to present it with any kind of band or arrangement and have the story show through. On ‘I’m Just a Clown,’ it started out as a three-chord barroom honky-tonk number and then I went soul on it. Here we went and flipped it all around again using the same darker chords but in more of a late-‘60s folk color.” — Charley Crockett

Photo Credit: Bobby Cochran

Bella White May Be the Next Queen of Country and Bluegrass Heartache

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For most music lovers, the thrill of discovering a brilliant young talent grows even bigger when that artist’s career starts to take off — which means fans of Canadian singer-songwriter Bella White must be feeling quite euphoric right now.

Since independently releasing her debut album, Just Like Leaving, in 2020 (just as she turned 20), the bluegrass-steeped country-folk artist got signed by Rounder Records, was touted among the best new acts at Americanafest 2022, performed at Willie Nelson’s 2023 Luck Reunion and, on April 25, made her Grand Ole Opry debut (“a forever dream for a little girl who loves country music”) — just days after the release of her second album, Among Other Things. After a run through the U.K. and Netherlands in June, she’ll return to North America just in time to celebrate her 23rd birthday before playing the Newport Folk Festival.

White’s drawing so much attention because she examines matters of the heart with fearless candor, nakedly exposing her insecurities and foibles in lyrics that are intensely personal, yet capable of resonating with anyone who’s ever endured similar experiences. They’re delivered in a keening, vibrato-free vocal style stamped with the DNA of Appalachia and the country and bluegrass icons it spawned, as well as a long line of folk and feminist heroes.

White was raised in Calgary, Alberta, but her Virginia-born father, who grew up playing bluegrass, immersed her in the genre — even forming a band with the father of her best friend from daycare when the kids were barely toddlers. She honed guitar and banjo skills while attending bluegrass festivals, camps and jams, and made her solo stage debut at 12. By then, she’d already learned a little something about heartache.

BGS: It seems like heartbreak is a requirement for great songwriting. How old were you when you first experienced it?

White: Oh, man. When I was in grade four, I had a really big crush on a boy. He didn’t have the same crush on me. So that was my first, like, superficial heartbreak. But the first time I experienced real, painful heartbreak was when my parents got divorced. They were married for 20 years. Watching their marriage fall apart was a really lived experience of witnessing heartbreak, but also experiencing my own heartbreak of watching the family structure crumble. I think that was the biggest. Of course, since then, I’ve had my own heart broken a couple of times. I’ve always been a lover ever since I was a little girl; I get attached to things so I feel it all quite big.

Did you write about what you were going through then, or did that come later?

I would say a bit of both. I’ve always been a journaler. I’ve always had my notebooks and loved to process my feelings through writing — not just songs, but, like, stream-of-consciousness brain dumping. I think I was 14 or 15 when I started properly writing songs that felt like songs. I would write poetry and write about my feelings before that, but in my early teenage years, I took to songwriting as a means for expressing myself — and grieving, honestly, like working through the stages of grieving something.

Heartbreak is something everybody can relate to, for better or worse, and it’s such a big part of the country tradition. I can tell you’ve immersed yourself in those traditions, from Patsy Cline onward, and you’ve mentioned Joni Mitchell and John Prine as early influences. As you developed your style, did you consciously gravitate toward any other artists?

Totally. Someone who I’ve been deeply influenced by over the past two years is Emmylou Harris. She’s such an icon. I love how much she transcends genre; she’s totally doing what she feels like. And similarly with Linda Ronstadt and Bonnie Raitt, and all these really amazing women that are just powerhouses. When you listen to their music, there’s this deep sense of them knowing what they want to do; they’re just making music that they want to make. That’s really inspiring. I also grew up listening to super-traditional bluegrass: the Monroe brothers, the Stanley Brothers, Flatt & Scruggs and that whole world. I grew up listening to everything. My family was very “take it all in and do what you like.”

The first track, “The Way I Oughta Go,” has this great lyric: “Now to me the word love has lost all meaning / It’s just an empty sound I thought I’d always known / For my daddy used to sing it to my momma / But then he went and he left her all alone.” The way you sing that long “a” (as “a-lone”) is such a classic bluegrass pronunciation. What was going through your head when you wrote this one?

I had just heard a song that I really liked by Angela Autumn, an amazing songwriter. Sometimes you hear something, and even if it’s wildly different from what you’re doing, it just inspires you to write. And I was in that sort of existential pandemic place of just longing for something that I didn’t have; I was grieving a relationship, and I was thinking about my parents a lot. I had moved to Nashville, and my dad’s from the South, and I was having all of these dreams and ideas of all these different life paths, all the what-ifs and parallel universes. Then I started thinking about my parents’ marriage and divorce, and about how I wanted to be in some kind of companionship — I love love and relationships. It was just a lot of, “Where do I go? What do I do? And who am I?” Another coming-of-age song.

References to your mother permeate this album, and you’ve described the song “Rhododendron” as an explicit reaction to missing her. Are you two close?

My mom and I are very, very, very close. I’m close with both my parents; I feel really lucky about that. But I was staying at my mom’s house. I wrote pretty much every song on Among Other Things during the pandemic; there’s a sort of helplessness that we were all feeling during that time, and I really just wanted my mom. The few years before, I was living in Boston, and then was out in the world doing my thing, being in my late teens, early 20s. During the middle of the pandemic, I came back home and got even closer with my mom. Having divorced parents, you spend a lot of time one-on-one with your parents, dividing your time. My sister is older than me, so she went off to school, and then it was just me and my mom, alone for a few years. Yeah, we’re very close.

Where did “Numbers” come from?

“Numbers” I wrote the day that my first album came out. I had spent all this time and energy putting all this love into it, and then put it out into the void. I didn’t really know what was gonna happen; I couldn’t have predicted any of this. I just was putting it out to have an album out. I remember feeling this crazy anticipation, like when you make a piece of art and then finally decide to share it, then putting it out and feeling like, “Oh, that’s done now.” I felt this emptiness, like, “OK, well, what’s next?” And then I started writing “Numbers.”

The first line is, “It’s not what I thought it would feel like / The praise that’s seeping in / It goes as quick as it comes.” And I just remember this confusing sensation of really feeling pride, and also, “Well, that’s that, what’s happening now? Where do I go from here? How will this be received? And where will this land in the world?” It takes on this kind of heartbreak; at that point in time, I was going through some heartbreak. It’s easy to fall into that when you’re writing about your feelings, because when your heart is broken, that’s a haze that’s always over you, or at least me.

But that song came from a place of just, like, what’s next? It was the middle of the pandemic; there was so much unknown in the world at that time. I was putting this little album into that big, wide unknown, and feeling a lack of clarity. “Numbers” came out as a stream of consciousness; I was just writing in my journal, and then I was like, “That actually sounds like a song.”

I love this vivid imagery in “Flowers on My Bedside”: “Well, I’m so good at spending all my love on / Those whose love for me has dried / Like the flowers on my bedside.”

I was going through a breakup at the time. We eventually got back together, which is kind of funny, but I remember just feeling so sad. I started writing this song, and it was making me feel a lot better. I was viewing it like writing this person a letter; there was something really healing about that. I think when we’re going through breakups, or dismantling any relationship, there’s certain things that are better left unsaid. And there are certain things that it’s probably healthier to not say directly to your partner, to the person that you’re separating from.

But there’s those things that you really want to say, and in the moment, it’s not the time. I took this song as an opportunity to say those things and heal through just putting them out there. The image that I have in my head when I think about that kind of exercise is when you write a letter to someone that you love and you light it on fire. You just release it into the world. That’s what writing that song felt like to me — a proclamation of sorts — and then just kind of putting it out there. Of course, instead of lighting it on fire, I put it on Spotify.

“Break My Heart” has another great line: “I was always waiting for it to fall apart / You said you had one foot out the door from the start / It’s just like you meant to break my heart.”

That one and “Flowers on My Bedside,” they’re like sisters in a way because they’re about a similar thing, and I wrote them around a similar time. “Break My Heart,” I joke that it’s my pop song. That one came out really fast. I didn’t craft it very much; I just dumped it out. It’s my “I got dumped” song. Like, I got my heart really broken bad here; I’m just gonna be super upfront about what that felt like.

“Break My Heart” is such a wrenching description of that experience. I’m struck by your ability to make such confessions sound so natural, like mere observations.

Sometimes I surprise myself. It feels like a copout to say sometimes the songs write themselves because it’s not totally true, but sometimes, you’re just spilling the beans. Often, it’s something I would think in my head when I’m feeling very, like, woe is me, and I’ve gotten pretty comfortable saying it to other people. Maybe I’ll find a nice way to phrase it, or I’ll find a way to make it sound a bit more ornate. But with those tell-all lyrics, the more honest that you can be, the more people who have had a similar experience will appreciate that honesty, because they’ll feel validated.

Photo Credit: Bree Fish

WATCH: Brennen Leigh, “Running Out of Hope, Arkansas”

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Artist: Brennen Leigh
Hometown: Moorhead, Minnesota; Austin, Texas; and Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “Running Out of Hope, Arkansas”
Album: Ain’t Through Honky Tonkin’ Yet
Release Date: June 16, 2023
Label: Signature Sounds

In Their Words: “I’m in love with this idea of the real Nashville. The idyllic golden age, which, to me, is around 1967, 1968, because of the alchemy, the explosion that occurred, with the best country music songwriters ever, the best singers in country music. I wrote this with my close friend, Silas Lowe. He’s a writer in Austin and a great musician. I made that trip a million times from Nashville to Austin, and you always pass the exit for Hope, Arkansas. It just hit me one time on that drive, I wondered if anyone had written that title. So we did it. Silas and I were both talking about what it’s like to feel stuck somewhere. So, that’s what that song’s about.” — Brennen Leigh

Photo Credit: Brooke Hamilton