Tag: Country Music

Still Humble and Always Kind: An Interview with Lori McKenna

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Of Lori McKenna's debut album, Paper Wings & Halo, an AllMusic.com critic so many years ago — that would be me — wrote, “From McKenna's pen flow timeless, heart-grabbing melodic lines and psyche-splintering stanzas. … If this album is any kind of signpost, look for McKenna's light to be shining bright for a long while to come.” All these many years later, her light is, indeed, shining bright — on the Billboard country charts, at the Grammy Awards, and, now, on her 10th solo record, The Bird & the Rifle. Produced by Americana master Dave Cobb, the new collection is utterly captivating, filled with everything we've come to expect from McKenna — glimpses of real life and real love laid bare in profound and poetic, stark and stunning detail.

Because I go all the way back to Paper Wings & Halo with you …

WOW!

Yeah. So I've been thrilled to watch your ascent over the years. How are you processing it all? Does it ever really sink in — everything that's happened in the past 15 years?

I don't ever really get to a point where it doesn't amaze me how lucky I am in this career. As soon as I start getting complacent with “Am I doing enough?” something appears. I don't know why I'm as lucky as I am, other than the fact that, as I would say to my kids, it's because I keep trying. The thing about music is, there's always more to learn. There's always a better song to write. You always hear a better song that you wish you wrote. And it's changing all the time. So I go to bed a lot and think, “Shit, I'm lucky!” [Laughs]

[Laughs] Do you feel like songwriting and other talents like that are inherent gifts that we can't really take credit for? I mean, sure, you can work to perfect the craft around it, but without those seeds …

I do think there's a weird thing that happens sometimes where … like “Humble and Kind,” for example: The chorus, when I looked back on it, I thought, “Man, I really lucked out.” [Laughs] It's better than I think I knew how to do it, to be honest. Also, the hook on “The Bird & the Rifle” … I was in the shower the night before we wrote it, thinking, “What if you just said, 'Spreading her wings always brings the rifle out in him'? Maybe it doesn't land on 'the bird and the rifle.' Maybe that's not the hook.” That was just pure luck and thinking about something long enough. I don't want to be weird and say “the songwriting gods and all that come down.” And who am I to have any gods pay attention to me? I don't know. Sometimes, you do look back and say, “That turned out better than I think I know how to have made it.”

So there's some something going on that is bigger than you?

I think so. And I don't know, really, if there's a name for it. Other days, you can try everything and it's like, “Nope. Not happening.” [Laughs]

[Laughs] “Do not pass go.”

Yeah. “Today's not your day.”

At the listening party for this new record, you said something about how you go around checking for melodies in your guitars. That would kind of indicate that you feel like songs are already out there just waiting to be caught … maybe?

I like to stew on little ideas. Those are usually the best ones. If I think about it for a couple of days, then I get to sit down and write it, that's usually when it's formed correctly. But sometimes, you don't know they are there at all. It's funny. I don't know what it is. I think I've purposely tried to not over-think it because you can mess yourself up. There's definitely something going on that isn't concrete, in the process. That's why I always think that songwriting classes, they must be so hard. But, really, if you just keep trying … That sounds like a bad thing to say to somebody who's tried a lot and hasn't gotten where they want, but it's really the only way to do it — just show up.

Right. Over these many years, what has changed for you, in how you approach the job or how you approach songwriting?

It's funny because, originally, I was doing open mics, then I started doing shows, then I put out a couple records … that was all where my world was, “My wife does this thing. She does these shows and it's cool” … [Laughs]

[Laughs] “Humor her. It's fine.”

[Laughs] Yeah, “It's fine. She pays for the groceries, sometimes.” But I think my husband knew that I had to do it. Young moms always say, “Make sure you take care of yourself. Have something for you.” It was always my thing for me. It was like that. It was my hobby for a while. And I made a lot of money at the hobby, now and then. When the Faith [Hill] thing happened, it wasn't like a door opened; it was like a universe opened, because I had never co-written before. I didn't know, really, what a publishing deal was.

You were just this little folkie out of Boston.

Yeah. I kind of wanted to learn about all those things. I knew certain people who had some sort of access to it, but I didn't really know or even know how to figure it out, to be honest. Since then, it's just been one surprising turn after another.

I remember when I got my deal with Warner Bros. We went out to eat at the 99 with the kids. I was like, “Babe, I think I got offered a record deal.” He was like, “What? No way.” [Laughs] We're at a 99 and I'm like, “Should I do this? I feel like I should.” It's always surprised me, in this crazy way. Now, the biggest change is that it's a full-on part of all our lives. My husband knows the business now, to a … I don't know that much, myself, but we know a little bit about it together. Like changing publishers and stuff like that, I can talk to him about it. We're all on the same page as far as “This is what mom does.”

“It's not just her hobby anymore. It's putting you through college.”

That publishing deal opened up the whole thing of writing songs for other people, which was a whole world that I hadn't really explored before. I love that part of it.

There's that part of it and there are your songs. And, then, some songs do double duty — like “Humble and Kind,” which Tim McGraw took to number one, and “Three Kids No Husband,” which is on Brandy Clark's new record. You also said at the party that, if you had a voice like Carrie Underwood's, you would write differently.

That didn't sound bad did it? I was thinking about that after … I love her voice.

No, no, not at all. I'm just curious … would it be bigger melodies? I mean, you would still be you , so you would have the same message.

Yeah. I think my melodies would be bigger. I really think our limitations form our style. I play the guitar the way I play because I can't play the guitar like a great guitar player. But that guitar part might sound like me. And it's my limitations that took me there more than my craft. I think the same is true in writing a song by yourself or writing a song where, that day as a co-writer, you're singing for the day. I write with Hillary Lindsey a lot and she can sing anything and she is really great at melodies. Then, you're co-writing with somebody who can find those big, beautiful melodies that I won't by myself.

I also think, because I like simple songs and my voice lends itself to a simple melody, then the words can't be general words. The words have to be the thing that carries a song. So, I think if I could sing anything, my songs wouldn't be as lyrically driven as they are. Does that make sense?

Totally. I look back to a song like “Don't Tell Her” — which still slays me — and everything that makes you a great songwriter is in there: the attention to detail, the search for intimacy, the spin on the dynamics. In a weird way, that tune is almost like a foreshadowing of or bookend for “Girl Crush.”

OH! That's true, isn't it? I never thought of that … because I always forget about that song. [Laughs] But, when you say it like that, it is a little bit the same story. It's hard to not think of that scenario, when you've been married a long time or in a relationship a long time, because you know the person so well and they know things about you that nobody else does. And you know, if they're going to go somewhere else, this stuff could come up in conversation. [Laughs]

[Laughs] Your secrets aren't safe.

Or even just things that person knows and nobody else knows them. It's not good or bad; it's just a thing. So I think anyone in a long relationship would have that thought process. But that's interesting.

I also think your two woman songs — “All a Woman Wants” and “If Whiskey Were a Woman” — I see those as a pair.

Oh, really?

But here's the thing: Guidebooks? Disclaimers? Statements of fact? How do you see those songs versus how they are received?

“All a Woman Wants,” I think came from a conversation with Gene, my husband, about, “Damn. I'm really kind of easy, here.” [Laughs]

[Laughs] As far as women go …

Yeah. I was talking to a songwriter friend the other night who was like, “I'm getting married and everything's so cool. Am I going to still be able to write? Everything's good right now.” You know, that little bit of fear. I said, “No. All you have to do is take that thought and blow it up, just exaggerate the shit out of it for a little while, for three-and-a-half-minutes, and you'll have a song.” [Laughs]

That's really what it was. I remember kidding around with him, like, “Dude. I am easy. I have like three things!” When you start picking it apart, most women just really want to feel like they are your everything. I got in trouble for that song, though. A couple of people were like, “How do you know what I want?”

“I do want the diamonds!” [Laughs] “Drip me, baby!”

[Laughs] Yes! But the fact that he wants you to have them … My neighbor came up and said, “I love that line!” Gene didn't understand it. I had to explain it to him! [Laughs] I did! He was like, “What's that diamond thing?” I was like, “Listen to it! I think it's kind of clear. Come on, pay attention!”

“If Whiskey Were a Woman” is that same thing, I guess, in the way that he wants something. It's like, “Oh, I can't do that.”

[Laughs] “So go have a drink, buster.”

[Laughs] Yeah, yeah. “You won't let me do that, so …” That's so interesting, the way you think of it. I love it!

What would the perfect career look like for you? Do you have it?

I think so, yeah. People ask me sometimes, as far as the two separate categories of songs, “How do you do that?” I guess they want to know, logistically, if I think of it this way or if I write about myself, usually it's in this category. Sometimes not. But it hasn't bothered me that there are those two things. I've really enjoyed having those two things.

For a while, I started picking it apart and thinking … I don't like leaving home, to be honest. I like songwriting best. That's my favorite part. I like singing. I like playing. I like standing in front of people. But I don't love all that, as much as I just want to be able to write a great song. I want people to hear them. But I have this thing where I don't necessarily have to sing them — other people, every now and then, will sing them. And that still makes me feel great, so maybe I should just write for other people. I kind of did that, during Numbered Doors — I had that mentality of “I'm not going to travel for shows. I'm going to travel for writing because that's my favorite part.” It didn't work. It wasn't going to crash land … yet. But it would've, eventually.

Then my publishing deal came up and I started talking to Beth Laird [of Creative Nation]. Every other publisher, when I was like, “What about my artist side?” They were like, “You can do whatever you want.” But Beth was like, “Hey, what about your artist side? I think that's an important piece. I think that makes you a better writer.” So I needed that little selfish part to be like I want to write the best song for my little project. I don't know what it does to me, but it's really important to me. And I didn't know that. I was maybe starting to think it or maybe starting to lose it. It was going to go one way or the other. Then Beth came in and sparked that, again, in me. And my friends probably would have, eventually … like Barry Dean is really perceptive about what I need, as a creator, and what is helpful. Other people cutting my songs was something I never thought was possible. The fact that I get to do both is amazing.

Dreams do come true.

Even if you hadn't dreamed them! [Laughs] I wouldn't have thought, “Oh, I want this!” That was another thing Beth said to me, when I first started talking about signing with them. She's a goal person – like, “Write down these goals.” I've heard that a bunch of times, but I could never say out loud certain things … like, “I want to be a songwriter.” That sounds crazy! She taught me, and I remember talking to her one day and I was like, “Well, I want a Grammy.” How cocky is that?! [Laughs] I said that out loud!

[Laughs] And … SHA-ZAM!

When that all happened, I was like, “Beth! What did you do?!?!” [Laughs]

[Laughs] What kind of voodoo is going on down there?

Everybody write your goals down! It's incredible! [Laughs]

Photo credit: Becky Fluke

That Old Feeling: Vince Gill in Conversation with Margo Price

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We usually think of musical traditions as being defined by their distinctive stylistic elements: the hard-driving string bands of bluegrass; the nimble, fingerstyle guitar figures of Piedmont blues; the rhythmically frisky washboard and squeeze box of Zydeco. It’s quite possible, though, for us to hear a kinship to country tradition in the music of two artists who serve two separate audiences in separate ways. That’s certainly true of Vince Gill and Margo Price — he, the mainstream country standard-bearer; she, the indie country newcomer. They may both incorporate time-tested textures like pedal steel guitar, but they belong to markedly different traditions of countrified emotional expression.

A classically trained singer who’s cultivated a tough vocal attack, Price musters a worldly brand of feistiness and hardship-withstanding resilience that takes significant cues from Loretta Lynn. And, much as Lynn’s down-home grit has come to command the admiration of a younger generation of rock-reared fans who value rawness and autobiographical authenticity — not to mention attract Jack White as a collaborator — Price’s music holds powerful appeal for that same crowd. It’s White’s Third Man Records that is releasing her bewitching debut, Midwest Farmer’s Daughter, an album that arrives with a vintage aesthetic and an underdog narrative: She had to part ways with her car and wedding ring to pay for it.

Gill, on the other hand, ranks as one of modern country’s finest, most tender voices — an openly emotional balladeer par excellence who’s equally at ease with honky-tonk weepers in the George Jones vein and sensitive, sophisticated adult-pop. That expressive range has long endeared Gill to popular country fans and made him a radio fixture through the ’90s. The same major label that was his home back then, MCA Nashville, just put out the immensely rewarding new set that he recorded in his home studio, Down to My Last Habit.

Though Gill’s singing and songwriting often exemplifies the softer side of country and Price stakes out spunkier territory, they had no trouble at all speaking across the divide.

Margo Price, meet Vince Gill. Vince Gill, meet Margo Price.

Vince Gill: Well, it’s great to hear from ya, Margo. Are you doing okay?

Margo Price: Yeah, I’m doing well. How are you?

VG: I’m just fine.

Before you got on the line, Vince, Margo and I were talking about the fact that she’s doing her very first Opry performance this Friday night.

VG: Oh, that’s awesome! It’s a big deal. You will never ever forget it, I can assure you.

MP: Thank you!

It just so happens that Vince is celebrating his 25 th anniversary as a member of the Opry very soon.

MP: Yeah, congrats!

VG: Aw, thanks. I’m just old.

[Both Laugh]

MP: Well, I’m pretty old to be making my first appearance on the Opry. Do you remember the first time that you played?

VG: I do, yeah. I got asked once to play the Opry, I think, in ‘88 or ’89. My daughter was in the second or third grade, and we were all set to do this talent show at school. She asked me to play guitar for her, so I taught her “You Are My Sunshine.” We practiced and learned it and had to make all the rehearsals. [The talent show] was all set for a Saturday night.

So I get this call from the Opry, and they said, “Hey, we’ve been watching your career. We want to invite you out to play the Opry.” And I said, “Awesome! When?” And they said, “Saturday night.” I said, “Oh, my God. I can’t make it. I’m playing at the Grassland Elementary School. I’ve gotta back up my kid.” So I kept my promise to my kid, and they invited me on down the line a little bit later.

MP: That’s really beautiful.

VG: Yeah, it was really cool. Jimmy C. Newman was the one who did the introduction, and I sang “When I Call Your Name.” That’s the first song I sang on that stage. I’d just written it and had hopes for it. I don’t even know if I’d recorded it yet.

MP: Wow, that’s really cool.

I love that we’ve begun this conversation with you two comparing stories. I’ll open with a question for both of you. I admit I almost feel silly asking this of a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame who is himself cited as an influence by so many singers. Here goes anyway: What country singer sets the bar for you when it comes to conveying emotion and being expressive?

VG: Go ahead, kiddo.

MP: Well, I have always been really drawn to a lot of singers of the ‘50s through ‘70s, especially women. Loretta Lynn, I think, is kind of where I’ve tried to set the bar. She could sing so tough, but she was always talking about something. I think Tammy Wynette, too. She could go one second from sounding really vulnerable and fragile to just kind of overcoming and somehow coming out strong, even though she didn’t feel that way. I think probably those two, and Dolly. The three of them I try to live up to, which is a hard thing to do.

What about you, Vince?

VP: One of the most emotional singers I’ve ever heard is Patsy Cline. You felt a tear in the way that she sang all the time. Then the earliest George Jones records. They sounded hungry. They sounded forlorn. They were full of melancholy. To me, that’s the epitome of a great country singer, is you honestly find the emotion, not necessarily through the words of a song but through the emotion of a singer. Come to find out, when I got to be great friends with George, he told me, “I was trying to emulate Roy Acuff.” If you listen to a Roy Acuff record, you hear him do the same kind of thing that George did, but George did it quite a bit differently, with some more soulful notes and bending notes a little differently. But there was a real similarity in them.

I remember when I was first starting to make country records, I wanted to be so traditional, but I was at a label that really wasn’t all that keen on having a real traditional roster. So I was a little bit lost. When I started on my first record, I was singing my heart out as best I could. My producer, Emory Gordy, graciously told me, “Listen, that sounds great, but we already have a George Jones. You need to find your voice. You need to find your way that you want this emotion to be conveyed. Don’t ever imitate. Be inspired by, but find your own voice.”

Vince, the most traditional-sounding song on your new album is the one you’ve dedicated to George Jones, “Sad One Comin’ On.” It’s a real weeper about being deeply affected by his singing in life and deeply affected by his passing. What went into that song?

VG: Just the truth. The greatest songs come from the truth. The truth was he lived every word of that song. All I had to do was tell his truth through my eyes. There’s one moment in that song where I really feel like I channeled him in a really beautiful way. In the last verse, there’s a line that says, “He’d tear your heart out when he sang a song.” Just the way that the word “tear” came out of my mouth, I wanted that to be an instant where it sounds like George.

Margo, I’ve read that you have an interesting connection to George Jones. Is it true that your great uncle is the songwriter Bobby Fischer, who wrote Jones’s “Writing on the Wall”?

MP: Yeah. He actually just had his 80th birthday. His daughter surprised him by getting everybody to sing songs that he wrote. Of course, I picked “Writing on the Wall.” That’s one of my favorites. It was so nerve-wracking. I sang it in front of him and Dickey Lee. George is probably the greatest singer of all time. It’s crazy that he lived the way he did and he could still belt.

Vince, you’ve joked that you cried like a baby at George Jones’s funeral. I was listening live on WSM that day, and I think you filled a really important role in the collective grieving process when you sang your song “Go Rest High on That Mountain” and got so overcome that you couldn’t get the words out.

VG: It was interesting, because I think it gave everybody the okay to let go. Before [I sang], it had all been so performance-oriented that, when I kind of lost it, it gave the room the ability to cry. … Truth be told, what really tore me up was hearing Patty’s [Loveless] voice — the sound of her voice and mine and the history of the two of us [singing together]. We were there getting up for George. So it was a combination of all those things: the passing of one of the true greats.

What’s it been like watching “Go Rest High on That Mountain” become a modern-day standard that people turn to for comfort?

VG: It’s pretty overwhelming, honestly. I was not gonna record that song back in the day when I wrote it. My brother passed in ‘93, and that was my way of honoring my brother and grieving for him and putting it in a song what I hoped was in store for him. I’m so grateful that we did choose to put it out. I guess people have said it’s become the modern-day “Amazing Grace” almost. … When people wanna turn to something you’ve gone and created, in their hardest of times, I can’t even describe how grateful I am [for that].

Not all the songs on your new album are melancholy, but a lot of them really testify to the depths of people’s feelings toward those they love or desire, those they’ve delighted in or let down or been wounded by. For you, how is that kind of sensitivity linked to mature expression?

VG: All I know is that all I’ve ever wanted was to be moved by music, not so much to be impressed. Certain voices can sing all the notes, all the runs, all the licks, or a guitar player can play every note in the book, and at the end of the day, you go, “Well that was impressive, but it didn’t do anything to stir an emotion in me.” That’s kinda what the whole point of it has been for me.

Margo, you were joking earlier that you’re belatedly reaching this point in your career. You’ve been grinding it out in small clubs for a dozen years now, something like that.

MP: That sounds about right.

Since this is your first album under your own name, it’ll be most people’s first chance to form an impression of what you do. The title you chose, Midwest Farmer’s Daughter, brings to mind Loretta Lynn’s Coal Miner’s Daughter. What appeals to you about drawing a connection between where you’re coming from and where she was coming from?

MP: It was definitely kind of a nod to her, and also a nod to the Beach Boys’ song [“Farmer’s Daughter”]. It just felt really good to be honest and say where I’m from. I wasn’t born in the South, and sometimes people wanna make a point that I’m not allowed to sing country music or something because of that.

There have been great Canadian country singers.

MP: Yeah. I mean, you’d be surprised when you look back. Connie Smith, she was from Ohio. But yeah, I think it was nice to say something simply about who I am and where I came from.

To get a little more specific, how did Loretta Lynn’s tough-talking tell-offs, songs like “Fist City” and “Don’t Come Home a-Drinkin” and so on, influence some of your songs, say, “About to Find Out,” for instance?

MP: [Laughs] That’s a very good comparison between the three that you just mentioned. That one [“About to Find Out”] definitely mirrors the attitude in her songs. I just always loved that she was able to talk about things and not shove an idea down someone’s throat, but maybe [show] the other side of the coin. “The Pill” and things that she really went out on a limb to do, that kind of writing and living on the edge excites me.

You sing from the perspective of somebody who’s lost the family farm, or who’s spent a weekend in jail, or who’s been kicked around by life and the music industry — someone who’s gone through all that stuff and is a scrappy survivor. That’s the persona I get from a lot of your songs. What feels right to you about singing from that place?

MP: I think, for so long, I was writing from a different point-of-view. That may or may not be why it’s working now and it wasn’t then. I think, like Vince said earlier, the best thing about songs is honesty. An honest song is a good song. I feel really confident when I sing it, because I’ve lived it. It’s a form of therapy, I think, to just get it out and wear my heart on my sleeve a little bit. Plus, everybody loves an underdog.

Have you noticed that people seem to really place a lot of importance on the idea that the hardships you’re singing about are literally your autobiography?

MP: … It’s been interesting that that’s what people want to talk about. I guess the songs are interesting. I think, when I was writing 10 or 12 years ago, I didn’t have a lot of life experience. Like Vince was saying earlier, when your brother passed and you wrote that song, you kind of go into survival mode of, “How do I make myself and other people able to cope with tragedy?” Through that, you get thicker skin and you move on and, hopefully, you can share some of what you’ve learned with the folks around you.

Vince, the way you use your voice — the vibrato and curlicues and bent notes — makes a tremendous difference in making people feel a song. What would you say it takes for you to put that tenderness across vocally?

VP: Well, I think that the key to great singing is when you don’t; it’s when you stop. And what I mean is, if there’s this long line of words, it’s kind of like breathing. You want the listener to be able to take a breath, too. So often singers will sing all the way across the end of a phrase, all the way through, so that they cover up where maybe the hi-hat ends or the guitarist does what he does or whatever. The point of it all is to make room for everybody. That includes the singer.

I think a voice is either interesting to you or it’s not. It’s not going to be more interesting to you if you can sing more notes or if you can sing louder or harder or what have you. … What’s funny is, most singers will find a thing that they think is their thing, their go-to thing. And, to me, it’s generally the least appealing thing that they do. [Laughs] I don’t know why that is, but I’m sure that’s true in my case, as well. There are some go-to things that I think are my thing and everybody will roll their eyes and go, “That’s not what it is.”

MP: [Laughs]

VP: So I don’t know that I’ve got the answer to what it is that I do that people are drawn to. I’m grateful that they are. I think it’s the ability to be subtle with what you’re trying to do.

Margo, you have that no-nonsense, tough vocal attack and hard-edged phrasing. People have compared it not only to Loretta Lynn but also Tanya Tucker, and I’d throw in Wanda Jackson, too. How do you feel like you summon toughness in your approach to singing?

MP: You know, I had so many years of classical training. I was in choir and sang a lot in church and my mom would drive me 45 minutes up to this voice teacher in the city. She would teach me all the things, but it really is about just the raw emotion underneath it. I’m sure I still use some of my technique here and there, but I don’t find myself over-thinking it, because that’s when I’ll mess up. Growing up, too, in the school choir that I was in, the choir director, she never wanted to give me solos. Every now and then I would get to be in an ensemble. It was just like Vince was saying — people either like your voice or they don’t. And I think some people really love my voice because it’s different and it stands out. I’m sure other people are just not sure what to think of it. It’s got its own thing. I don’t quite know how to explain what I do, I guess.

I’d love to close with another question for both of you. We’ve been talking about the emotional traditions that you’re each working in. How do you feel like masculinity or femininity shapes what you do? How do you make use of either in your expression?

MP: You wanna go?

VG: Go ahead, buddy.

You’re both so polite!

MP: I know. Too polite.

… I do love a lot of male musicians and songwriters. So I feel like there’s part of me that’s always been a little jealous of the way that guys have the ability to sing more powerfully. Sometimes there’s this misconception that women have to sing pretty. I guess I like a good mix of the two. I’ve kind of been trying to get back into exercising my head voice a little more, because I do use my belting chest voice a lot. Like I said, I have classical training and I would sing mezzo-soprano Italian songs. I really exercised that delicate, sweet voice. But I think that, for a long time, I’ve kind of wanted to do the opposite and belt things out like Hank or Merle or George — or even women who commanded it, even Etta James or soul singers that really drove it out. You know, you have to find a good balance that works for you. Hopefully I’ve landed somewhere in the middle of that.

VG: [Laughs] You’re asking a question about masculinity and you’re talking to a guy that sings higher than most women on the planet. I already sing like a girl.

I just think that the real key is more about the soul that you bring. You sing what’s appropriate for the song you’re singing. … All you really want to do is sound authentic when you’re singing. You don’t want to sound like, “Hey, I’m a country singer singing a rock tune. Hey, I’m a jazz singer singing a country tune.” I think that each song is gonna dictate the way you should sing it. You may wanna sing it hard, but that could be wrong. I think that it’s more a song to song choice. I can honestly say I don’t think anything about masculinity at any point when I’m singing.

[All Laugh]

I really appreciate you both being good sports about this.

VG: It was fun.

MP: Yeah.

VG: Margo, have a great Friday night. I’m happy for ya.

MP: It was really an honor to speak with you today. I’m not gonna lie: I was a little nervous.

VG: Don’t be!

MP: You’re so sweet.

Illustration by Abby McMillen. Vince Gill photo by J Wright. Margo Price photo by Angelina Castillo for Third Man Records.

Past Perfected: Carrie Rodriguez in Conversation with Paul Burch

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On paper, the concepts behind new projects by Carrie Rodriguez and Paul Burch might sound a bit formalistic — hers, a cross-cultural translation of generations-old Mexican ranchera songs and appreciation of her great-aunt Eva Garza’s overlooked recordings; his, a fictionalized musical memoir of pre-electrified pop star Jimmie Rodgers detailing, among other things, Rodgers's final, tuberculosis-hobbled trip to record in New York City. But, in reality, Rodriguez’s Lola and Burch’s Meridian Rising are truly dynamic albums, animated by the imaginative work of Rodriguez and Burch mastering nuances of musical style and cultural context, then allowing themselves ample room to play.

The seeds of both song cycles were planted years ago. Early in her fiddle-playing career, before she’d established herself as a duet partner to Chip Taylor or ventured out as a solo singer/songwriter, Rodriguez received a package of CDs burned from her great-aunt’s hard-to-find vinyl records and found herself transfixed. As for Burch, one of the driving forces behind a vintage country revival that overtook Nashville honky-tonks two decades ago and a standard-setter for roots smarts ever since, he was quite taken, too, when he came across an obscure recording of Rodgers and blues guitarist Clifford Gibson.

Have you two crossed paths before?

Paul Burch: Well, we actually did a long time ago. I think I opened for you, or we played a double show, at the Borderline.

Carrie Rodriguez: Yeah! With Chip [Taylor], right?

PB: Yes. Ages ago.

CR: I do remember that.

So you’re talking a number of years ago.

PB: Yeah. I’d say 10 or more. Does that sound right?

CR: Uh huh. Yeah. Because I was playing with Chip in my early 20s up through maybe 2006 or something. So it had to be before that. Whoa. Old.

PB. No, no. You’re not old.

It occurred to me that it might not seem immediately clear why I’d want you two to get on the phone together.

[Both laugh]

From my perspective, you’ve both released remarkable new albums that conjure long-gone musical figures in fascinating ways, but your approaches to doing that are very different. I thought it would be illuminating to put your ideas in conversation.

CR: Okay.

PB: I love it.

You both work in contemporary roots music, which often gestures backward in very general ways. But, with these projects, you’ve each brought such specificity to the act of engaging the past. Did you think of what you were doing as upping the ante?

PB: Hmmm. I’ll let you go first, Carrie. Ha!

CR: [Laughs] I was really hoping you’d go first!

PB: Okay, alright, alright. I’ll go first. For me, I don’t think of what I’m doing as reviving anything, or even revisiting anything old, because it all feels contemporary to me as long as it speaks to me. And I don’t mean that defensively at all. I think that’s part of my sort of cuckoo clock sense of time. I understand that it can be seen as old or revisiting an old style.

The record that you’re talking about is based on the life of Jimmie Rodgers. So I thought, “Why not fill the songs with the sounds of his contemporary life?” which is everything from the Mississippi Sheiks, which was the African-American fiddle group, to early Duke Ellington or early songs of Hoagy Carmichael. But to me, that was fun. Because as much as I love the Mississippi Sheiks, I had never sat down to try to write something with their rhythm and chord changes in mind. Hoagy Carmichael and Johnny Mercer and those guys, they all had a real interesting way of writing melodies, you know? And as much as I like it, I had never thought [of trying it]. This album, though, sort of gave me license to stay in that world; whereas, typically, when I wrote songs, I don’t know where the inspiration’s gonna come from. You know, I can be in a great mood and I’ll write a bunch of dark things.

Typically, when I go into the studio, as much as I love a lot of old music, I want what everybody wants — I want to make something that’s loud and energetic and all that kind of stuff. I guessed it upped the ante for me. … In a way it was kind of harder. Previous times, when I’ve written, I’ve tried to be sneaky. I’ve tried to be contemporary but find a way to put something in it that was part of my personal roots. And this was kind of the opposite. Even though this record has a lot of nods to older music, it ended up sounding kind of contemporary. I don’t know how that happened.

CR: I like this. This is a lot more interesting than doing an interview one-on-one. Getting to hear another artist answer a question, that’s really fun.

It’s been such a journey making this record. I mean, my initial idea was that I wanted to take a group of Mexican songs — ranchera songs, classic songs — and reinvent them for my time, for my era of music, for my tastes. I wanted a mariachi band that was not your typical mariachi band. So I thought [revered jazz guitarist] Bill Frisell was a great guitar player for the project. I put together this band, and that was the initial idea. But, as I started researching my favorite songwriters from the ‘40s, ‘50s, ‘60s — Mexican songwriters — and learning songs, I became so inspired to write, that the album ended up being half classic ranchera tunes, half originals. And the originals mostly came out in Spanglish.

PB: [Laughs]

CR: Not really on purpose. That’s just how they came out. So I think my original idea was that it was going to be kind of an album of classic music reinvented a little bit, but in the end, I don’t know. I think it is something new. Even the classic ranchera tunes … I mean, with the band we put together, they’re pretty different than any versions I’ve ever heard of them.

PB: I think it’s great that you chose Bill, because I think of him as being the kind of guitarist who would love to learn something, if he didn’t already learn it as it was written. But then his natural inclination as a songwriter and arranger would be to accent things that appealed to him. Was that sort of how it worked out with him?

CR: Yeah, in some ways. I didn’t wanna send anybody in the band too much advance music. I think I sent a few tracks by my great-aunt, Eva Garza. Part of the initial inspiration for this project was my great-aunt and her music. She started recording in the late 1930s. So I wanted them to hear her music, but I didn’t want to send the band too much, because I wanted them to hear these songs for the first time in the way that I was bringing [the material] to them. So for example, Luke and I — Luke Jacobs is my partner. Well, I call him my husband. We’re not married, but he’s like my husband. Musical partner, as well. We came up with sort of the grooves and feels for all of these ranchera tunes. And they are very different. But those are the only demos I sent to the band. … I wanted these tunes to be fresh, for the most part. We did an instrumental of a Cuco Sanchez song called “Si No Te Vas,” and I think I did send maybe my favorite version — which was Chavela Vargas singing that song — to Bill, but that one was an instrumental. So I knew he would listen to the way that [Vargas] sang it. He often will take a melody that’s sung and transcribe the whole thing and be able to play the melody exactly the way someone sang it. And then, of course, from there, he turns it into his own odyssey.

PB: [Laughs] I had a similar experience in that the group of musicians I used I’ve worked with for a long time, but not all of them are that well-versed in, say, the era of blues and the era of jazz that Jimmie Rodgers was working in, which was nice because they just heard it as music. Their reference was rhythm. Also, another nice thing about working that way was that we didn’t have any contemporary rock ‘n’ roll sounds that we could lean on. If we’re recording a kind of contemporary record, whatever records have been in circulation over the last few years, it’s gonna show up a little bit, no matter how hard you try — unless you play with musicians that are kind of out of the western world.

Carrie, you mentioned your great-aunt, Eva Garza. You recorded a song for the album that she’d recorded and you also have some originals depicting both the atmosphere that she recorded in and what it’s like for you now on the road. I hear you drawing connections between her experiences and your own as a professional performer and Latina woman. Do you feel like you’re staking your claim to a personal and musical heritage?

CR: Hmmm. That’s a nice way of putting it. I do really feel like this record is maybe more representative of me than anything I’ve done before. I never thought about it that much, but being a Chicana fiddle player is still a little unusual in this country. I don’t know how many there are of us. But thinking about my great-aunt’s music and my heritage got me thinking about my place in the Americana music scene. Really, there aren’t that many Latinas in that scene yet. I mean, there are a few. It definitely made me think about that being a unique part of who I am. Just, for example, with the sound of the record, I didn’t want to shy away from it sounding like country music, because that’s such a part of me, even when I’m singing the songs in Spanish. We had pedal steel all over the ranchera tunes. I do feel like it’s very representative of me in a whole way, whereas my records in the past, of course they’re often very autobiographical, but there was this one element that was maybe missing. And I think singing in Spanish, too, just naturally helps bring that to the surface. That’s the language of half my family.

And it’s something that’s you’ve very gradually woven into your live shows leading up to this point, right?

CR: Yeah. I was pretty chicken to make a whole album in Spanish. I thought about it for a long time. Frankly, I don’t think I was ready to record much in Spanish until now. It’s better if you’ve lived a few years and had some serious heartache, I think. It’s better for singing ranchera.

While Carrie has a strong personal and cultural connection to these songs, Paul, it occurs to me that your connection to Jimmie Rodgers is also about musical identity, but in a different way. You’ve talked about your fascination with how Jimmie Rodgers fashioned himself into a popular entertainer using any kind of music that struck his fancy. What is attractive to you about that?

PB: I think one element of it is that I’ve never felt like what small abilities I have are the kind of things that … my sense of music, I feel very confident about, but I’m not the kind of singer that will stop people in their tracks with anything that I sing. And I’m not such a superlative guitar player — or the other instruments that I play — that I can make an impactful entertainment kind of impression on people. So I think I’ve had to kind of make a personal style.

First, I find something I love and I think that I can sing. But I also have to sort of find a way to sing it, because many of the singers I admire, I don’t have the voice that they do. … In a way, that’s been helpful, because I haven’t felt like I had to be one kind of a singer. I know not everyone will like what I do, but I’d like to give everyone the chance to like it. So many of the performers I liked growing up, they played every kind of music. Jimmie has never been my number one person I’ve listened to, but it’s a very usable kind of model because he was very generous with the musicians he played with. He’d see people on the street. He’d meet people in the studio. And he would say, “Come record with me.” That’s a really healthy thing to do as a musician. A lot of musicians find it really hard to gather a combination of friends and strangers in the studio to make something. They either keep it kind of impersonal, or they keep it with the same crew. Neither of those situations are always ideal. Jimmie seemed to be someone who, he liked his own work. … In the same way that Louis Armstrong seemed to be a very generous musician, [Jimmie] loved to play. I relate to that. For all my many shortcomings as a musician, I always want to get better, and I think the only way to do that is to reach out to people you admire and say, “I love what you do. Could you come? I think you would be perfect to help me make this song really good.” I don’t know if that shows up in the record, but that’s the feeling that I was trying to imbue Jimmie with.

Carrie, you mentioned your awareness that you’re one of the few Chicana performers in the Americana scene. And Paul, you’re zeroing in on how Jimmie Rodgers was way more interested in incorporating an array of popular, current sounds than much of Americana is now. I could see both of your projects making people think a little differently about what’s possible in contemporary roots music — what it looks, sounds, and feels like. Are you finding that to be the case?

CR: I sure hope so.

PB: I hope millions and millions feel that way.

[Both laugh]

CR: Young ones that’ll keep coming to shows for a long time.

PB: Right.

CR: I wrote that song “Z” as a song for young women, honestly. I mean, it’s my story and it talks about being a Chicana fiddle player. The chorus is about showing up to a gig and my name is misspelled on the marquee, which has happened. And, you know, “Rodriguez” is kind of like the “Smith” of Mexicans; it’s pretty common. So it felt pretty good to tell country music where to put the Z. But honestly I’m waiting for the next big Latina — well, I haven’t seen one. I’m waiting for that Latina country superstar. I haven’t seen her. Where is she? Because, if you look at the demographics of our country, I just can’t believe that country music doesn’t have one yet. It doesn’t make any sense to me. So I was hoping with this song I might inspire some young girls to get into songwriting or whatever.

Paul, how about your tendency to take a little more stylistically promiscuous approach to roots music?

PB: Well, that’s Jimmie Rodgers in a nutshell. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it described that way, but that’s a beautiful description. I hope people think so. What I’ve most enjoyed now that I’ve performed these songs live is that they become contemporary feeling very easily. … When your ammunition is a song, you’re asking a lot of that song to really get through to people. When you’re telling a story, there’s always the chance that it could just get swallowed up. Luckily, these songs are not typically narrative. I tried to give them what Jimmie does, which is a sense of conversation, telling a story in a way that is a little bit cut off sometimes, is clipped, where you have to suggest intention without words somehow, almost in the rhythm and the beat.

It seems to be working. People seem to like it. I’m a very practical guy. If people like it, that makes me happy. Of course, I have high expectations, but I’m also glad to have music that I want to play that just seems different to me. … It doesn’t feel as conventional a rocker as I’ve written before or a ballad where there’s kind of a lot of signposts that people might recognize. This doesn’t feel like that. Hopefully, it’s new to the audience and it’s still new to me, too.

It says something about the audiences you’ve both built over the years that they respond to albums with some pretty involved musical concepts.

PB: I hope so. Whoever they are, bless their hearts.

CR: So far, so good.

PB: There was one part of me thinking that there could be no less commercial thing for me to do than to make a record about Jimmie Rodgers. It was so uncommercial and so not the kind of thing that anybody wanted to sell that it seemed to come completely around to the kind of thing that might work. I think the punk rocker in me just kind of enjoyed doing something so different, even if it didn’t work.

It’s so punk of you.

PB: Yeah, that’s me. Mr. Punk.

Thanks very much to both of you for being up for this.

PB: Oh, thank you! I can’t wait to hear your record, Carrie. It’s lovely to talk to you again.

CR: Yeah. Ditto, Paul. I’m gonna have to get online and get that record as soon as I get home. Now I’m completely curious and fascinated.

Illustration by Abby McMillen. Carrie Rodriguez photo courtesy of the artist. Paul Burch photo by Emily Beaver.

How to Have It Both Ways: Darrell Scott in Conversation with Elizabeth Cook

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If you’d happened into the bars where a young Elizabeth Cook and Darrell Scott and various members of their families played hardcore honky-tonk music for working people some decades ago — she in small-town Florida, he wherever his dad had most recently decided they should try to make a go of it — you would have witnessed their immersive education in earthy expression. All these years later, the bodies of work they’ve each built up as singer/songwriters command the respect of a different sort of crowd — theater- and festival-goers attracted to literary sensibilities and more elevated notions of artistry. Scott and Cook, though, have found ways to work the full range of their musical experiences into what they do, including their latest albums, her Exodus of Venus and his Couchville Sessions. They got on the phone with us to compare notes.

I’ve done several of these three-way interviews, and usually the two interviewees haven’t met and I’ll have to make the introductions, but I figured that wouldn’t be necessary in this case.

Darrell Scott: That’s true.

Elizabeth Cook: We go back to the Raffi days. Was it a Raffi track we did? It was some children’s project.

DS: Yeah, I think it was Raffi.

EC: And then you played on the Hey Y’all album [her debut on Warner Bros. Nashville].

DS: Yeah, I think it was one of your first records in town or something, back in the day.

EC: Yeah, 2002.

So this was a country tribute to Raffi?

EC: Yes! It’s been a thousand years. Let me think of what the song was. Did we do “This Little Light of Mine”?

DS: Yeah, that was it. You’ve got a good memory.

The last time I saw you, we were doing a round with Guy Clark, Buddy Miller, and me and you over at the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Darrell Scott

Darrell, I’ve heard the album that you produced for your dad, Wayne Scott, some years back, who really bore a strong sonic resemblance to Hank Williams, and Elizabeth, I’ve heard songs that your mom wrote for you when you were singing as a little girl, that old chestnut “Does My Daddy Love the Bottle?” being one of them. You both spent your formative years in down-home music but eventually found your ways into serious-minded singer/songwriter scenes. How do those seemingly disparate musical worlds and aesthetic values add up in what you do?

EC: Hmm, Darrell?

DS: Well, for me, I kinda feel I’m a giant sponge. I certainly grew up on country music to the full tilt. That’s all that was gonna be on the radio if you’re in the cab of the truck with my dad or my mom. My mom leaned toward, let’s say, Tammy Wynette and Marty Robbins, where my dad was more Hank and Johnny. They met at Merle Haggard, it seemed like. But that was where I started. And then church music gets in there, and it’s Southern Baptist stuff. And my family’s from Kentucky, so it’s got some of that. And then I’ve had the singer/songwriter periods of Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne and Leonard Cohen and all that stuff, so all that gets thrown in. And I had a jazz-fusion period. And then I went to school and got an English degree.

To me, it’s all game in order to write a song that might want to go more bluesy or more honky-tonk or more confessional. Because I’ve loved so much stuff, it all shows up when it’s time to write something that’s leaning one way or another.

EC: I think that, like Darrell, coming up and hearing the hardcore honky-tonk music, that certainly established the ground base of what would be the rudiments of how I created — the chords that I knew and how they went together. So there’s that part. I didn’t re-emerge into the church scene until I was about 12 years old and we had stopped singing around the bars and stuff as much, and my dad was going through the initial phases of recovery from alcoholism. The Church of God songs were almost rockabilly. It felt like rock ‘n’ roll compared to the honky-tonk music. It was very lively — drums and organs and a lot of rolling around and tambourines. And then I think it took just growing up to realize that I was surrounded by this rich cast of characters and they were all storytellers verbally. None of ‘em wrote songs, but daddy did like to tell stories, and he was a character. And 10 half-siblings and all the people that came in and out of our lives.

After college and being torn over whether to pursue an English lit path or the mathematical business path — and choosing the mathematical business path in a rebellion period — that was almost like a sabbatical from music for me. And I was really trying to establish a different kind of life. But once I got out of that and came to Nashville is when I started learning that there was a Lucinda Williams and getting into deeper catalog Rodney Crowell and Nanci Griffith and Guy Clark, and finding out who Townes Van Zandt was, and hearing Steve Earle. And it was like, “Oh, there’s a sense of poetry that can be applied to this.” So there were the remnants of the musical style and then the sort of observation period, trying to learn and develop the poetry skill set and the storytelling skill set and marry all those things. And that’s still where I feel like I am now, on that path.

Elizabeth Cook

I wonder if either of you have ever found yourself challenging the way people define sophisticated and unsophisticated songwriting, since you’ve been intimately acquainted with this whole range of “highbrow” and “lowbrow” sensibilities and don’t view it as simplistically as some other folks might.

DS: Well, to me, that distinction comes down to the song. If there’s a song that’s tapped on my shoulder that wants to be absolutely simple, wants to speak from a character who has an eighth grade education, I figure my job is to facilitate, so to speak, or just let that song come to life the best I can with what started in the first place, as opposed to me sitting there saying, “Hey, I can’t write this song with that language. I’m gonna have to shift it over somewhere else.” That’s not my job. My job is to follow through with the initial inspiration and, if that inspiration wants to be coming from a farmer or an auto mechanic or a steel mill worker or something like that — and those are folks and characters I know, absolutely — then I’m gonna follow through with that. And the next song might be more poetic or more worldly or something, then my job on that one is to be that way. So I feel the songs sorta tell us what to do, as far as whether it’s sophisticated or a little more jazzy or a little more dark or a little more gospel or a little more anything.

EC: I think so, too. Music can do so many different things, you know? There’s music to boogie to, music to party to. There’s music that’s engaging on a more sophisticated level, and that’s where, to me, the more intricate lyric and storytelling and the more original way that you can say something [come in], even if it’s from a character that maybe you’ve heard speak before. For me, I guess I’m just saying it totally depends.

I’ve really enjoyed lately getting more into trying to find different jumping off points. If I’m wanting to write a song like this song “Evacuation” that’s on the new record about a lady in New Orleans … I decided to just immerse myself in learning about voodoo culture, and in [learning] that terminology and ideas, the story gets a little bit richer. So the process of digging deeper is what’s been exciting to me and a way to try and grow my writing.

As I listened to Exodus of Venus and Couchville Sessions and revisited some of your previous albums, I was thinking about the introspective approach that I’ve heard from other contemporary singer/songwriters, who tend to be up in their heads and disengaged from their bodies. That’s not at all what I get from your work. You can each get really expansive with the stories you tell or the experiences and settings you describe, but always also acknowledge physicality. Is that something that either of you are conscious of?

DS: You go ahead, Elizabeth.

EC: No, you go. We’ve got a little groove going.

DS: I’m conscious, and it’s not really while I’m doing it, but afterward. I look at my work and see that it’s sort of what you described there. Another way of putting it, for me, is linear — I feel like a lot of my writing is linear. I wish I weren’t so literal, to tell you the truth. I see that quality show up a lot in my writing.

You were describing some other type of singer/songwriter — folks who seem more disconnected. I’d love to be more disconnected sometimes. I just don’t get to get there. Not ‘cause I don’t want to. When a song like that does come along, I’m like, “Hallelujah. I got one, at least.” You know? There’s a slight different between a groove and a rut. I appreciate that linear quality in my writing, when the song’s appropriate, but I’d sure like to bust out and find the songs that allow me to not feel like I’m repeating a version of myself. I’d hate to think that I’m repeating myself, but I do see that linear quality in my writing and I’d like to bust it up. If you guys have any ideas how I could do that, let me know.

[All Laugh]

EC: Immerse yourself in voodoo culture.

No, I certainly don’t know. I’ve gone through phases of ideas and theories about it where I’m like, “Well, that’s kind of a cop-out just to write about the moon and the river, because you can totally bullshit your way through that.” I want to write rich stories and make them rhyme. I think that feels more challenging; it feels more interesting. If you can learn to do that well, I almost think it’s more rare than any other. So I follow that path and try to master that and, in doing that, sometimes I feel like, “Well, this is trite, and I wish I had something original to say about the moon and the river.” I think I’m also, like Darrell, trying to figure out how to crack that nut, how to maybe be sometimes a little more metaphorical or whatever you want to call it, and still be original and interesting and sophisticated and all those things that I feel like we’re challenged to do.

Darrell, it’s really interesting to hear you describe your sense of how your writing unfolds as “linear.” I don’t think I would’ve chosen that word. What I’m trying to get at is that your songs often operate on multiple different layers — you make the listener aware of what’s right in front of them, what can be seen with the eye, but also all these subtexts, stuff that’s felt and not said. For example, when I listen to “Waiting For the Clothes to Get Clean,” I see the people in the laundromat, their physicality, but I also feel the complex emotions they’re mired in. What does it take to work all of that in there?

DS: Well, that one came in a number of ways. One was just trying to describe that couple in that song. They obviously have major problems, you know? The whole thing is about a conflict. And they’ve just gone to the laundromat, so it’s an hour-and-a-half, but the shit they throw on each other just in something as simple as washing your clothes, it tells everything about how they don’t have it together. They just live in different worlds, but they’re in the same car, the same laundromat, and share the same bed. So that one, to me, was kind of a character study. Sometimes I’ve been embarrassingly too much like the male in that song, which I despise that part of me. But men … sometimes it takes them a long time to get out of whatever they’ve seen their parents do or whatever their male bravado crap is.

When I say linear, I mean, for example, that songs goes from the beginning of the laundromat experience to them driving back. Literally, it goes from unloading the clothes to now they’re driving back home after the hour-and-a-half or so at the laundromat. So that’s what I mean by linear: This happens, then that happens, then he said that, then she said that.

EC: Sort of like chronologically in time.

DS: That’s right. Yeah.

What goes on in that song, it points to all the psychological stuff between the two characters. So I hear what you’re saying. To me, the linear in that song is that it’s a real crisp timeline.

Elizabeth, you mentioned that you’ve been trying to find different starting points for your songwriting. You’ve always painted really evocative, detailed pictures in your lyrics, but I do pick up on some new elements in this batch of songs. In songs like “Exodus of Venus” and “Slow Pain,” it’s like you’ve pared down your lyric writing to this intense sensory stuff with dark blues shadings. That’s my description of it, but I wonder how you’ve experienced it and what got you there.

EC: You always get that cliché question, “Which comes first, the music or the lyrics?” Those were examples of ones that were initially music-driven out of the gate and the lyrics followed. When I’m writing to an emotion that’s already established in a sound, it’ a little more freeing. There’s a little bit less responsibility on the lyric, if that makes sense. I didn’t have that before, and a lot of that is because of writing with the producer for the record, Dexter Green, who’s a great guitarist and way into tones and pedals and all this stuff. So it’s been a different jumping off point instead of some sort of dense narrative coming out of my journal.

As you’ve been performing this material live, how have you seen people respond to hearing different stuff from you?

EC: I tell you what, I’m really encouraged and relieved, so far. And it’s still early, but we’re pretty much running the board. It’s been very positive. I was worried that it would be, “Well, this isn’t as country. This isn’t as sunshine-y.” But everybody’s been enjoying the exploration of the darker side and what I hope is an evolution to the writing. So far, so good. Only a couple people said, “You’re keeping it country, aren’t ya?” And I’m like, “Well, not really.” I love country music. I love it. But I don’t care if something I’m writing is country or not when I’m writing it. I just don’t care.

I feel like that’s probably a perspective on writing that you could identify with, Darrell.

DS: Yeah, very much. When it’s time to write, it all gets set aside. If we’re doing it right, all the attention goes to this song, this inspiration sitting in front of us. Fantastic, if it’s country. Fantastic, if it doesn’t rhyme. Again, I’m really trying to do what the song is telling me to do. And that may sound a little, you know, like it’s not exactly me writing it; I’m certainly there, but I’m paying attention to the song. Wherever the song is going, I hope to bring whatever I got to the table to help it to come to life. My country music background can sit at the side, if it doesn’t need any of those skills. I don’t feel like I have to interject anything.

Something else I appreciate about each of your music is that you have ways of drawing together the sensual and the spiritual. You have songs that explore the power of physical connection, that don’t beat around the bush about sexual tension. Darrell, your song “Come into This Room” comes to mind. Elizabeth, I heard that kind of power in “Straightjacket Love” or, on the more playful side, in “Yes to Booty.” You each also have a way of grounding bits of spirituality in the body. Through that blurring of lines, are you sort of letting us in on the way you experience the world?

DS: Well, for me, it’s part of that quality of telling the truth in the songs. If we’re sensual beings and if we’re sensual-minded as we walk around the planet — and I am — that has to enter in. So does the spiritual, because that’s how I walk around the world, too. So I try not to be ashamed of that. Depending on our background, you can be taught to hide that, and it’s scary, and you’re sure as hell not supposed to write a song about it. But, to me, that’s just part of the deal of breaking away from the stuff that didn’t work from childhood. Country music worked; I’ll take that. And maybe the Southern Baptist stuff didn’t work so well, or didn’t stick. So I can leave that one behind, but take away the general community of my church background or the general idea of the great gospel songs or the energy of people all feeling it together. To me, I walk around with the sensuality and the spiritual, and it would be no wonder how it would show up in songs. They’re part of what I carry around.

EC: I sort of think it’s inherent, for me, in music period. It’s like music taps into all those things, and that’s why I relate to it. It taps into sensuality. It taps into spirituality. That’s why it’s almost like an awakening when you connect with it. So I think it’s inherent in making music that those things would be present, if you’re truly succeeding in being connected to it. Those things would hopefully, naturally show up. I think that’s probably why.

That’s my best guess.

That’s a good guess.

Illustration by Abby McMillen. Elizabeth Cook photo by Jim McGuire. Darrell Scott photo courtesy of the artist.

Squared Roots: Kevin Morby Tells a Tale of Harry Dean Stanton

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Roots culture cuts a wide swath that expands far beyond music, and Kentucky native Harry Dean Stanton is a living testament to that. Any list of roots icons would have to include him, if only for his performances on screens big and small in everything from Cool Hand Luke to Gunsmoke. But what only the die-hards know is that Stanton was a musician first, playing harmonica and guitar, and doing the old-school troubadour circuit back in the day. His musicianship even creeps into his acting work, from time to time, which is exactly what he was hoping for.​

Born in Lubbock and raised in Kansas City, Kevin Morby has a good bit of the Heartland in him, as well. As a musician, Morby played a part in both Woods and the Babies before branching out on his on a few years back. He recently issued his third solo set, Singing Saw, which finds him looking to his roots in Bob Dylan and Neil Young even while he stretches his wings to reach new heights.

Bold, unexpected choice you've made here with Harry Dean Stanton. I dig it. Let's hear you defend it, though. What is it about this guy that makes you think “roots music hero”?

[Laughs] To preface it, I just have to say that he's one of those people that, for the longest time, I didn't even know who he was. I'd seen him in a lot of movies, and he kind of became one of those people who you become familiar with the face, but you don't really concern yourself with the name because you feel like you already know them. Then, one day, you finally learn his name and it's, “Oh, that's that guy's name. I had no idea he had a name even.” [Laughs]

[Laughs] He was just this leather saddlebag that was always there.

[Laughs] Yeah, exactly. He's just one of those incredible actors who can pull that off. I think the thing about someone like him is that he is just who he is. He sort of plays himself all the time, which is kind of rare.

Anyway, a long time ago, when I was in a band called the Babies, we played this Western-themed art installation in a clock tower in New York. And they wanted us to pick a movie to be projected behind us while we played, and I picked Paris, Texas, because I had seen it recently and that's maybe the only movie where he's the lead role. I just love that movie. The soundtrack is so great. The cinematography is so incredible. So, we played with the movie projected behind us and all these photos came out of it that were really cool — him walking through the desert behind us.

A couple years later, I played at a venue in Portland and I didn't even realize until we were playing that they had this big mural of him from Paris, Texas behind us. So he's just always there.

He's like your guardian angel or something. You guys have a thing.

Yeah, exactly. Okay, then a couple of years ago in L.A., I went to Cinefamily because Kris Kristofferson was doing a Q&A. They were playing Cisco Pike which he starred in and Harry Dean Stanton is also in. I went because he was doing a Q&A and was going to play a couple songs before the movie. When I got there, I had no clue that he was doing the Q&A with Harry Dean Stanton. It kind of blew my mind. It was one of those things where Kristofferson was as together as he could be, but every question, he kind of gave a standard response … like they would ask, “Kris, what was it like working with that director?” And he would say, “It was a very fun time and we all had a good experience.”

Harry Dean Stanton, who was sitting next to him the whole time, literally never didn't have a cigarette in his mouth and was drinking wine on stage. Every time Kristofferson would give a positive answer like that, Harry Dean Stanton would chime in and say, “Nothing means anything.” [Laughs] He would say these nihilistic things and tell Kris Kristofferson to shut up. Even within the Q&A, he was the way he is in movies — this wingman. It was really incredible to see.

At one point, he told a story about when they were doing Billy the Kid and he and Bob Dylan were jogging and they accidentally jogged through the scene. It was really funny imagery. So, they did the Q&A, then they played three songs … they played two songs, then the second song, which might've been “Me & Bobby McGee,” they ended up playing it twice. Totally didn't realize that they were repeating themselves. [Laughs] It was so amazing. They finished the song and, off the mic — but it's a small enough room to hear — Kristofferson leaned back and was like, “Harry, I think we just sang the same song twice.” It was an incredible moment.

Afterward, I was alone because I went by myself … I was sitting outside at the little party before the movie, sitting there by myself just thinking, “What a cool night.” And Harry Dean Stanton sat down right next to me. It was one of those mind-blowing things. He was smoking and drinking wine, and I asked if I could get a picture with him, so I have this photo of me with him. That's my Harry Dean Stanton story. [Laughs]

[Laughs] That's pretty great. It's interesting that he did the thing with Kristofferson because, listening to his music, he's not that great of a singer.

He's not.

But that's never been a prerequisite for country music … like Kristofferson.

Right. Exactly. I think, with Harry Dean Stanton, if you watch the trailer of his documentary, throughout it, he's singing the Nilsson song, “Everybody's Talkin'.” The dude is almost 90 years old and he's got the total turkey warble to his singing, but it's really beautiful. And when I saw him perform, too. I think he's just one of those cool treasures. When you finally decide to look into him, you realize he's a singer who used to sing every night at the Troubadour. He's just this artist that's all-encompassing. He's invested in the arts and he's more of a musician than an actor, in this weird way. He's kind of more interested in that and just maybe happened to be better at acting. He's just an American treasure. And I love people like that.

I think that's a great way to describe him because he did — he made the choice early on to pursue acting because he thought he'd be able to do music as a part of that. And he was right. I'll tell you, it's kind of fun to listen to his take on “Tennessee Whiskey” next to Chris Stapleton's. If you haven't done an A/B on that …

[Laughs] Oh, man. I'd love to hear that. I just watched this video of him and Art Garfunkel singing at some celebration for Jack Nicholson, and they sing “All I Have to Do Is Dream” by the Everly Brothers. It's so good. He's just one of those charismatic people, this weird all-star.

You're right. And, if you do step outside of music and just consider his roles in Cool Hand Luke, Gunsmoke, How the West Was Won, Dillinger … he's got some dirt road cred. In terms of roots, he was even born in Kentucky.

Right. For sure.

I get it. I dig this choice. We can work with it.

It's funny. That's cool. I remember, in Cool Hand Luke, the first time I saw that was maybe 10 years ago, there's a scene where he's playing banjo and singing, “If you're going to Houston, then you better watch out.” I've never heard that song outside of that movie, but it gets stuck in my head all the time. He's just always there and he plants little seeds in your mind. You look behind you and it's like, “Oh, there's that guy.” [Laughs]

[Laughs] And, like you said, he was jogging with Dylan and he's been in videos by Dylan, Ry Cooder, and Dwight Yoakam. So, he is. He is always there.

Have you seen The Straight Story, the David Lynch movie?

No. But it's on my list.

It's a really incredible movie, a Lynch movie that views nothing like a typical David Lynch movie. It's so good. The whole thing is that this guy goes to see his brother because his brother's about to die, but the guy can't drive anymore, so he drives a tractor. The brother is played by Harry Dean Stanton. It's a very small role that comes at the end, but it's kind of the most perfect Harry Dean Stanton role, in a way. I won't give anything away. Go watch it for yourself and you'll see what I mean.

Kevin Morby photo by Dusdin Condren. Harry Dean Stanton photo by hermitosis via Source / CC BY-ND.

Brandy Clark, ‘Three Kids No Husband’ (Acoustic Demo)

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Brandy Clark understands all of the inhales and exhales of humanity. Not the just the quick, excitable sighs that come with the first beats of a new romance, nor just the deep, shuddering moments that accompany a great loss or tragedy that leaves us struggling for air. Clark looks deeper, for those times that often go unnoticed, but perhaps say much more than labored gasps and gulps. On "Three Kids, No Husband," off of her sophomore release, Big Day In a Small Town, it's a single mother stealing away for a few minutes of oxygen on the balcony, that come drifting in through plaintive and quick pulls on a cigarette. It's a picture she first conjured on her debut, 12 Stories, with "Get High" — how, for these vibrant characters, sometimes the smallest, most savored respites can be found in an ashy drag.

Written with Lori McKenna, "Three Kids, No Husband" (featured here exclusively in a demo version) is true to Clark's representation of the world at large: There's the struggle of the single mother, balancing both a job at the diner and dirty diapers, but it's never condescending to her plight. She's tired and worn, but the blame is on the cards she's dealt, not her babies — a subtlety of motherly love that many songwriters chose to ignore or just don't understand. It's not a glamorous version of parenthood, but it's true, and Clark gives anyone raising a child (from the smallest towns to the biggest cities) the respect they deserve. "A real life hero, if you ask me," she sings. "Those kids ain’t gonna raise themselves." Just remember to breathe.

WATCH: Henry Wagons, ‘Head or Heart’

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Artist: Henry Wagons
Hometown: Melbourne, Australia
Song: "Head or Heart"
Album: After What I Did Last Night …

In Their Words: "Nashville is a town full of some of the finest in music and booze. A musician's paradise! Its the perfect storm for getting in a real mess. 'Head or Heart' is a song about that time of the night when it becomes difficult to decide between your rational mind, or what's below the belt. The head or the heart." — Henry Wagons

Photo credit: Taylor Wong

LISTEN: Western Centuries, ‘Double or Nothing’

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Artist: Western Centuries
Hometown: Seattle, WA
Song: "Double or Nothing"
Album: Weight of the World
Release Date: June 3
Label: Free Dirt Records

In Their Words: "I tend to gravitate toward heartbreak songs with an optimistic twist and an upbeat melody, even if that's not how I'm feeling at the time. And I do live way up on a hill where you can see the city lights." — Ethan Lawton

Photo credit: Bill Reynolds

Michaela Anne, ‘Easier Than Leaving’

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In country music, a "weeper" is a real thing: a song that's somewhere between a ballad and a hopeless confessional, that places more emphasis on a forlorn guitar and rare, raw lyricism than showboat vocals (though they're often part of the package, too). Think Hank Williams' and Patsy Cline's saddest moments or, later, Townes Van Zandt's — jewels like "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" that struck a perfect balance on the Southern scale with barn-burning honky-tonk, keeping it all delicately teetering in line.

But then the '90s happened and, for better or worse, ballads got the Faith Hill and Shania Twain treatment — notes hit the ceiling and power bombast replaced subtle solemnity. Simplicity, this was not. Luckily, there's been a new bubbling interest in bringing back the genre's delicate, melancholy roots: most of Daniel Romano's Come Cry with Me, Andrew Combs' "Too Stoned to Cry," Margo Price's "Hands of Time," and even Miranda Lambert's "Holding On to You." Now Michaela Anne, on her sophomore album, Bright Lights and the Fame, has an LP full of them — heartbreakers so grounded in self-awareness that they never sound anything but authentic, yet never too indulgent to ring just like diary scribbles.

One of the LP's best is "Easier Than Leaving," which opens with a snapshot in time of a fading relationship: "Sitting at the table, back's against the wall / Coffee's getting colder as I wait for you to talk." Who hasn't felt that tension, taken a last gasp at peaceful air before they fully breathed in the inevitable reality they knew was coming? With a clear quiver, Anne, who moved to Nashville from New York City two years ago, reinvents the lost age of those weepers in the way someone equally schooled in both the forebears — like Williams and Cline — and its modern folk interpreters — like Gillian Welch and Conor Oberst who carried the emotive torch when mainstream Music Row was too busy belting — might. "Easier Than Leaving" might not change her lover's mind and force them to stay, but it will just continue to help put soft, strummed country sadness back on the map.

Derek Hoke, ‘Trouble in Mind’

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If you live in Nashville — specifically East Nashville — then Derek Hoke is your eminent host, with his weekly $2 Tuesdays event at the 5 Spot serving as your best bet to catch a smartly curated collection of emerging talent, drink cheap beers, or make an unexpected musical discovery. (Usually, it's all of those things.) But he doesn't just throw the party; he makes its soundtrack, too. Hoke appears on stage most Tuesdays, where he works through a catalogue of songs that shudder, shake, and groove with the steely composition — and slick propriety — of boogie-woogie kings like Roy Orbison. There's a classic touch and reverence for the dying rock 'n' roll tradition of occasionally keeping it clean — crisp lyrics, tight production unmarred by fuzz, tasteful riffs, and unwrinkled blazers — with an emphasis on putting the grit where it belongs. And that's in a dirty guitar vamp or wail of the harmonica.

Nowhere is this tactic more apparent than on "Trouble in Mind," off of his new third album, Southern Moon. With mouth harp courtesy of Willie Nelson's right-hand man, Mickey Raphael, the song slinks in with a bluesy roll that Hoke's smooth vocal croons right over. Like the Black Keys on "Howlin' for You," Hoke knows the power of a good Lightnin' Hopkins-era riff sidelined by a thumping drumbeat to propel a song straight to both the balls of the foot and the gut.

"I feel it down in my soul, into my heart, out of my head, I'm always thinking of you," Hoke sings. He's got trouble in mind, alright, but it's the music itself that hints at just what kind of mischievous behavior he might be after.