Courtney Marie Andrews Doesn’t Fear Vulnerability

Courtney Marie Andrews’ story begins in Phoenix, Arizona. An only child raised by her mother, she found solace and an outlet for her creativity and imagination in music. She planted her music roots in a self-described “feminist punk band” and began touring while in her teens. Along the way, she recorded a number of albums – best known are Honest Life (2016), GRAMMY-nominated Old Flowers (2020), and Loose Future (2022) – lived in a number of cities, and worked and toured with a number of musicians, including rock band Jimmy Eat World.

Andrews eventually made her way to Nashville, where she now resides. There, she creates music and other art, fueling her soul and inspiration with long walks and her love of animals, bonding with friends’ dogs, and feeding an assortment of “porch animals,” mostly cats, who take up residence outside her door.

In addition to music, Andrews expresses herself through painting and poetry. She has published two collections: 2021’s Old Monarch (2021) and the recent Love Is a Dog That Bites When It’s Scared. Her music, writings, and artwork explore a broad scope of emotions and experiences: loss, grief, fearless love, deep darkness, pure joy, and acceptance of the entire spectrum.

These outpourings are at the essence of her new release, Valentine (out January 16 via Thirty Tigers). Written in the throes of anticipatory grief, the album plummets into the vortex of her trajectory. While the message is raw, the recording is anything but. Valentine is an unfiltered look into Andrews’ heart, filled with waves of sounds and layers of instrumentation.

Among the numerous instruments she plays on Valentine, Andrews is featured on an assortment of guitars and basses, including a 1973 Martin D-28, 1968 Gibson B-45 12-string, 1970s high-strung Japanese Epiphone, Gibson J-45, Epiphone Casino, 1972 Fender P-Bass, 1960s Kay K5915 bass, and 1960s Teisco six-string bass. Longtime friend and colleague Jerry Bernhardt joins her on various instruments, with drummer Chris Bear rounding out the trio. The album was recorded by Michael Harris at Valentine Recording Studios in Los Angeles and produced by Bernhardt and Andrews.

BGS reached Andrews via Zoom for an Artist of the Month conversation.

Has Nashville changed you as a songwriter?

Courtney Marie Andrews: I thought it would deeply shift everything for me, but if anything, it made me want to do other things as well, maybe subconsciously. I started painting and focusing on poetry. But that core sense of self, that songwriter self, will always be with me wherever I go. It’s hard to say how it has shaped me until I’m looking back on my life 20, 30, 40 years from now.

But I will say the community I’ve found here is profound. I’m a Western girl. I’ve lived in Arizona and Seattle up until pretty much my 30s, and I didn’t realize how lonely the West can be. I think that’s apparent in my early work as a songwriter. That subject is throughout the work. When I moved here, I was almost overwhelmed by how much people wanted to hang out. It took a while to adjust and now I can’t imagine it any other way, not having that community to feel into and understand this work, because it is a strange career. So I think more [that] it has affected me personally, but I’ve always continued to write and been on this journey on my own and in my own time.

This is a stripped-down album – only three musicians, including you, and one of them is also your co-producer. Did you know, when the songs were written, that this is how it needed to be done?

I completely funded this album on my own, so if I’m being frank, it was an economical choice. Originally, we would have loved to have a band, but in hindsight, ultimately it created the record it created and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. There’s some power to it being a very condensed group of people, because the focus is a little bit more zoned in, and it becomes a vibe if it’s coming from a few core people, rather than everybody adding their stroke to what you’re doing – which I think is also valid. But looking back, it was probably the best thing we could have done, having Jerry and I playing all the instruments and Chris Bear, of course, on drums.

You played a number of guitars on Valentine. Do the songs determine the guitar, or does the guitar sometimes direct the song?

The songs ultimately lead the way on feeling and vibe. Jerry and I wanted to layer the record. There are a lot of different layers of guitars. We would varispeed one guitar up, so it’s super-high, and then we’d varispeed one guitar lower, so it’s super-low, to create the rounder sound, especially if you’re listening in headphones or on a high-definition speaker system.

But it’s definitely song-driven, whatever the feeling. “Best Friend” is just my guitar and Jerry’s twelve-string. We didn’t go much further than that, because the song was meant to be a bit sparser as far as the depth goes.

“Everyone Wants To Feel Like You Do” is about a certain type of misogyny where it’s, “I do whatever I want and I don’t care about the consequences, nor am I held accountable for the consequences.” The song was written with that feeling, and I thought it would be funny if I played guitar like that, where I didn’t care, so I over-distorted my guitar and played as crazy as I could to assert my power.

How do songwriting, poetry, and painting each fulfill a different side of your artistry and emotions? Is there ever some cross-pollinating?

I wanted to tell the same story with a different perspective, so there is cross-pollinating in terms of the source of the material, where it’s coming from, where I’m at in my life, whatever darkness or lightness I feel. It all sources from the same well of emotion and experience. But there are different ways of telling the same story. I found that when I was songwriting exclusively, I would write the same song over and over again. Whereas if I take a step back, do a different medium, and come back to songwriting, I feel fresher.

Ultimately and forever, I’ll always identify and feel the deepest connection with songwriting. That’s the first thing I fell in love with. It’s the thing I understand the most. But the mystery of these other mediums has really flourished.

There’s a natural through-line between poetry and lyrics. What about painting? Do lyrics sometimes inspire a painting? Does something you create on canvas ever become words in one of the other mediums?

There’s not a lot of crossover. I don’t look at painting like I would look at a page or a song. Painting is, for me, a place to describe emotions that are unexplainable. That’s why painting is so cool. It’s almost equivalent to jazz; it’s more of a feeling that you can’t describe. That was enticing to me. To express myself as a word person who ultimately values words so much, it was important to think outside of the box a little bit. Painting allows that. To not be confined by words is really interesting.

Tell us about your recent Artist in Residence at the Iowa City Songwriters Festival. You performed and did a reading from your new book, but what does “artist in residence” mean at this particular event?

Because Iowa City is a UNESCO World Heritage City of Literature, there’s a heavy college-funded element. I’m not sure if that was their direct funding, but they definitely have more of a collegiate approach to an artist in residence. I’ve done some residencies where they don’t want anything from you. They just say, “Come up and write whatever you want. We don’t care.” But this one was definitely a bit more mentorship-driven. I led a class, a songwriting workshop. I also had one-on-one mentorships with young songwriters, people who are just getting started. They had a packed schedule for me, but it was so lovely.

I think their ultimate goal is to prop up songwriting among the other literature of the world, having songwriting classes in college, and having it there with poetry, fiction, nonfiction, memoirs, memoir writing, and all that. I think that’s ultimately what they’re trying to attain with the residency program. So it was great.

I’ve found that I really love to talk about songwriting in that way. I think that, in our culture, it’s a dying thing, at least from where I’m sitting, to seek out opportunities to learn from elders, from people who’ve been doing it a long time. The more we can do that in our culture, the better off we’ll be. It’s an incredible festival, and I would highly recommend people going. The people who run it are just wonderful.

When you lead workshops and do one-on-one mentoring, is it as much a learning experience for you as it is a teaching experience?

Absolutely. I think to teach is to be a constant student. The moment you feel like you’ve figured it all out … I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Even as I speak about songwriting, I say things that open doors all the time to myself. It’s good to be endlessly curious.

Do you think being an only child contributes to your storytelling ability through songwriting and poetry? Living inside your head, escaping into your own head, in a way that might have been different if you had been surrounded by siblings?

Oh yeah, absolutely. Because I was a latchkey kid, I spent a lot of time alone. If I didn’t have a friend to play with, I had to go into the inner landscape of my mind. That was my way of communicating in a deeper way that I couldn’t quite get in my home life if my mom wasn’t home. I can attribute a lot of my childhood to that. I was a deeply imaginative kid and would create stories all the time. So I think the loneliness also fueled what I do now.

Do you draw from those past emotions when expressing what you’re currently experiencing?

How it manifests is that it’s like a period of reckoning when I’m writing songs. I’m generally alone. I find it very hard to write if I know somebody is even in the next room. I’ve had weird moments in my life where I wrote at soundcheck and stuff, but when I listen back to those things that I’ve written around people, it’s not as dialed in. So when I’m writing, I’m alone and reckoning with the life that I’m leading, or the life of others. It feels like this very quiet thing that needs to happen.

Are you an old-school pen-and-paper writer or have you gone the way of voice memos?

I do both. I exclusively use a green book to write in. It doesn’t matter what color green. They all are green, though, green-colored notebooks, generally the Moleskine variety or that look. I have plenty of them in a pile. [And] I love Micron, the ballpoint art pens. I really don’t like the standard DMV pen. I’m a little bit bougie when it comes to my pens. I like the flow of a Micron. I write and then voice memo. Generally, once I’m done writing a song, I try and always get it down in its unproduced form. I think it’s important to have that, and the phone happens to be the easiest way.

Is playing guitar, just playing, as much a part of songwriting as writing lyrics?

Oh, yeah. I love the guitar. I love open tunings. I love acoustic guitar music, Hawaiian slack key, and classical Spanish-style guitar on a nylon. I love to play and try and emulate that style. And so in certain works, it’s the first thing that happens. There’s many ways to come to a song, but one of them is [to] play a chord progression I like and sing gibberish, and that sometimes leads to a song. In that case, absolutely I need the guitar. But yeah, the instrument can definitely lead the way. It just depends.

When you spoke earlier about adapting to the Nashville community, it brought up the thought that growing up as “an only” maybe affects our social skills to a degree. It can make community something new, as opposed to something you’re used to having around you.

Yeah. I feel that. I have a hard time with small talk for this reason. I want to go immediately for the jugular, as far as intense conversations. I go from zero to a hundred. It’s really hard for me to be like, “Hey, how are you doing?” I feel like such an actor in those circumstances. Of course I’ve learned to do it by way of being a musician – you have to talk to new people every day. But small talk doesn’t do it for me. I have a hard time going in a simple, surface level.

In the bio accompanying this album, you said, “I was in one of the darkest periods of my life and songs were the only way I could reckon with it. I felt cursed and the only mental cure felt like songwriting and painting.” Have you always felt that darkness?

Obviously, as a teenager, I went through a pretty wild part of my life where I felt dark, but I think I actually denied my darkness for a very long time. I lived in a haze of denial and hope, which is a beautiful thing. It can do wonderful things for your mental health. But you also can’t really grow if you’re living in that state.

When I was younger, especially in my early twenties, I always had this hope – “Oh, one day things are going to change.” That denial, that hope, kept me in this holding place, which for a time was really nice, and as a matter of defense and self-preservation, I stayed there for a long time. It wasn’t until I started therapy that I realized I always had this underlying darkness. When I had that, we worked on that, and real things started to happen. Things in life that are so hard that happen to all of us – it became deeply dark and profound to experience that in a more awake state.

How did that help with writing this album?

During a lot of writing this, I was caretaking for my family member who was terminal. If you’ve ever been in that situation, it is all-consuming. The only way I could turn my brain off from that was to write. It wasn’t “I need to write an album.” It was “I need to get back to myself for a moment.” I wouldn’t say it was a conscious decision. It was just I know how I am, and I know that songs are my only way of regulating in these crazy times.

You once said you felt embarrassed by the vulnerability of your songwriting. Where do you draw the line, or do you draw one, between what needs to be said for yourself and what needs to be said for listeners for whom you are the voice? How do you do this and protect your mental health when performing these songs every night?

I’ve always said that once the song is written, it’s not mine. It also transforms for me as I sing it. There are songs I wrote fifteen years ago that I still perform, that have taken on completely new meaning and feel different to me when I sing them. I honestly can’t remember the headspace I was in when I wrote them, or the origin of them, or who I was thinking about, to a strong degree, but I feel differently about them.

As far as what needs to be said, ultimately I try to relate to people, or first myself, and then you put the song out and it becomes a different thing. I try, in an artistic space, to be as true to myself as possible. I try not to put up any walls in that space. As far as my life where I’m not playing music, that’s a different thing. But music is a safe space to say whatever the hell I want to say. That’s the reason it’s such a powerful thing. It’s a safe place for me to communicate. Whatever walls are up in a song are walls that I have up with myself. That’s always very apparent when you write a song. It’s not quite clicking and you’re like, “I’ve got some walls up to my subconscious, clearly.” So the extent to which the boundaries, the walls, are up is truly only the stage at which my heart is at in that moment.

Did that happen with Valentine – the walls, maybe the fear of the vulnerability? It’s deeply personal and powerful, going deeper and deeper into those emotions as your journey is sequenced.

I hate to say it, because I don’t want to sound trite, but making albums, making bodies of work like this, fear is the last thing on my mind. Obviously, natural fears come up: Is it going to be what I wanted, what I envisioned in my dreams? But as far as songwriting and being vulnerable in a song, that’s not the fear. In fact, if I got very close to the heart in a song, it’s generally the ones that I’m like, “That’s a good one. I got there. I got to the essence of this thing I was feeling.”

Being vulnerable in life can be really hard in my personal life, in some ways, and I think that is more where the fear is. But, for whatever reason, the way I direct it is okay in a song, and I’ve made up my mind for that to be true. I don’t know why; I guess it just makes sense to me. Human emotion makes the most sense to me in the backdrop of music.

As far as sequencing, Jerry and I argued quite deeply about the sequencing, but ultimately it did go to a place where once we got the sequence, it was undeniable. Side A and Side B are completely different frames of minds. Side A, you’re fighting for love and you’re desperate. Side B is a resignation – this is how it is, this is how it’s always been, and this is my childhood. By the end, in “Hangman,” you’re just “This is how it is, and you can fight for it or you can walk away.” So the sequencing was purposeful. I wanted it to be a journey. I think records should be like that. They shouldn’t be all one color or palette the whole way through.


Explore more of our Artist of the Month content featuring Courtney Marie Andrews here.

Photo Credit: Wyndham Garnett

Our Readers’ Campfire Stories for Scary Season

Long before folks were strumming guitars and picking banjos, they were telling stories. Stories about origin, hopes, dreams, and fears, and lessons learned. These stories guided lives and relationships, became myths, legends, and songs, and were passed down for generations and adjusted for place and time. From “The Knoxville Girl” to “Down in the Willow Garden,” to Lindi Ortega’s “Murder of Crows” and Tyler Childers’ “Banded Clovis,” the spooky story looms large in bluegrass, old-time, and Americana music.

For the season, we asked BGS readers to share their own roots music-themed writing with us in the form of spooky fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry, or cross-genre writing. We were not disappointed! Below, Emily Garcia’s young musician narrator achieves justice for poor Rose Connelly of “Down in the Willow Garden,” and Stuart Thompson details the sad fate of two brother fiddlers who became entangled with the wrong woman.

But first, we share with you an old tale of the farmer and the devil, regarding the origin of crop circles, found in a newspaper from 1678 – from which we’ve also pulled the creepy and fantastic woodcut we’ve chosen for lead image.

With this series, we hope to honor and continue the long tradition of storytelling and verse that has lived alongside and contributed to our favorite genres of music.

“The Mowing Devil Or, Strange News Out of Hartford-Shire”

Being a true relation of a farmer,
who bargaining with a poor farmer about the cutting down three half acres of Oats;
upon the mower’s asking too much, the farmer swore, that the devil mow it, rather than He;
And so it fell out, that that very night, the crop of oats shew’d as if it had been all of a Flame:
But next morning appear’d so neatly mow’d by the Devil, or some infernal spirit, that no mortal man was able to do the like.
Also, how the said oats now lay in the field, and the owner has not power to fetch them away.


Source: The Public Domain Review. August 22, 1678.


“Beneath the Sun, Above the Moon”
by Emily Garcia

The Hunter’s Moon, red from eclipse, slides above the pines and half-bare maple trees, its hollow stare cast over Virginia’s Appalachian Plateau. Behind it, the night is black as pitch.

“You okay, Wills?” asks Annie. No, she hasn’t been okay in months, but Annie doesn’t want to hear that.

“Yeah, of course!” Willow rosins her bow, trying to ignore the wailing in her ears.

Annie glances down, rocking the toe of her boot into a groove on the worn cabin floor. “I hope I wasn’t too pushy…I just thought playing again might help.”

Two weeks earlier, over the phone, Annie had been less concerned about being pushy. “Willow Rose O’Connell, I’m not taking no for an answer. You are coming to Hunter Jam Weekend, just like you have every year for the last four years. I will not let my best friend rot away in some North Carolina suburb just because one tour didn’t work out.”

Didn’t work out. That was the story she let everyone believe: she had quit the gig of a lifetime halfway through the European arena tour, all because she couldn’t handle the pressure and had a nervous breakdown in a hotel room in London. It was a breakdown so bad that she flew straight back to Nashville that night, packed her entire apartment, drove eight hours to her parents’ house in Raleigh, and was now living in her childhood bedroom strung out on Xanax.

“What a shame,” people liked to say.

Now, she forces a smile. “I appreciate it, Annie. I’m good. I’m glad I’m here.”

Relief washes over Annie’s face. “Okay awesome. Let’s go, then. You don’t need to solo or anything, just play.” Annie grabs her mandolin and heads for the door. Willow follows, fiddle tucked neatly under her arm.

They wind through a wooded path lit only by the moon, towards the fire where the rest of their group has already started jamming. She can’t shake the wailing sound. An old recurring nightmare from childhood, a screaming woman next to a riverbank, has resurfaced with a vengeance since she left the tour six months ago. On the worst nights, the screams would weave themselves around memories of her grandmother’s shriveled voice singing old folk songs by the fireplace.

My race is run beneath the sun, the devil is waiting for me.

What no one knows is that an hour before the nervous breakdown, she forced her way out of the back of the tour bus, shaking uncontrollably, the manager’s whiskey breath staining the air. She had escaped the worst, thank god, but his slurred voice taunted behind her. “Don’t even try telling anyone, Will. You know I can ruin you.”

She knows. She knows how this industry works.

They reach the circle and Willow perches on a stump by the fire. There are a few awkward mumbled greetings, her former companions from the Nashville scene now looking at her like the ghost of an old friend. “Okay, where we at?” Annie cuts in. “‘Deep River’?” And with that, the jam resumes. Every time solos reach her, she leans to Annie and passes them off. The screaming is back, louder than usual, mixing with the songs into a sideways cacophony that makes her feel sick to her stomach. Her playing drifts off, she squeezes her eyes shut. The fire feels like it’s taking over her body.

The tune ends, and she gets up. “Sorry guys, I think I need to go lie down for a second. My head is killing me.” A murmur of concern ripples through the group but she can hardly hear it. She heads up the path towards the cabin.

The screaming is getting louder, and the ground feels like it’s shifting beneath her. Vertigo, maybe. The devil is waiting for me. She stumbles forward, barely conscious of where she’s going. You know I can ruin you. She reaches for a tree to steady herself, but the trees seem to be sliding up and down the periphery. She falls, hands driving into the dirt. Eyes squeeze shut.

The screaming stops.

A faint sound of banjo and a slurring male voice touches the air. She slowly pushes herself up, eyes adjusting. The sun is out, hanging red and low over the horizon, as if the moon has reversed its course. A river runs to her right.

In front of her lies a young woman, wispy brown hair fanned across the dry grass, and a half-empty bottle of burgundy wine next to her. She could almost be peacefully asleep, if not for the 15-inch knife sticking out of her chest and the crimson blood soaking her white cotton dress.

She stares at the woman like a mirror, the smell of whiskey burning her nose, when she hears him, gasping. She looks up. He’s in a loose-fitting linen shirt and dirty denim overalls, his eyes bloodshot, a banjo clutched in his left hand. His splotched face drains to white as their gazes meet.

“Rose– I– Rosie, my dear– I– I– I… my God, my God.” His trembling voice is centuries old. He glances wildly at the dead girl’s face, then back at Willow.

Her fingers curl around the knife handle and she pulls upward.

“I didn’t m-m-mean… I– I– I… Rosie please, I love you.”

She raises her bow arm. Her movements are not her own. Virginia turns red beneath the sun. The screaming begins again, different now, deafening.

Then it stops.

Heavenly quiet. And then a heavy splash.

It’s dark again. The moon is fixed to the night sky, and she’s standing at the edge of the circle. “You scared me!” Annie raises her eyebrows. “You okay, girl?”

“Yeah I’m good. Just needed a quick nap.”

Willow picks up her fiddle, which she had left leaning against the stump, and gives it a quick tune. “Okay y’all. ‘Wheel Hoss’? I’ll kick.” Without waiting for a reply, she jumps in. A few hollers from the group, and they all launch after her. Her fingers dance across the strings as everyone else holds back to hear her, finally, play again.

The final notes ring out. Silence, then the circle explodes into wild cheers and laughter.

Annie turns to her, grinning. “See Will, I told you playing again would help…” Her voice trails off.

Willow follows Annie’s stare. Her hands, strings, and fingerboard shine in the firelight, covered in blood.


Emily Garcia is a writer and fiddle player who spent her early career studying and performing within Nashville’s roots scene. She is now based in southern Maine and continues to perform, travel, and write stories inspired by American music and place. You can follow her work on Instagram at @imemilygarcia.


“Brother Fiddlers”
by Stuart Thompson

Up in Clear Creek County, when the wind is lying still,
They say you can hear it high above the Argo Mill.
The sound is lonesome, and the sound is low,
Like the fiddlers pointing out the guilty with their bows.

Will and Tom were brothers, bold and bound for gold,
They followed the rush where the rivers ran cold.
They staked their claim where the tall pines lean,
And they carved their camp in a cut of green.

By day they dug with blood and sweat,
By night they played in the dry sunset.
Twin fiddles rose in the old saloon,
And the one they played for was a gal named Lou.

She poured the drinks and danced the floor,
With eyes that knew what men were for.
She’d kiss you soft, then slip away–
Leave you lost ’til your dying day.

Up in Clear Creek County, when the wind is lying still,
They say you can hear it high above the Argo Mill.
The sound is lonesome, and the sound is low,
Like the fiddlers pointing out the guilty with their bow.

They struck it rich – oh, mother lode!
A vein so thick it near broke the road.
One would sleep while the other stood,
Guardin’ gold in the dark pine wood.

But Lou, she schemed with a serpent’s smile,
Fed them lies and love the while.
“I want the stronger,” she said with a kiss.
“One who’d fight for a prize like this.”

So Will took watch on a moonless night,
With rage in his heart and death in sight.
Tom came quiet, just to check the claim–
But Will saw red and took his aim.

The shot rang once, and his brother fell,
And all went silent but the echo’s knell.
Will knelt down with a choking cry–
Then Lou stepped out with a pistol high.

No words she spoke, no tear she shed,
Just one quick flash – and Will was dead.
She buried them both where the cold creek bends,
And set her sights on richer ends.

Up in Clear Creek County, when the wind is lying still,
They say you can hear it high above the Argo Mill.
The sound is lonesome, and the sound is low,
Like the fiddlers pointing out the guilty with their bows.

She bought new gowns and she drank top shelf,
But Lou could never escape herself.
At night she’d wake with a strangled cry–
Hearing bows that scraped like a widow’s sigh.

She climbed the trail where the cold winds moan,
To the shaft where the brothers’ blood was sown.
And some say madness took her mind–
She walked into that hole and left no sign.

Now nothing grows where the gold once lay,
Just wind and whispers and strings that play.
The miners say, when the stars hang low,
You’ll hear twin fiddles weep and glow…

Up in Clear Creek County, when the wind is lying still,
They say you can hear it high above the Argo Mill.
The sound is lonesome, and the sound is low,
Like the fiddlers pointing out the guilty with their bows.


Stuart Thompson is a husband, dad, and mandolin picker from Denver, Colorado. He can be found online at @stu.art.thompson.


Stay tuned for more opportunities to publish your own writing or art on BGS in a future collection!

Collection edited by Rachel Baiman and BGS staff.

Lead Image: Woodcut, “The Mowing Devil Or, Strange News Out of Hartford-Shire”, August 22, 1678. Source: The Public Domain Review.