Tag: Dave Rawlings

Ketch Secor
Contains Multitudes, Too

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

After a quarter century fronting the frenetic bluegrass and jug band outfit Old Crow Medicine Show, Ketch Secor is finally breaking out on his own with his solo debut Story The Crow Told Me. The retrospective record looks back on the past few decades, from his own journey to stardom spurred by a chance encounter with Doc Watson to the certified platinum hit “Wagon Wheel,” through the lens of a soundtrack that’s equal parts bluegrass and contemporary country.

“Because the band [recently] celebrated 25 years, I was already in the mindset of a retrospective look,” Secor tells BGS. “I was thinking about everything that’s happened and transpired over that time and started writing about it. In fact, at first I really thought it was going to be a spoken word record before the music eventually took over.”

Talking over the phone, Secor spoke about the timing for his debut project, its connections to both Old Crow and contemporaries like Dierks Bentley, becoming the new host of Tennessee Crossroads on Nashville PBS, and more.

You mentioned this album was initially envisioned as a spoken word compilation. What led to its transformation into a fully realized album?

Ketch Secor: I was working with Jody Stevens. We had written a couple songs that were largely based around spoken word and others we were looking to add background sounds on. Those sounds started getting more and more like what I already do, which is writing songs with choruses and verses and hooks. It just evolved out of the beat poetry version of the album, which was probably a little less listenable but closer to what I was striving for. The musicality of it is a bit of a compromise to be like “Well, I’m going to make this an actual record people might want to listen to” because the spoken word records I enjoy are not highly listened to.

I recently was trying to find them again since my record collection got lost in the 2010 floods we had in Nashville. I went on Spotify, which I’d never used before, to find all these songs in my head like Amiri Baraka’s “It’s Nation Time” or Moondog – a 1950’s renegade beat poet from New York – in trying to get an understanding of how the spoken word music I heard as a kid was being utilized today. It quickly became clear that nobody listens to that stuff anymore. [Laughs] So it seemed like making it musical would make it more fun for people.

It seems a bit ironic that you had to look up all these songs – many of which would be considered part of the Great American Songbook – on a digital streaming platform like Spotify. Talk about two very different worlds colliding!

I talk a little bit about that phenomenon on the song “Junkin’.” A lot of the experience of making music with Old Crow, especially in the beginning when we were still developing a canon, was about music’s physical form. When the band first started the internet was still new and we were still selling cassettes. The last time I made a solo record was on tape, the band didn’t have a website and none of us even used email when all of this started. It meant that searching for the physical was really important.

There’s another song on the album called “Thanks Again” that highlights the personal relationships that you develop out on the road – these chance encounters that are very much real and put the wind in your sails. There’s something to be said about having to come of age in a time when information was so tactile and often involved a human touch.

With the emergence of the internet and things like streaming and social media it really is an entirely different world for artists to navigate nowadays.

I realized that I had a kind of time capsule in my mind I had yet to crack open in the days before going in to make this record, which was done quickly and often with me writing the songs as we were recording them. Opening it up was really cathartic and essential for me to process and move past because the experience of coming to Nashville when we did and the kind of band we were in was, at times, slightly traumatic. It was a very intense quest similar to a military deployment, being a minor league ball player fighting your way through the ranks or even being a teenage whaler in Moby Dick. You end up leaving everything else behind in search of this one pursuit.

It’s not unique to come to Nashville to make it big, but what made our experience unique was that we were trying to do it with these traditional sounds in an era in which technological changes were happening as we were doing it. It was almost like we were going against the literal tide with our choices and artistic motivation.

You just mentioned writing these songs as you were recording them. Is that something you’d done before?

That was a very new way of going about things. I understand that record-making has changed a lot since we first started – our most popular Old Crow records that gave us a career were the early ones we made with Dave Rawlings on analog tape that we cut with a razor blade. Making a record the way Gillian [Welch] and Dave do is very studious, labor and time-intensive. But now the technology exists to do it super fast.

This record almost felt like a throwback to the seminal recordings of the 1920s and ‘30s that are the headwaters of our sound. Those records were made in three minutes oftentimes without knowing what the arrangements would be. Three minutes wasn’t the time frame of hillbilly music until the record company said it was – they just sat there, watched the light turn on and played. Writing a song and building a track like that actually felt really on par with what it would have been like going to Camden, New Jersey, in 1928 on a train when you’d never left your county before that. The challenge is keeping one foot in the past and one in the present. When you play fiddles and banjos and blow harmonica for a living the instrument kind of does it for you.

You name dropped Jody Stevens a few minutes ago. How’d y’all come together and what was it like working with him?

We met through my publishing company. I was going to do a co-write with him and knew he’d written a lot of songs for contemporary country artists, so I brought my bag of tricks that I bring out when I try to pretend I’m going to write the next big, top 10 country smash, except for this one time with Darius [Rucker]. I love country music even though I feel that in the past 25 years I have a whole lot less in common with it than I did when I was a kid, in terms of what it sounds like today in its mainstream output versus when I was singing along to Jo Dee Messina when I was 19. It was interesting to circle the wagons with Jody because he brought such a unique perspective in record making that comes from contemporary country music even though his roots are in hip-hop.

The other thing that brought us together was that Jody had seen Old Crow a lot, especially in our early days from 2000-2005, which is the sweet spot I try to explore on this record. He’d been there at the Station Inn and the festival Lightning 100 used to do downtown and some of these other places that have since been replaced by high rises. The fact that he had been a first-account witness to the band was really helpful to bounce ideas off of. His sister was also a big Old Crow fan and even though I’ve never met her I thought about her as my target demographic – someone who saw us back in 2001 and wanted to know what that time capsule looked like.

The fact that Jody had done all this work with people that rapped – only to find that 25 years later the tapes and demos he’d made with Jelly Roll were now part of a pop culture consciousness that hadn’t been there when he first started working on them – gave him a similar orientation to country music that I have about Americana. When I got started there was nothing called Americana and nobody lived outside of contemporary country music unless you were alt-country. Coming into this period of time in Nashville where it wasn’t yet determined that anyone with a banjo could make it that wasn’t bluegrass is another place where Jody and I shared commonality. The rap game has since become a massive component to contemporary country music similar to how Americana has become the tastemaker for anything roots-related.

In terms of the sound on this record, the way you move between more Old Crow-esque bluegrass and those pop country flavors reminds me a lot of Dierks Bentley, another person who excels at showcasing the best of both sides of roots music.

I came up with Dierks and remember witnessing his arrival. Before [“What Was I Thinkin’”] came out there was an issue of CMA Up Close that had a story about us on the page opposite one about Dierks and I thought to myself, “Well, if a guy named Dierks Bentley can make it, then probably a guy named Ketch Secor can, too.” Surely Nashville has the appetite for two oddly-named boys. [Laughs] Then I went on and took a moniker that wasn’t my name. Because of that I feel very much like a brand-new artist now and have developed a strong sense of empathy for the young guns who are out there trying to put their stuff out for the first time, because it’s so much harder now than when I was a kid.

What are some of those major hurdles you’ve noticed for new artists today compared to what you first encountered with Old Crow?

Now the way you stand out in a crowd is through visual means that often require the least amount of artistic acumen and the most amount of social media acumen. So far, I’m not sure it’s helping the cream rise to the top, though. The skill set should be how good can you pick a banjo, not how good can you pick the keypad on your iPhone, even though you have to do both to be successful today. When I was a kid it was about making these connections with people, knocking on doors so many times that every time something good came to me [it did] on account of me showing up and being in the right place at the right time.

Seeking a viral moment has an undue effect of potentially limiting the number of new entrants into the arena. For one generation, what was once divinized is now digitized. I’m sure that if there’s a God above that He or She can use the binary code to reach people and connect their children. I can pick up The New York Times and feel like there’s a closeness with the loss in Texas right now, which is only amplified by me having swam in the Guadalupe before and having a personal connection to the area. If you’ve plunged in the waters yourself then you’ll share something so much more vital with those who are experiencing the loss.

It’s really a metaphor for how we all have a shot at playing the Grand Ole Opry or going from the Station Inn to the Ryman like I did. There’s a turnstile in front of that and I want to see it spinning wide so that artists of all stripes can find their way up to that stage where they belong. As a steward of those stages, I want to see the people show up who have found music as the great connector that, regardless of the speed of the computer in your pocket, the speed of music breaks all other forms of sonic barriers.

In terms of personnel, what motivated you to bring in past and present Old Crow members like Willie Watson, Critter Fuqua, and Morgan Jahnig to record these songs with?

I really wanted to have all the past members of Old Crow on the record, because it felt like a bit of an offering to the gods to say “thanks.” So I really wanted a little bit of all their spirits on it. Not only that, but I read through a lot of old journals and called up some people I’d met hitchhiking, but hadn’t talked to in 25 years. I went and visited the guy who coined the term “Wagon Wheel,” because that song was always called “Rock Me Mama” until I met James Sizemore – a wonderful rascal and drug-dealing Vietnam vet.

I went to see him on his deathbed and recorded phone conversations late at night with old friends. While none of that stuff is necessarily on the record in its physical form, it all went into the process of trying to bake something that really felt like I was living in the past and bringing it to the present through these songs. I think a lot about cairn stones that the Inuit people up north call inuksuit, which are like sign posts that tell you where to turn, but they’re also spiritual. So imagine a road sign that could say “300 miles to Memphis,” but also told you the ancestral route of the settlers who first brought buffalo down 7,000 years ago, sort of like the duality of a time signature.

That duality of time reminds me of one of the album’s songs, “What Nashville Was,” which highlights how much Nashville has changed over the decades while also highlighting how no matter how many venues are replaced with condos, music will always be the city’s heartbeat.

A lot about the way Bob [Dylan’s] record Nashville Skyline had a way of pointing out Nashville for the first time to anyone who didn’t live in the South or listen to country music. He was really pointing to Nashville from a unique perspective and certainly Bob Dylan’s Nashville was the kind of Nashville that I was looking for when I first started playing on the street corner there in 1996.

Similarly, I was also looking for Dolly Parton’s Nashville. I wanted the Nashville that Dolly got when she stepped out of the pickup truck and married the first guy that honked his horn at her, the kind of Nashville where Willie Nelson was laying down in the street in front of Tootsie’s thinking he’s gonna kill himself because nobody wants his songs.

I used “Girl From The North Country” as the template for a love letter to a changing place and a cityscape that has gone on to do so much stuff that it itself is largely oblivious to the price it pays for its constant reinvention. And the price is that who we’re ushering in … is probably because you were on a reality TV show more consistently than because you had a song that people couldn’t stop singing at summer camps. Not that those things are good or bad, they just change. But we’re at a point now where the legend and lore of Nashville has grown so much that we’re at risk of the bubble bursting and it being something like Seattle after grunge or Austin after it wasn’t weird anymore – which is a glass, monolithic, industry executive business center. Oftentimes those forces stand in opposition to the ability of songwriters, hucksters, showmen, and the survival spirit that goes into creating the next Bob Dylan of a generation. I’m hoping that we, the architects of Nashville, can endeavor to build a place that still allows a hearty hero or heroine to come through the gates just like Loretta Lynn or Jack White did.

You were recently named the new host of Tennessee Crossroads on Nashville Public Television. How’d that opportunity come about and what’s it mean to you?

When PBS called me about this unique role that had come available with the sudden and sad loss of Joe [Elmore] – who ran the show for 30 or so years – it only made sense to find someone else to step in who’s also run a business for around 30 years that’s similar to Tennessee Crossroads. Old Crow Medicine Show has been criss-crossing the American south getting inspired by quilters, gee-haw whimmy diddles, carvers, and folks that plant by the lunar signs – those are the kind of folk heroes that go into our music. They’re also the same kind of stories that this show loves to tell.

I love public broadcasting and care a lot about access to it in this country. I made my television debut on our local PBS affiliate up in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia when I was in fifth grade. I fell in love with my own backyard because Ken Burns showed me what was so rich about it and so frightening and tragic, which was the bones of the Union and Confederate armies right here, just past the fence. Ken Burns really illuminated that for me and ever since I’ve been the biggest fan of public broadcasting.

What has the process of bringing this record to life taught you about yourself?

I was born about 35 miles outside the birthplace of Walt Whitman and always wondered why I like the guy so much. Then I recently rode my bicycle there and thought, “God, this guy’s place is really popular!” There were people sleeping on a stoop and waiting for a free sandwich in the parking lot. And it turns out where Walt Whitman used to live is like the center of the drug-addled corpse that is parts of Camden, New Jersey. It looks a bit like the Dickerson Road corridor, at least as it was in about 1999.

I feel like Walt really said it best when he said he contains multitudes on “Song Of Myself, 51.” I feel as a picker of banjos and fiddles and guitars and dulcimers and auto harps; and a blower of jugs and juice harps and harmonicas; and a singer of ballads and lamentations pretty songs; and [an attender of] corn shuckins, frolics, and cotillions, that I am like you, a container of multitudes.

Photo Credit: Jody Stevens

The Subtle Danger of Guitarist Sunny War and ‘Armageddon in a Summer Dress’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

In 2022, punk-blues innovator Sunny War moved into her late father’s house in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and began making repairs. There was no heat that first winter and the house needed a full electrical rewiring. By winter 2023, she had the money to heat the place, but as the temperature rose each night, Sunny felt a strange impulse to patrol the house in the dark, swinging her grandfather’s machete at the ghosts inhabiting the top floor.

At the start of our Zoom call interview in January, Sunny recounts the bizarre magical realism of the weeks she spent living with an undiscovered gas leak. I ask enough follow-up questions to be reassured that my friend is not still being fumigated in her own home before I allow myself to belly laugh. “I have to fix everything,” she sighs.

Sunny goes on to explain that by the time the city discovered and fixed the problem, the mood had already been set for her forthcoming album, Armageddon in a Summer Dress. I would describe the results as psychedelic and subtly dangerous.

My friend Sunny can be a little hard to read, a fact which she mentions at one point during our call. We first met at Americanafest in 2019. It was my second year traveling from New York to Tennessee for the annual roots music conference and festival. That summer I had made up my mind to bring Black artists together during the festival for our own unofficial day party. I booked Dee’s Country Cocktail Lounge, cross-referenced names on the festival poster with Google image searches, and sent out a few invitations. Sunny agreed to perform, as did Tré Burt and Milwaukee folk duo Nickel & Rose (featuring Carl Nichols, the artist soon to become Buffalo Nichols). One after another we played our songs then stepped out onto the Madison, Tennessee, porch, most of us meeting for the first time. It was the greatest number of Black people I had ever been around in a professional space since releasing my debut album in 2017.

It was clear to me even then that Sunny was a star. Carl, Tré, and I were on ascendant career arcs of our own, but Sunny was out ahead somehow. She was already well known in songwriter circles for her inimitable movements on the guitar and for her punk rock roots, but it was the intensity of her stage presence that stood out to me most on that first meeting. I watched her suck in the air and light around her as she sang, quietly commanding the audience’s attention. Songs like “Drugs Are Bad” and “Shell” became spells when sung in War’s almost-effortless, warmly breathy style. She appeared peaceful in her own creative world amidst the restless energy of the festival.

2019 was also the year that Sunny founded the downtown Los Angeles chapter of Food Not Bombs, a national network of community groups addressing hunger. In interviews about the movement she was candid about having experienced houselessness herself and how she noticed the disproportionate presence of veterans on the street. She organized weekly meetups in which volunteers made meals and shared them, potluck-style, with their unhoused neighbors on skid row. When COVID hit they switched to burritos and sack lunches. On “Deployed and Destroyed,” one of the outstanding tracks from Sunny’s 2021 album, Simple Syrup, she invites her listener to spend three minutes and 54 seconds in the shoes of a 26-year-old unhoused veteran experiencing PTSD. When I listen to her sing “I still love you/ We’re still friends” I feel like I am sitting beside her. This is what Aristotle and contemporary Marxists call “praxis.”

Sunny is fearless on stage. Six years into our friendship I remain awed by the way in which she commands attention without ever seeming contained by it. Her presence has a kinetic power that you can more easily get lost in than describe. We met up in Chicago on a winter night in early 2023 when Sunny was on tour and I was in between tours. Both of us were depressed, I think. Wide, wet snowflakes were beginning to fall outside while we caught up over drinks. We bribed the DJ into letting us jump the line for karaoke and then launched into a formally unconventional performance of Destiny’s Child’s “Jumpin’ Jumpin’.” The mostly-white crowd of beer-drinking twenty-somethings were amused at first and then bored. I gave up. Sunny stayed the course, winning the audience over with mischief in her eyes.

Later that year Sunny released Anarchist Gospel on New West Records to well-deserved, unanimous acclaim. The album featured Americana heavy hitters Allison Russell, Dave Rawlings, and Chris Pierce. She also toured with Mitski, broadening her fandom to include more indie listeners. I cheered my friend from afar, mostly on Instagram, as her star continued to rise.

When I ask about her memories of that album cycle, Sunny enthusiastically recalls the younger audiences who discovered her music. She expresses gratitude that a 14-year-old at a Mitski concert, someone who “actually is into music for the first time in their life, in the way that you are when you hate your parents and all you have is music” would become a fan. A lot of journalists described her as an “emerging” artist or a songwriter soon to be one of the most beloved in Americana. But for those of us on the fringes of the format, Sunny had been the best around for a minute and the momentum of her career spoke for itself.

Sunny’s latest album, Armageddon In A Summer Dress, comes out on February 21. I ask her to describe the new record in her own words. “Silly,” she responds. I ask if there is a genre descriptor for her music in general. She says, “No.”  I am going to follow the artist’s lead and not do her album the disservice of describing it too much. I will say that Armageddon In A Summer Dress is her seventh full-length effort and contains her most inspired vocal performances yet – and some of her finest lyrics.

There is a haze hovering in the top layers of some of these tunes. The winding guitar melodies often weave themselves into the vocal lines, but sometimes they go their own way. I ask her if audiences are reacting to the Black anarchist content of her songs differently than they did the last time she released a folk album with transparently leftist politics. “I don’t feel like people pay that much attention to my lyrics,” she responds. Her primary musical concern, she reflects, is playing the guitar. And in any case, the best way to metabolize these songs is by listening to them repeatedly.

Sunny, Carl, Tré, and I have remained loosely intertwined in the years since that first Americana kickback. We have toured together. We run into each other at festivals and in thrift shops. Tré and Sunny were roommates for a time and in the summertime can be seen riding bikes like cousins in Sunny’s recent music video for “Scornful Heart.” I interview my friends periodically.

We all continue to embody aspects of the blues tradition while resisting categorization. Sunny continues moving patiently through her own cycles of living, transforming, creating in darkness, and then telling the story. She leaps unexpectedly from now to the future and then doubles back to sample tradition, inviting you to keep up. Her lyrics are disarmingly empathetic. Like all great artists, Sunny moves in her own time, less concerned with debating the canon than she is with creating the future. She looks back on the nights she hunted ghosts with her grandfather’s machete joking, “That wasn’t me!”

There is great integrity in Sunny’s storytelling, which means that no matter how long it has been since we last spoke, she will catch me up quickly when we meet again. I ask her who the narrator of “No One Calls Me Baby” is, trying to signal that I am a feminist who recognizes women writers as authors beyond the world of autobiography. But she quickly tells me that the narrator is her and fills me in on the past few months of her life. She has been single for over a year, and has been learning to enjoy the alone time in a house she owns. We commiserate about being single, but we are both leaned back by this point, looking down on loneliness together. “No one calls me baby anymore/ I hold my own hand now…”

One of my favorite things about Sunny is that whether she’s playing a dive bar or a sold-out theater, everyone walks away dazzled. She is just as warm and entertaining sitting across from you in her home. She accompanies herself.

Find more Sunny War Artist of the Month coverage here.

Photo Credit: Joshua Black Wilkins

Doc Watson’s Musical Legacy Still Inspires

Posted on by Shelby Williamson

Doc Watson has been gone for more than a decade, and yet his music and legacy remain more alive and relevant than ever. And thanks to the ongoing MerleFest, which brings a wide-ranging cast from the Americana world to Doc’s North Carolina stomping grounds every April, that’s not going to change anytime soon. We consider the enduring impact of Doc through conversations with some of those who bear his stamp, including Gillian Welch and Jerry Douglas, in this special episode of Carolina Calling.

LISTEN: APPLE • SPOTIFY • STITCHER • AMAZON • YOUTUBE • MP3
 

Subscribe to Carolina Calling on any and all podcast platforms to follow along as we journey across the Old North State, visiting towns like Durham, Asheville, Shelby, Greensboro, and more.

Music featured in this episode:

Doc Watson – “Sittin’ on Top of the World”
Doc & Merle Watson – “Jimmy’s Texas Blues”
Gillian Welch – “Everything Is Free”
Andrew Marlin – “Erie Fidler”
Doc Watson – “Tom Dooley”
Doc & Merle Watson – “Sheeps In The Meadow / Stoney Fork”
Doc & Merle Watson – “Poor Boy Blues”
Doc Watson – “And Am I Born to Die”
Doc Watson – “My Home’s Across the Blue Ridge Mountains”
Jerry Douglas – “A New Day Medley”
Doc Watson – “The Last Thing On My Mind”

Photo of Doc Watson courtesy of MerleFest

MIXTAPE: Wila Frank’s Cinematic Folk

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Ever since I started making music, it’s been in this sort of folk-infused soundtrack sort of style. When I was little, I would imagine that I was in a film constantly. I would hear music in my head supporting the emotions I may be feeling. It sort of helped me express my feelings to myself and figure out what sort of character I want to be in this life. My brother is famous for his excellent mixtapes and he introduced me to most of my favorite contemporary artists, many of whom make music in this way; fusing together modern attitudes and techniques with personal impressions of roots music.

There’s something about traditional sounds that really resonate with me. I grew up in a rural place and spent my childhood playing the fiddle. Folk music has always been connected to nature and the sounds that go along with it. Nature is where I do my best self-reflection. The hypnotic rhythm of an acoustic guitar line repeated. The rich, molasses drones of the violin. 

On my debut album Black Cloud, I intentionally challenged myself to produce in a more edgy, alt-rock style. However, I could not escape many of the musical sensibilities I grew up with. You can hear undertones of trad music in my guitar playing, in the song forms, vocal inflections, and choice of vocabulary. This playlist starts off with the first track on my new record and ends with a song from my folk duo with Emily Mann, Paper Wings. Both are songs I wrote and feel very close to my heart. The songs in between have all been inspirations to me over the years and demonstrate of the cinematic quality realized when folk techniques are fused into modern creations and vice-versa. Hope you enjoy. – Wila Frank

“Tonight” – Wila Frank

I wrote Tonight over a rolling guitar line inspired by traditional banjo techniques. While the rest of the production is quite contemporary, you can hear elements of folk influence in my singing. Especially in the line “It’s a long and lonesome road” — a reference to lyrics you would hear in a bluegrass song.

“Fire Snakes” – Laura Veirs 

This has been a favorite song of mine forever. I love the beautiful and unusual contradiction of the acoustic guitar line with the artificial beat. To me, it makes the song feel more emotionally vital and critical. The strings at the end are a luscious bonus.

“Desert Island Disk” – Radiohead

This song reminds me of the trance-like quality of a lot of traditional Malian guitar playing such as Ali Farke Toure who I’m also obsessed with. The simplicity of the production on this song is essential and perfectly supports the beautiful message of the lyrics.

“Walkin’ Boss” – Sam Amidon

This is the only trad American folk song on the playlist. Sam Amidon has a really neat way of taking old Appalachian songs and bringing them into a new contemporary light. The rhythm of the banjo and drums together make you wanna groove and bring out the power of the lyrics.

“Psyche” – Massive Attack

I included this one because the repeating artificial guitar line reminds me of the banjo and is a cool example of the magic achieved when electronic artists sample natural sounds. This particular song was an essential inspiration for me in coming up with the guitar line on my song “Tonight.” When it comes to cinematic music and transporting the listener to a new world, you can’t get any better than Massive Attack. 

“Imitosis” – Andrew Bird

I was obsessed with Andrew Bird when I was a kid for his witty lyrical style, use of the violin as a support instrument for his songs, and the unapologetic quirkiness of his music. On this album, he fuses all kinds of music and makes something completely unique.

“Ecstasy” – Crooked Still

I grew up going to a lot of music camps and owe much of my musical development to various members of Crooked Still. Aoife was one of the first singers I learned from and I was lucky enough to spend a lot of time around this music. I love this album in particular and how this song fuses Appalachian fiddle tones with classical string parts.

“The Weekend” – Dave Rawlings Machine

This song features pop chords, but has Dave Rawlings signature guitar style all over it. It’s a fun Americana-style story of a song. I like how the violin parts sound almost like they’re imitating synthetic strings. A cool example of folk music imitating pop music. 

“Dog Walkers of the New Age” – Breathe Owl Breathe

One of my favorite albums ever. Completely unique and vibey. The lyrics are quirky and witty, and somehow get at an essential emotion of feeling less alone. 

“Grizzly Man” – Rockettothesky

The shimmering acoustic guitar in this track brings this beautiful and spooky song to life. This is the only song I really know from this band, but the haunting, witchy vocal style in this song has stuck with me through the years and has an essence of woodsy appeal.

“Dyin Day” – Anaïs Mitchell

Anaïs Mitchell does a really nice job of innovating within the structure of a song itself. There are elements of traditional call and response in this song, religious references and images of nature, but somehow it still feels relevant and potent.

“Carrie & Lowell” – Sufjan Stevens

This was an incredibly influential album for a lot of people I think. Stevens’ swirling guitar style paired with the vocal effects and simplistic percussive elements make it feel like a pop song without any overly artificial elements. There’s even banjo on this song, but used almost like you would use an arpeggiated synth.

“Middle Distance Runner” – Sea Wolf

To me, this is a perfect pop song with a folk song structure. I love the natural guitar tones and the use of real sounds as percussion. 

“The History of a Cheating Heart” – Damon Albarn

One of my favorite artists, producers, and songwriters of all time. Damon Albarn released this solo record in 2014 upon which he plays this song paired down with acoustic guitar. There’s very minimal production featuring dry and stark strings along with a chorus of harmonies on the bridge. It’s rare to hear such a minimal song recorded at such a high level and the result is beautiful.

“Clementine” – Paper Wings

I wrote Clementine on a writing retreat we went on in Big Sur. Emily and I spent the week sitting in the sun amongst the trees and flowers overlooking the ocean. This is really a simple pop love song, but we paired it down and sang it in harmony over fiddle drones. Arranged this way, it became stark and vulnerable and the essence of the song revealed itself. The imagery of nature became more vivid, and the emotions came across as more sincere.

Photo Credit: David Piñeros

Seeking Bluegrass in LA, Ed Helms & Amy Reitnouer Jacobs Made a Scene With BGS

Posted on by Editor

To commemorate the 10th birthday of the Bluegrass Situation, co-founders Ed Helms and Amy Reitnouer Jacobs are taking it all the way back to the beginning. In the first installment of an ongoing interview series, the enthusiastic bluegrass fans reveal how they first met, their shared vision for a modern aesthetic, and the meaning behind the unexpected (yet appropriate) name.

Amy: As we’re looking back on 10 years of The Bluegrass Situation, it occurred to me that you and I have never really reflected on how all of this started and how this thing kind of built up. So I wanted to get our own take on it and… reminisce, stroll down memory lane a bit, and think about it.

Ed: We need a little oral history for the archives! [laughs] And for our own… ’cause it’s exciting to reminisce a little bit.

Amy: I’ll kick it off and ask, what was your intro to bluegrass? Why do you care about this music to begin with and what drew you into it?

Ed: The earliest I can trace back would be growing up in Atlanta, Georgia. My mom’s from Nashville, so we would take road trips from Atlanta to Nashville all the time. In addition to that, I spent many, many summers at a summer camp in the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina. That’s another road trip that’s about a three or four-hour drive from Atlanta.

So, on those drives, we’re always pulling off at truck stops and whatever, and we would pick up cassette tapes at the checkout counter. And my dad, who grew up in Alabama, was always a big fan of opera and classical music. He would grab these string band tapes for some reason. And I started listening to these very generic, early string band tapes when I was 8 years old in the car. They didn’t resonate with me as artists, but the music connected with me somehow. And I associated it with those places — Nashville and the North Carolina mountains.

Then as I got older, I was one of those kids that kind of thought everybody was fake, you know, like Holden Caulfield. Just distressed by all the artificiality of our world and of the people around me and like, “Oh, everyone at school, everything is so performative. Like, who’s real? Who’s the real deal?” And that kind of drew me, musically, into older and older music. I got obsessed with authenticity and where are the roots of things. … I think it scratched some itch that I had for authenticity-seeking, and probably allowed me to feel superior to all my classmates in junior high.

Then when I could actually get to a record store, I remember the very first bluegrass album that I bought was the Bluegrass Album Band. I didn’t know who J.D. Crowe and Vassar Clements and Jerry Douglas were, but all I knew was that on the cover of this CD at Turtle’s Records & Tapes in Atlanta was guys holding banjos and guitars and mandolins. So I bought that album and to this day it’s one of my favorite albums. I’ve never asked Jerry Douglas about this, I should, but it felt like the intention of those albums was to kind of just be the ultimate catalog of, you know…

Amy: I mean, it’s called the Bluegrass Album Band.

Ed: Right. They just called themselves the most generic name. And it’s almost like they were just trying to create a library of excellent bluegrass artists playing the canon or something. Or maybe they were really ahead of their time with like meta irony and they were just like, “We’re going to call ourselves the Bluegrass Album Band, ’cause it’s hilarious.”

And of course Tony Rice’s guitar playing on that – I was very much into guitar at the time, I later picked up a banjo – Tony’s guitar playing was so magical to me. I could not understand how human hands could play what he was doing. I would just pour over these solos. I remember the solo to “Your Love Is Like a Flower,” it just was like, how the hell is that being played? I could not wrap my head around it. And I listened to it a million times, and I didn’t have the technology to slow it down, so I couldn’t do that.

Amy: That album and that band really represent a generational shift. It’s not newgrass. It’s playing the canon, but with this mix of the new guard and some folks with some real cred from the second generation.

Ed: You’re right. It isn’t an old sound, what they’re doing. It’s a new sound at that time, because no one was doing Tony Rice licks before Tony Rice. But the harmonies are timeless and the structure of the songs is very traditional. That album means so much to me and I listen to it to this day and I’m still blown away! I actually can play that solo from “Love Is Like a Flower” now, but only at about half speed. And it’s one of the proudest things, when I finally found – someone had transcribed it in tablature, and I was like, “This is string theory explained. This is like if you had Carl Sagan sit you down and explain the mysteries of the universe.” I was like, “Holy shit, I got it! The holy grail!”

Amy: Yeah. To me, it’s still magic. ‘Cause I am not someone who can play an instrument, at least very well, so when I first heard bluegrass, I was just like, “How does that happen? How do you even get the notes from your brain to your fingers and do it so well, and in a way that I’ve just never heard before?” It still kind of blows me away.

Ed: Can I ask you the same question? Where did you first connect to bluegrass music?

Amy: I grew up in rural Pennsylvania, and there was a lot of country and bluegrass around there. Admittedly, I didn’t like it because to me it represented… I mean, I was really busy listening to showtunes and learning Sondheim lyrics and stuff. I was that kid. And I just thought country and roots music was inherently uncool and representative of this place that I felt like I was stuck in.

It wasn’t until I went to college in North Carolina… It was probably the first few weeks of school, one of my housemates who is still a very dear friend of mine invited me to a show, and it was Nickel Creek. I had never heard of them. I had no idea what I was going in to and Erin said, “I just think you’re going to like this. Just come with me to the show. I’ll drive. We’ll go.” And I can honestly say, that show changed my life. I can still remember the whole show so clearly.

Ed: What year are we talkin’?

Amy: 2005? Somewhere around there. I was kind of reeling from it, because it had been a really long time since I felt like I had been challenged by music that was being played by young people, that I really connected with, but also was just kind of flummoxed by. From there it became a deep dive. I was really fortunate going to school where I did, that there was great bluegrass around. I mean, there was this bar about 30 minutes away called The Cave in Chapel Hill, and we used to go see the Steep Canyon Rangers play there every month. And I mean, this is a tiny underground basement bar, maybe holds 50 people, and they would just have bluegrass jams.

Ed: How close were you to Asheville?

Amy: It was about three hours from Asheville. Asheville is where we went for, like, fall break and our little weekend trips and stuff. We would go to Boone and Asheville, and even Mount Airy had a bluegrass fest that we went to. So that’s when I really started getting into it. And I could say, I think my first significant album purchase was pretty soon after that first concert. It was Why Should the Fire Die? by Nickel Creek. I played that into oblivion and had it in my car for like, 10 years, back when we kept stacks of CDs in our cars.

From there it kind of fell into the background, because I was studying film and I moved to New York. I was working all the time and didn’t really make space in my life for music. By the time I moved out to LA, I was working for a producer and I had one or two friends out here that I knew. Again, working a lot, not making any money and trying to find my place in the city, and not really connecting with a lot of the other assistants that I was meeting at the agencies. And I remember going to see the Get Down Boys at some bar on the west side of LA and having this thing reignited in me that I had felt back in college and was like, “OK, I think these are my people.” There was this momentum happening in LA at that particular time. And that’s how I started getting to know the scene out here and had the idea for the BGLA blog.

Ed: Tell us about BGLA.

Amy: I admittedly was a little bored at work. I was working at the Academy of Motion Pictures at this point, which was exciting, especially for three months of the year around the Awards, but the rest of the time was kind of slow. So I started this Blogspot and wrote about what was happening on the scene in Los Angeles. And then people started pitching me, cause I don’t think anybody was really covering it out here. So suddenly I was getting inquiries to interview these people… I mean, I started going really deep in the music and the history and background and getting to know the scene out here. But I remember getting connected to Sean Watkins (of Nickel Creek), and it was this beautiful, full-circle moment. It was the first time I met Sean and got to talk to him, and we became friends and kind of opened a whole other door to the roots music scene and what it could be. And then I think I met you pretty soon after that.

Ed: So when did we meet? I cannot remember.

Amy: Well, I remember when we first met, but I doubt you remember when we first met. I remember this because it was probably the most nervous I’ve been in my whole life. I saw you at a Sarah Jarosz show at Hotel Cafe. And I walked up to you and gave you one of my business cards for Bluegrass LA. And I was like, “I think you’ll like my blog.” That was it! And I don’t imagine you remember that, but that is technically the first time I met you.

Ed: At some point we had a cup of coffee to talk about possibilities.

Amy: Yes, that’s true.

Ed: But then maybe we bumped into each other… I assumed it was Largo, but I have the vaguest memory of getting a business card from you. So yeah, that part tracks.

Amy: Why don’t you talk about the LA Bluegrass Situation, because that predates me.

Ed: You weren’t even a part of the first LA Bluegrass Situation?

Amy: No. I was there. I went one night. But we didn’t know each other at that point. I just went as a fan.

Ed: The first time I ever went to Largo was when John Krasinski took me to see Aimee Mann playing at the Fairfax Largo. We went in through the back and I just was like, “Whoa, what is this incredible vibe?” This whole place is just so, so cool. And eventually Flanny (the owner of Largo) invited me to do stand-up on some people’s shows, and one night he said, “Why don’t you do a show?” And I thought, “OK, cool. It’d be fun to mix music and comedy.” So I think the first show that I did at Largo was called “Hams and Jams.” [Laughs] The idea was like, “Oh, it’s hams, like comedy people, and jams, music people!” And I just mixed up some comedians and musicians with a terrible name that Flanny was so gracious about rolling with.

We really loved that combination, but I was really struggling to wrap my head around the LA bluegrass scene. It just was so disparate, but somehow we managed to get excited about trying to cultivate the scene and coalesce things a little bit more. And I think that was the idea… that was the sort of original inertia behind the first LA Bluegrass Situation. The name literally just came from Flanny talking about it before we named it. He just kept talking about it as the bluegrass situation that we were dealing with. So then when it came time to be like, “What are we going to call it?” I was like, “Well, you’ve been saying this awesome thing because there’s something a little cheeky about a ‘situation.'” Like, it feels like, you know, “We got ourselves a situation, here!” Like it just kind of has some irreverence built into it.

So that’s what we named it, and Flanny and I both pulled as many strings as we could with whatever relationships we had at the time and put a totally magical lineup together. Like I still can’t wrap my head around it. I mean, it was Dave Rawlings and Gillian Welch and Steve Martin and Steep Canyon Rangers and Nickel Creek and Punch Brothers and the Infamous Stringdusters… Oh, and of course the Lonesome Trio, my crew, with my friends Ian and Jake. We were sort of the hosts.

Amy: I remember I got an email from you not long after that, which was pretty shocking. What was the impetus of that, do you remember?

Ed: Yeah, I think that I was feeling pretty heady after that first LA Bluegrass Situation and probably getting over my skis a little bit and being like, “We can create the ultimate hub of bluegrass for Los Angeles and it will be this Tower of Babel that everyone will flock to!” I had so many ideas. There were so many things that I found lacking in Los Angeles that I had taken for granted in New York. There are just so many website resources. “You want a banjo teacher? Look here, there’s tons in New York City. You want to see what shows are happening? Look here!” You could just find stuff in New York City and you couldn’t find stuff in Los Angeles.

Amy: I look at the branding of that initial site and that first logo — I think DKNG did our first logo in Santa Monica — and I remember being really proud of the fact that we didn’t look stereotypical of the era.

Ed: You’re so right. And I give you so much credit for that because the very first LA Bluegrass Situation, Hatch Show Print did a bunch of posters for us. And they were so cool. I still have a bunch and I’m really proud of that, but it was also leaning really hard into a very conventional, stereotypical bluegrass aesthetic. It was a funny wake-up call for me – that plus your input. It helped me realize that what we wanted to do and where we wanted to go as fans and supporters of this idiom was not retro, like it was…

Amy: Forward-thinking.

Ed: Forward. And that artists like Chris Thile were doing that musically, right? But there was a little bit of a reckoning of “What’s our brand going to feel like? What do we want it to evoke? And who do we want to connect with? Do we want to connect with young people who are finding this stuff for the first time and finding it really fresh and exciting?”

Amy: That was always the crux of it for me. To a large extent, that aesthetic is still very alive and well within the roots music community. I had an inkling that there was an audience that had different tastes, but still could love this music and that it didn’t all have to look the same way. I could have never predicted where it went and what we’ve worked on since, but I think at the beginning we were very “of the moment.” It was the same time that Mumford & Sons and the Lumineers were on the top of the charts, and there was this kind of “authenticity” movement taking place.

Ed: I remember going to business meetings with Hollywood producers and one guy had a banjo in his office. And I was like, “You play the banjo?” And he’s like, “No, no, but I want to learn!” But you’re right. It was a moment. I’ve felt like an old fuddy duddy since I was 12 years old, but I was like, “Was I ahead of the curve here?”

Amy: Yeah, similarly, I’ve kind of always felt like an old soul; I never really felt like I truly fit in to my time, so I think there was something that really drew me in to that zeitgeist, but what amazed me was that once we really got into it, it was so much more complex and modern and exciting than I ever expected.

Editor’s Note: Look for the next part of this conversation with Ed Helms and Amy Reitnouer Jacobs in the weeks ahead.

BGS 5+5: Lula Wiles

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Lula Wiles
Hometown: Our band sort of has two hometowns: we started the band when we were all living in Boston, but we first played music together as tweens at Maine Fiddle Camp, located in Wabanaki (Penobscot) territory (“Montville, Maine”).
New Album: Shame and Sedition
Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): Personal nicknames — who’s who should be obvious: Buckles, Burkles, Boms. A rejected bandname that we still joke about… “Monkberry and the Moonlights,” inspired by the Paul McCartney song “Monkberry Moon Delight” off of Mali’s favorite album RAM. We’re so glad we didn’t go with that name… lol.

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

Eleanor Buckland: I grew up playing music with my family and looking up to my dad, who is a professional musician, so I’ve sort of had a desire to be a musician as long as I’ve known that was a thing I could be. But, I do remember a specific Crooked Still show in Maine during my freshman or sophomore year of high school that made such an impression on me. During the show I felt almost sick with longing and from then on I knew I was doomed (ha!) for professional musicianship!

Mali Obomsawin: As a little kid I always just wanted to make people happy and make people laugh. I think I always was a performer, and I always loved words, and it just ended up being music that those things came through. I sang and improvised little poems and acted out a lot. When we would play games as kids, I would always come up with little songs and dances… and when we would play fairies or whatever I would always choose to wear this potato sack and be the “troll” character. I liked being the goofy one that got to do mischief and be different. Maybe this is telling… haha. My dad’s a musician too and there have been a lot of musicians in my family for generations… it was just normal to express yourself that way.

Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?

Isa Burke: My influences have shifted and cycled in and out constantly throughout my life. I’d say Gillian Welch/Dave Rawlings and Joni Mitchell are probably the most long-lasting influences if I really had to narrow it down. But honestly, I think many of the biggest influences on me have also been my friends, family, bandmates, collaborators, and people I’ve shared musical community with. I also tend to go through phases where I’m really devoted to one artist, and this past year I’ve been really inspired by Fiona Apple. She’s so liberated in the way she creates, it makes me feel more liberated, too. When I listen to her music or read interviews with her, it’s like she’s shaking me by the shoulders and reminding me that I can do whatever the hell I want.

Mali: Like Isa I go through phases… some of my biggest influences that might not be obvious from listening to Lula Wiles are Ornette Coleman and Charles Mingus. I got really into “avant garde” and free music at a young age and I think that has shaped my preferences and tendencies as a musician in so many ways. I also think on this album we were able to lean in a little bit more to those sounds that are exciting to me, harsher or more “raw” sounds juxtaposed with atmospheric/gentle/melancholy ones, leaving room in our arrangements for grit and breathability and improvisation. These are all things I associate with Mingus and Ornette — I especially have always been so inspired by Ornette’s gut-wrenching melodies. Just so human. I think Buffy Sainte-Marie had these piercingly honest sounds/qualities in her music too, but I didn’t really dig into her work until more recently. I dunno. These days I’m just loving indie rock, I’m not too proud to admit it!! Really sardonic or sarcastic songwriters like Rufus Wainwright and Randy Newman have been big influences for me. Aaaand, let’s see… Fleetwood Mac?

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc. — inform your music?

Isa: I’d say my songs definitely draw from fiction and film. I love songs that feel like short stories or films — songs with specific, carefully chosen details that expand in the listener’s mind to create a vivid scene, a feeling, a narrative. I also love dialogue in lyrics — Joni Mitchell is a master of that, obviously. Sometimes when I’m writing, I try to imagine the song as a screenplay, or a film, or a novel. Where would this scene take place, what would the characters say to each other, how would it look and sound and feel? That helps me hone in on which of the various elements at my disposal (description, dialogue, details, images, sounds, melodies) can best tell the story and create the feeling I’m looking for. I also think on a more musical (non-lyrical) level, my sense of rhythm is definitely informed by dance. I’ve always loved dancing and a lot of my most formative musical experiences were based in instrumental fiddle music, which at its root is dance music. I move around a lot when I play and I try to write music that feels embodied, that physically feels good to play.

Mali: So many of my songs have been sparked by specific phrases or ideas in fiction novels and poetry. I get obsessed with the beauty or rhythm or texture of a few words juxtaposed against one another, and I adore word-play, and just sonic patterns or complimentary sounds. Language makes me so excited. It’s nerdy maybe. But sometimes when I read a line in a novel that expresses a specific feeling in a poignant or abstract way, it’s really euphoric. James Baldwin is an example pertinent to this album -– the big inspiration behind “In Dreams” … I’m still working my way through Baldwin’s work now, but I’m also pretty deep in listening to speeches by Black Panthers and other civil rights activists from that time. I think it’s odd how we compartmentalize art/genres sometimes, because these speeches are some of the best pieces of American literature ever created. Anyway, I digress. I think in colors and shapes when I play and compose music, but not specifically in the form of paintings or anything.

What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?

Eleanor: “Hometown” on our previous record, What Will We Do, was one of my hardest songs to write. I think this was because the story I was trying to tell in the song is so closely connected to my home and the people I love. I found it harder to get to the truth of the song than ever before, because I was so determined to do the story justice. Mali and Isa were both critical co-writers for this song and helped me more deeply understand and stay true to the heart of what I was trying to say.

Isa: I have a song called “Wild Geese” that has been torturing me since April 18th, 2017. On that day, I sat down and wrote a verse and a guitar riff in about five minutes and thought it was one of the best things I’d ever written, but I’ve never been able to finish it. As soon as I wrote it I knew it had to be the last verse of the song, so I’m working backwards. Every so often I’ll pull the song back out and bang my head against the wall for a while, but I can’t seem to write anything that lives up to that one verse. I’ve even finished and scrapped a couple of full drafts (we actually recorded a rough version of one of them during the sessions for What Will We Do). I’ve always ended up getting rid of everything except that one verse. I can’t let that verse go. It haunts me! Maybe it’s just supposed to be a really short song — hopefully you’ll hear it someday.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Mali: Hmmm… the time Tim O’Brien introduced us as Lula Whales? There was another time we made Ellie eat a hot dog onstage in San Francisco on her birthday.

Eleanor: That was possibly my favorite birthday show ever. Isa and Mali surprised me with a hot dog onstage, since I love hot dogs and I am teased mercilessly for it. That same night, we also got pranked by our drummer, who had the sound guy at the Freight & Salvage play one of our TOP van jams, “Twang” by Mason Ramsey (featured in our playlist) as our walk-on music. It was awesome.

Photo credit: Laura E. Partain

Six of the Best: Songs About Gunslingers

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Like movies? Like yodeling? Wow, is this a big week for you. And, as it happens, for Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings, who will be mixing it with Lady Gaga and Mary Poppins on the Oscars red carpet on Monday as Best Song nominees. If you haven’t yet seen The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, the Coen Brothers’ latest movie, then believe us that it’s worth the Netflix subscription, if only for the sight of Tim Blake Nelson singing “yippie-kay-yey” while floating through the sky with a celestial harp. Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve been bingeing on the Sergio Leone/Clint Eastwood Man with No Name trilogy this week (God bless you, Ennio Morricone), but it’s about time for a list of great songs about gunslingers. (Please note: we don’t think that shooting people is cool, or a viable alternative to an impartial judiciary.)

“Big Iron” – Marty Robbins

Robbins’s iconic 1959 album, Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs, is packed with sharpshooters and outlaws – from Billy the Kid, to Utah Carol, to the nameless man about to be hanged for killing Flo and her beau. Sure, it’s most famous for Robbins’s biggest hit (and Grammy winner) “El Paso.” But if you’re looking for the classic quick-draw at high-noon (or in this case, twenty past eleven), you won’t find better than the opening track, “Big Iron.” Written by Robbins himself, it’s a classic tale of good vs evil as a handsome stranger (and Arizona ranger) rides into town to bring down murderous outlaw Texas Red. If those backing harmonies – especially the incredible bass drop – don’t give you goosebumps, check your pulse. You may be technically dead.

“Gunslinger’s Glory” – The Dead South

If there’s one thing Canada’s premier punkgrassers love to write, it’s songs about Westerns. Maybe it’s because lead singer Nate Hilts’s uncle, back home in Saskatchewan, was (as he puts it) “a big ol’ cowboy”. Either way, their albums are littered with shootouts and bodies, and their high-energy, high-drama approach to performance lends itself well to the subject. This is one of their best, tackling the age-old problem of being a famed gunfighter: that everyone else wants to bring you down. Tell us about it, punks.

“The Last Gunfighter Ballad” – Guy Clark

Johnny Cash’s version – the titular track from his 1977 album – is better known than Guy Clark’s original, recorded a year earlier. But Cash’s spoken-word rendition, given with his trademark rhythmic trot, isn’t perhaps as melodious, or as affecting, as Clark’s. A simple guitar line underlies the story of an old man drinking at a bar, recalling his former life of shoot-outs in dusty streets and “the smell of the black powder smoke”, and the twist in the final chorus is a reminder that modern living isn’t without its own dangers. That’s Waylon Jennings on the harmonies in the chorus, by the way.

“When A Cowboy Trades His Spurs For Wings” – Gillian Welch and David Rawlings

Probably the best thing about the Coen Brothers’ portmanteau of short stories from the Wild West is its opening, with Tim Blake Nelson clip clopping into frame on his white horse, strumming a black guitar and singing Marty Robbins’s “Cool Water.” The second best comes seven minutes later, when Willie Watson shows up as his nemesis. The duet that Welch and Rawlings penned for the pair may be a parody of a cowboy song, but the music’s so en pointe and beautifully sung that the humour takes second place to the artistry. Also, Welch and Rawlings invented a new word – “bindling” – for the song, which has got to be worth the Oscar nom.

“Gunslinging Rambler” – Gangstagrass

There’s a fair amount of reference to guns and violence in the songs of the world’s first (and only) hip-hop bluegrass fusion band. Despite the title, and the assertion of the protagonist that “you gonna wind up another notch on my gun belt”, you realise as the lyrics progress that this one’s not actually about a gunfight, but its modern-day equivalent, the rap battle. R-SON recorded this track for their 2012 album, Rappalachia, and it contains arguably the most devastating lines on the album. “I’m not killing these guys, please let me explain/But when I’m done, there’ll be very little left of their brains.”

“Two Gunslingers” – Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

What’s the best kind of story about gun violence? One where everyone agrees to give it up. Released in 1991 on Into The Great Wide Open, it’s a glorious moment of self-revelation that subverts both the genre and our expectations. As one of the gunslingers so eloquently puts it: what are we fighting for?

Photo courtesy of Netflix

Best of: Music City Roots

Posted on by Editor

There really is nothing quite like live music, and what would Wednesday nights be without Music City Roots live from the Factory? If you aren’t lucky enough to be in Nashville, be sure to catch the live stream each week at 7 pm CT. In the meantime, we’ve scoured the MCR YouTube channel to pull together this collection of must see performances you don’t want to miss:

BGS Favorite: Elephant Revival, “Grace of a Woman”

Get ready to sing along to this high-energy song by Elephant Revival. Although no longer a member of this band, Sage Cook’s electric banjo solo is not to be missed, and everyone could use a little more washboard in their lives!

Fresh off the Press: Dori Freeman, “You Say” 

Twenty-five-year-old Dori Freeman made her MCR debut recently with a performance of “You Say.” This live rendition showcases what we at the BGS have already praised Freeman for: an honest voice and lyricism that wrenches right at the heart.

Blast from the Past: Pokey LaFarge, “In the Jailhouse Now” 

Before the Factory, there was the Loveless Café. This 2011 rendition of the blues and vaudeville standard is titled “In the Graveyard Now” on LaFarge’s album Riverboat Soul. The only question we keep asking is why didn’t we learn how to play the harmonica like that!

Seeing Double: The Brother Brothers, “Cairo, IL” 

Part of the beauty of the Brother Brothers lies in the simplicity of their instrumentation and the haunting harmonies that result from the similarity of their vocal tone. Can you tell who is who in this live performance of “Cairo, IL” from December?

The Jam: Nashville Jam, “I’ll Fly Away” 

One of the most popular jams to celebrate the collaborative spirit of Music City is a rendition of the spiritual and bluegrass standard “I’ll Fly Away” performed by host Jim Lauderdale with guests Gillian Welch, Dave Rawlings, Sierra Hull, Liz Longley, Maureen Murphy, and T Bone Burnett. Make sure to watch til the end for an amazing guitar solo by Rawlings on his classic 1935 Epiphone archtop.

‘Nashville Obsolete’

Posted on by Editor

There's a reason why pretty much everything to come from the house of David Rawlings and Gillian Welch immediately goes to the top of every Americana list on planet Earth. They are a pair of formidable talents — artists who precisely evoke the essence of traditional country music yet never sound like Americana mockingbirds.

For this record — a compact set of just seven tunes spanning about 45 minutes — they once again sow the seeds of traditional country, nurture them with modern sensibility, and reap their own unique harvest. There's Nashville in the water and Southern California in the air on "The Weekend," a tune that presents Rawlings and Welch singing harmony from note one. It feels like a 40-year flashback in a Laurel Canyon time machine, with a short stay at Bradley's Barn. "Short Haired Woman Blues," too, has a certain cowgirl-in-the-sand brand of shimmer, a slow-weaving bonfire-on-the-beach sing-along punctuated by gentle string accents. The epic, 11-minute narrative of "The Trip" is a stream of consciousness expedition into the exquisite — their poetry like Dylan, their textures like the Byrds. "The Bodysnatchers" is a supernatural story of supernatural superstitions, the ghosts in the hollow, the monsters under the bed. Rawlings and Welch pick up the tempo for the rail-riding rumble of "The Last Pharaoh," get a bit buttery on "Candy," and shoot for the plaintive soul of the plains on "Pilgrim (You can't Go Home)." 

With Brittany Haas, Jordan Tice, Willie Watson, and Paul Kowert in tow, the team of Rawlings and Welch have made another strong record to add to their growing repertoire.

Gillian Welch: Retracing the Miles of Music

Posted on by Editor

There’s something about looking back at an old photograph — especially a candid one, a moment you didn’t ever know would be dug up and reflected upon some-odd years later — that makes you look at the present differently. Sometimes you recognize long-ingrained mannerisms that still pop up. Other times, you exhale with relief at the fact you’ve kicked a regrettable habit, letting out a smirk or a quick pang of embarrassment at the passing trends you rocked for the cameras or the half-smiles you favored to hide your braces. It’s a pretty personal thing, to take a piece of your life preserved in print and trace the way it led you to where you are now. Gillian Welch’s latest release, Boots No. 1: The Official Revival Bootleg, is the musical incarnation of that kind of endearing deep-dive into the past.

“I hear me before I really sound how I sing,” says Welch of the 21-song release, which is comprised of early demos and unreleased recordings from the time period leading up to her breakout debut, Revival, in 1996. “My voice is in there, but it's just not quite as focused, and there aren't as many miles on me. Dave [Rawlings] and I often talk about being able to hear the miles on a singer. There's just no substitute for the years and the hours and all of the gigs — literally, all the miles.”

For an artist like Welch, whose careful interpretation of bluegrass and gospel music effectively laid the groundwork for today’s thriving Americana scene, rewinding the mileage is all the more rewarding. A 1993 living room tape of “Orphan Girl,” for example, reveals a lighter, higher vocal than the one fans came to know three years later. (It’s a thrill, too, to realize that Emmylou Harris likely decided to record the number based on this very tape.)

“[These sessions] were some of the first times I was ever recorded, and you can hear my influences,” Welch says. This act of retracing early work is one she’s enjoyed as a fan of other artists, too. “I think it's interesting to hear where they started and what they changed. One of the most fascinating things, when you hear really early recordings of singers who you know so well, is that you hear them before they've really become themselves.”

In addition to the novelty of hearing a greener Gillian on the more popular songs from her catalog, Boots No. 1 also boasts songs like “Wichita,” which appeared on set lists and a live DVD but never made a proper album, and “Dry Town,” which was written by Welch but recorded by Miranda Lambert and Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.

“I guess we just didn't feel like they fit in. I don't think we had any agenda, didn't have anything against these songs. We're really album-oriented artists,” says Welch. “This was a great way to have them come out in to the world, because they really make sense in context with Revival.”

The sessions for Revival began in the Summer of 1995 in Los Angeles, bounced down to Nashville in the Fall, and wrapped up back in L.A. at the end of the year. These recordings formed the basis for the archival project — after all, the fact that these forgotten sessions were mixed live was an unusual luxury.

“This is very rare now, and was fairly uncommon in the mid-'90s,” notes Welch. “This would have been how people were making records in the '60s and before. But it was great for this project because it meant that we actually had mixes of takes that never got used, alternate takes. People these days aren't often in that situation.”

Welch had lived in Nashville for about three years when the recordings featured on Boots No. 1 went to tape, mostly performing as a duo with partner Rawlings in small clubs and on writers’ rounds while finding a voice as a songwriter. “We were playing as much as we could,” she says, though the out-of-town gigs were only beginning to roll in.

“I had moved to town with two songs,” she says. “By the time we were going in to make Revival, I was going into the session with something like 35 songs. It had been, for me, an incredibly productive couple of years.”

Specifically, she cites a songwriting competition at North Carolina’s Merle Watson Memorial Festival as the catalyst for better gigs and more credibility as a writer, and the community she found there continued to push her forward.

“After that, people like Peter Rowan, and Tim and Molly O'Brien, and the Nashville Bluegrass Band, all these people suddenly knew who we were and started asking us to open for them. The bluegrass world was really the first place where we got acceptance. That was our home,” she says. “Actually, the night that I met T Bone [Burnett], we were opening for Peter Rowan at the Station Inn in Nashville.”

Burnett was the perfect fit for Welch and Rawlings in the studio, but if the final product he helped to sculpt on Revival sounds like a departure from what listeners hear on Boots No. 1, it’s not because the veteran producer was out to change their sound.

“Dave and I knew what we liked,” says Welch. “We really did, going into it; but even so, it's hard when you're that young and you've never done any recordings to just go in there and do it and feel confidence. He gave us that strength — not even to mention the fact that he knew his way around record-making like crazy. Nothing got put on that record that Dave, T Bone, and myself weren't happy with.”

That attention to detail is as evident today as it was in 1996 and, although each of the songs on Boots No. 1 is its own glimpse into Welch’s roots, each half of the double album stands as its own: a Revival for parallel universes.

“Dave felt very strongly that whatever we made should be playable like a record, not feel like a library project. I felt very strongly the same way,” she says.

These recordings may have been cast aside as the songs themselves evolved into live anthems and borrowed cuts. But to hear them emerge unchanged as puzzle pieces that fit together in such a meticulously curated collection as Boots No. 1 is a compelling message for any artist or maker: that even the less-polished parts of the past can be a vital part of the future.

“I hear a starting place to where we ended up going, and hopefully that's interesting to people. I know, as a listener, it's interesting to me,” she says. “Obviously we play [the songs] a little differently, and our voices are a little different now, but I still understand them, and I think that's because of how we wrote them. We wrote them for them to have everything you need to connect with them, right there.”

Lede illustration by Cat Ferraz.