Tag: folk music

LISTEN: Bartees & the Strange Fruit, ‘Going Going’

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Bartees & the Strange Fruit
Hometown: Brooklyn, NY
Song: “Going Going”
Album: Magic Boy
Release Date: December 8, 2017

In Their Words: “This song is about growing up in and eventually leaving Oklahoma, and looking back on people in the Black community who taught me key lessons on resilience and faith, and to not be afraid of who might be knocking on the door. The opening verse highlights some of those competing feelings of fear, hopelessness, and defiance, feelings Black people in the South understand very well.

I eventually left Oklahoma and struggled over the years, as I tried to forget about that place. It’s only now that I’m realizing that the lessons I learned there are what make me different. A lot of people who leave home to try new things probably feel this way, too. This song is for them.” — Bartees Cox

Photo credit: Joshua Priestly

WATCH: Tommy Emmanuel and David Grisman, “Cinderella’s Fella”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Tommy Emmanuel and David Grisman
Hometown: Nashville, TN
Song: “Cinderella’s Fella”
Album: PICKIN’
Release Date: November 3, 2017
Label: Acoustic Disc

In Their Words: “‘Cinderella’s Fella’ was written after sampling a fine strain of weed grown by my late friend Jerome Schwartz in Petaluma. He called it ‘Cinderella’ and thus I became her ‘fella’ after inspiration took hold in the form of this airy dawg/jazz waltz. It was a gas playing and recording with the one and only Tommy Emmanuel in my living room, and I’m really looking forward to our first tour together.” — David Grisman

Photo credit: Clara Emmanuel

Covering Milestones: A Conversation with the Wailin’ Jennys

Posted on by Editor

When the Wailin’ Jennys got back in the studio to record their new album, Fifteen, which celebrates the group’s anniversary together, Nicky Mehta, Ruth Moody, and Heather Masse didn’t have much time. Five days, to be exact. Between the fact that all three women are mothers now and live in different cities, planning and preparation have given over to spontaneity and trust. But their approach on this latest LP — a set of covers — doesn’t sacrifice any of the considerate care that has always infused their siren-song harmonies. If anything, they’ve used the studio to capture the magic they radiate during their live shows.

There’s a confidence brimming from every song, whether it’s their reverent, respectful, or resplendent
takes on Dolly Parton’s “Light of a Clear Blue Morning,” Emmylou Harris’s “Boulder to Birmingham,” and Tom Petty’s “Wildflower,” respectively. The trio seems poised and ready to create original music at some point — schedules permitting — but in the meantime, they’ve jumped back into the waters, and are enjoying the stirring act of raising their voices at a time when the messages they’ve come to deliver need sharing more than ever.

What it is about this creative relationship that keeps bringing you all back together?

Nicky Mehta: It’s sort of never been discussed that we would ever take a break and not keep working together. I think it’s always been assumed that we would continue on as long as it felt satisfying to all of us. I think this is a type of project that none of us have access to outside of what we’re doing, so it’s a unique thing for all of us to be doing. That’s what keeps us coming back. We also have such an amazing audience that are really faithful and have seen us through a lot of hiatuses, and I think we want to come back to them, as well.

Heather Masse: I think people have been as receptive. I feel like the live shows, people are there with you and fully present and still really excited about it.

Ruth Moody: I agree. I think we’ve been so lucky with our fanbase. We have taken three hiatuses. Each time it was for each of us to have babies, procreate. [Laughs] And each time our agent was like, “It’s too long to be off the road,” and every time we came back, our audiences have been there and continued to grow over the last 10 years — 15, but specifically 10 since Heather joined the band. Who knows why, but we have been lucky in that way.

As you ebb and flow from this project, how do you see yourself fitting within the growing number of female trios in North America? There are many more names on that list now, beyond folk even.

NM: I think that’s something that I’ve observed, as well. It’s crazy how many trios are out there now, which is great, and everybody’s doing something different. What they focus on, in terms of style of music, is different. We’ve always made decisions about breaks in the road from a place that’s really necessary for each of us, personally. I don’t think we’ve ever worried too much about that because there are things we have to do and so we’ll see what happens after. Once you’ve taken one break and things successfully resume, there’s less trepidation about that. It sort of feels as though there are a lot of trios out there, but it hasn’t felt like there’s some huge competition.

Your harmonies have a touch of the familial about them, and yet you’re not related by blood. How do you explain that magic?

RM: We’ve been really lucky with our blend. We all grew up singing and singing harmonies, and so it’s something we do instinctively — blending with other voices — so that helps to have the ability to listen and blend. But even then it’s not always a slam dunk, so I think we’ve been really lucky that our voices do blend and the ranges are compatible. We switch around depending on who’s singing lead, but we’ve been lucky that that’s been the natural fit.

HM: When I first met the ladies, they were playing in Philadelphia at World Café, and I was sort of auditioning, and the only place that we could sing was in a handicapped women’s bathroom that we found. I was astonished when we all started singing together that it felt like I was singing with my sisters. We just got lucky. It is like we’re sisters, so it’s nice.

I can’t even imagine what the echo would’ve sounded like in that bathroom!

HM: It was really special. I think it was a particularly flattering echo.

You covered Dolly Parton’s “Light of a Clear Blue Morning” for the Canadian film The Year Dolly Parton Was My Mom some years back. Her version has a praise and worship style about it, but yours feels more hymnal. How did you strike upon that interpretation?

RM: That was a good example of being pushed a little bit to do something. The director of the film really wanted us to do that song because the whole soundtrack is Dolly Parton. She wanted us to do it and she wanted it to be a cappella. Who knows if we would’ve gravitated in that direction, but that was cool that we got those instructions, and it really set our focus in that way. I think the best way of making something effective — if you’re going to do a cover — is to approach it in a different way. Especially in the beginning, before it gets into the groove, it does have a more plaintive, hymnal feeling. I think that did make it different from the original.

You triple the vocals on the line “Everything’s gonna be alright,” before going back into harmonies. To me, as a female listener, it feels so necessary to hear that from other women, especially with everything going on these days. What kind of message do you hope to be offering still?

NM: I think we all share the wish to heal and comfort people with what we do, and I think that we all do our own thing, in terms of staying on top of what’s going on in the world and addressing it in different ways. But in terms of what the band does is to reach out to people and support and have the music give people relief and hope and the feeling like, eventually, things will be okay. A lot of our audience, they work in fields where they’re addressing a lot of these issues all the time, and I think it’s nice for them to be able to come to a concert and feel that there’s understanding and there’s still love out there and there’s still hope.

The Tom Petty cover feels apt, although I realize you recorded before his passing. Why “Wildflowers,” in particular, besides the fact that it’s a great song?

HM: I think there’s a way in which, when we hear a song or we bring a song to the band, we sort of know if it’s going to be a Jennys song or not, if it’ll work with our configuration and the way we arrange things. I can’t remember if I brought it up — it felt like something that was on all of our lists of songs to cover — I know that, in my mind, I always thought of it as being a great Jennys cover. It’s hard to describe what the qualifications would be for a Jennys song, but it has a lot of openness and the message is really beautiful, and the melody is very beautiful.

RM: A lot of tenderness, too. It leads itself so well to harmony, which is always a factor for us.

True, you wouldn’t want to pursue a song that doesn’t give you that space.

RM: Yeah, exactly.

It’s a beautiful rendition. So I know recording this album happened quickly because of your differing schedules, but oddly enough, it feels like one of your most grounded albums. What contributed to that sense of confidence?

HM: We only had five days, but we have years of being together and working together that kind of went into it. Even though we knew it would be a bit frantic with a lot of challenges, we knew that we had the foundation. This album was, essentially, for the fans, because they have waited so long for a new record, and so, in spite of not having a lot of time and being mothers, we wanted to make this happen. We thought an appropriate way to approach the album would be to do it live off the floor, and to do a more pared-down recording that mirrors our live performances. That probably helped us feel comfortable and confident in the studio because we’re doing what we, essentially, do on stage.

RM: I think becoming a mother, also, you just have such a different perspective on everything. We didn’t have a lot of time, and normally I feel we can get a little up tight and be perfectionists about stuff. And we were able to let some of that go a little. It’s the perfect album for feeling more grounded and more natural, because we didn’t have time to go back and redo things or try new things out. We just kinda did it and had to be okay with whatever happened, because we didn’t have the time to do anything else. Sometimes there’s a real magic to that.

Photo credit: Art Turner

Steve Martin: Making the Same Sound Different

Posted on by Editor

The sound of a five-string banjo has a cosmic pull. When Earl Scruggs first took to the Grand Ole Opry stage with Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys in 1945, his rapid-fire, three-finger picking style shocked and stunned the Ryman Auditorium audience and radio listeners across the country. The standing ovation he received shook the entire building to its rafters with hands clapping, boots stomping, and hootin’ and hollerin’. It was the Big Bang of bluegrass banjo.

Almost every banjo player could tell you the first time they heard the instrument, the first time they encountered its cosmic pull — a personal, introspective banjo Big Bang unique to each person who is struck by its irresistible, joyful, magnetic sound. Steve Martin describes the first time he heard a banjo as his “What’s that!?” moment. “I kind of pin it on the Kingston Trio,” he remembers. “But I know there were earlier things. I fell in love with the four-string banjo, too. When I was 11, I would go to Disneyland to see the Golden Horseshoe Revue, and there was a four-string banjo player. When I worked at Knott’s Berry Farm, there was a four-string banjo player there, too.” His voice shifts to a whisper, as he adds, “But, we all know that five is better.”

He continues, “I do believe it was kind of the Kingston Trio or folk music, in general, that really made the sound like, ‘Wow, what a happy, wonderful sound!’”

He picked up the banjo as a teenager, taking on three-finger, Scruggs-style picking with the help and influence of his friend John McEuen. But, unlike most banjo pickers, who choose one style — Scruggs’ namesake method, or jazz and ragtime on tenor and plectrum banjos, or any of several types of frailing — Martin also had a “What’s that!?” moment with the old-time form, clawhammer: “It was a record called 5-String Banjo Greats and another record called the Old-Time Banjo Project. They were both compilations. So I don’t know who introduced me to clawhammer. When I was learning three-finger and I was into it about three years, I started to really notice clawhammer, and I go, ‘Oh, no. I have to learn that, too.’”

He is a master of both three-finger and clawhammer to this day and, on his brand new record, The Long-Awaited Album, he shifts effortlessly between the two — sometimes within one song.

Through his career as a comedian and actor, the banjo was ever at Martin’s side. It was a part of his stand-up act, it was peppered into his comedy albums, and it made cameos on his TV appearances. It would be cliché to assume that the banjo and bluegrass were a byproduct of Martin’s comedy career, but the instrument was never an afterthought, an addendum, or a prop. In fact, bluegrass and folk music showed him from his early show biz days working at theme parks that humor was an integral part of these musical traditions.

“When I first started hearing live music, like the Dillards or folk music of some kind, they all did jokes,” he says. “They all did funny intros to songs. They did riffs. They did bits. And then they did their music. That’s essentially what we’re doing now.” The silly, whimsical, comedic elements of the music Martin makes with his collaborators, friends, and backing band — the Steep Canyon Rangers — are just as much a testament to Martin’s history with bluegrass as they are a testament to his extraordinary comedy career.

During the seven years that elapsed between their last bluegrass album, Rare Bird Alert, and The Long-Awaited Album, Martin and the Rangers wrote, developed, and arranged the project’s material during soundchecks, band rehearsals, and downtime on the bus. Barn-burning, Scruggs-style tunes and contemplative, frailing instrumentals are sprinkled amidst love songs and story songs, silly and earnest, all steeped in quirky, humorous inventiveness. The album is centered on a solidly bluegrass aesthetic — but bluegrass is not a default setting.

Musical and production choices for each song were pointed and deliberate, with producer Peter Asher, Martin, and the Rangers keeping each song central and building out the sound around any given track’s core idea. “I love the sound of the five, six instruments that are traditionally bluegrass,” Martin clarifies. “That’s all we need. The Rangers, they say bluegrass is five musicians playing all the time. Other music is five musicians not playing all the time. In bluegrass, they have breaks, but there’s always the backup going. There’s always everybody chopping. So I thought, ‘What if we left out some of the instruments? What if we were not playing all the time?’ It really made a different sound.”

By leaving out an instrument here or there, adding in a cello or, in the case of the lead track, “Santa Fe,” an entire Mariachi band, the album’s sound registers immediately as bluegrass, but refuses to be lazily or automatically categorized as such. First and foremost, it sounds like Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. “I’ve always loved the idea of the sound of the banjo against the cello, or viola, or violin, because you have the staccato notes against the long notes. The cello or viola contribute to the melancholy and mood of the banjo. But mostly, it’s just us, the seven musicians, including myself. We can reproduce it on stage … except for the mariachi. But the song called for a mariachi band, you know?” He laughs and adds, “There’s almost no way to avoid it.”

Where many bluegrass and folk writers eschew modern vernacular, places, and topics, Martin leans in, embracing contemporary scenarios and themes that don’t necessarily fit the stereotypes of train-hopping, moonshine-running, field-plowing folk music. The Olive Garden, nights in a biology laboratory, a gate at an airport, “Angeline the Barista” … the timelessness of roots and folk music isn’t lost in these themes and settings; it’s enhanced, it’s relatable, and it’s damn funny.

“I’ve written a song about a train, and I’ve written a song about Paul Revere. I think it’s got to be specific for people. They’ve got to go, ‘I know that!’ If I’m writing about a train, I know that 99 percent of people that the song will be heard by won’t really have that experience. But if I write about the Olive Garden and a girl busting up with you, I think a lot of people can relate to that, even if they don’t have that exact experience.”

The relatability and visibility of Martin’s music have brought bluegrass — and the banjo — to countless ears that may have never heard it otherwise. In 2015, the International Bluegrass Music Association awarded Martin a Distinguished Achievement Award with this visibility and outreach in mind. With The Long-Awaited Album; the Steve Martin Prize for Excellence in Banjo and Bluegrass that he awards annually; a national tour of his banjo-forward, Tony-nominated Broadway musical, Bright Star; and a heavy touring schedule criss-crossing the country with the Steep Canyon Rangers and his longtime comedy partner, Martin Short, Martin is poised to continue bringing the banjo to many first-time listeners.

But when faced with the idea that he, himself, could very well be the “What’s that?!” moment for an entire generation of brand new banjo players, he is unfalteringly modest. “What I try to express with the banjo is the sound of the banjo. When I first heard Earl Scruggs, I loved his skill, his timing, and his musicianship. I regard myself as someone who’s expressing the sound of the banjo rather than being a superior, technical player like Béla Fleck. So, if anyone picks up the banjo from hearing me, it’s because they fell in love with the sound of the banjo. What I do is get the sound of the banjo out there to a broader world, I guess.”

Lede illustration by Cat Ferraz.

Hardened & Tempered: From the Inside Out

Posted on by Editor

Shout & Shine conversations revolve around expectations: expectations about roots music and its constituent genres and to whom they belong; expectations about what artists and fans want and need; expectations about representation, visibility, community, tradition, history, politics, and so on.

One of the aspects of these interviews that is most compelling is how, even among just the artists of marginalized and underrepresented identities, a relatively small group of people in roots music, the variety of expectations — and perspectives and approaches — is astounding. Each interview has the potential to remind us that we all bring our own presuppositions, biases, and expectations into every conversation we have, even when we are doing our best to be cognizant of them.

Kristin Davidson and Carolyn Phillips, the folk/country duo Hardened & Tempered, most certainly illuminated the baggage of expectations brought to the table, but it also put a spotlight on how all human beings would benefit from stopping to appraise our assumptions from time to time. We could all stand to loosen our grips on our beliefs and dogmas, on the stereotypes we feel are valid, on the narratives we cling to — whether consciously or subconsciously. After all, the strongest steel isn’t rigid, unwavering, and hard. It’s flexible, it’s malleable, it’s giving. That kind of softness makes it stronger. It can make us stronger, too.

Your name, itself — Hardened & Tempered — and the first line of your bio, “Hard enough to hold an edge, soft enough not to break,” sounds like the LGBTQ+ experience distilled. How much of your identities went into the name?

Kristin Davidson: There are a couple of different meanings that went into the name. One is, quite literally, the reference to steel. Because I play the pedal steel, one of my favorite pastimes has been rebuilding old motorcycles, and I also know how to weld. So there’s literally a steel reference in that. But we also liked it as …

Carolyn Phillips: … a metaphor.

KD: Yeah, a kind of metaphor for the balance that we always try to aspire to. We’re both pretty intense individuals, and we do intense things, but certainly, learning how to soften up over the years has taught us to be a little stronger, too.

CP: We were actually talking to one of our close friends in Sante Fe, as we were trying to figure out our name, and he mentioned how he thought of us in this way (hardened and tempered) as individuals, but also as a couple. “Soft,” tempered steel is actually stronger than the hard stuff. That softness makes us stronger. I think that it’s a life lesson from growing up, in general. I think, in every aspect of my life, that rigidity hasn’t been a strong point. When I can meet others with kindness, I actually get that back.

What did your individual journeys to roots music look like?

KD: My deep dive into music, especially lyrically based music, started as far back as I can remember. As I grew up playing the guitar, I always had guitar teachers pointing me in the direction of blues. I definitely gravitated towards folk as a genre. I probably became most aware of it in my early 20s. Lucinda Williams was a culmination of that journey — she was a gateway for me, in a lot of ways. That sophisticated simplicity in her writing, with the blues and the roots influences, led me to explore the different sub-genres that supported her in a more detailed way.

CP: I was more of a late bloomer to all of it. I grew up in a small town in rural Nebraska and graduated with a class of 19 people. My music exposure at that time was pretty limited. I didn’t start getting into roots music until I met Kristin, which was in my 20s, as well.

The first song on your album, The Trailer Sessions, is “My Wildest Ride” and, in the first verse, we hear a woman singing female pronouns, “… The prettiest girl I’d seen.” What’s the story behind that?

KD: I like to step into the shoes of whoever the character is, regardless of gender. “My Wildest Ride” is a song I wrote for a friend and his wife, so they’re actually male and female characters in the song, because I wanted to write a song that honored them. What I think is fun is my voice giving voice to both characters.

In my experience in bluegrass, women will sing classic songs without changing the pronouns, and no one bats an eye at it. But if a man happens to sing a song from a female perspective, they’re almost always changing the pronouns. I like that you’re keeping the song central there.

KD: That’s one of my pet peeves! When I hear a male song covered by a female artist, it always irritates me if she were to change the pronouns. Occasionally, you run across artists who don’t. There’s something more magical that happens when the pronouns don’t change. I don’t know — it’s more fun and it’s transcendent, in a way.

Do you feel like queerness makes you more likely to appreciate that or to do that in your own music?

CP: I think so.

KD: Yeah, sure!

CP: We never want to be boxed into anything. That’s how we both live our lives. We just let “us” be who we are. Because we’ve had to explore that all of our lives, we’ve gained this freedom to live this way.

So the songs on your record range from being total story songs to totally personal.

KD: Oh, definitely. The first song, like we said, is about friends of ours. But then, going into track two, with “Heartbreak Transit Line,” that is a character and a set of circumstances I imagined, versus “Centerville,” which is very much written from my experience. I think, even when I have a movie-like image that develops in my brain, when I’m invested in developing a certain character, I always ask myself, “What about this character is something that I can relate to personally?” That’s a great exercise, because usually I create these characters in circumstances that I have not lived myself. I guess it’s an exercise in empathy.

Where does “Family Secrets” fall on the story song to personal song scale? I hear that line in there, “I can’t fall in love without reminding you of your regrets.” It makes me think of my family — and the families of so many LGBTQ+ people out there — who will never be fully supportive of queer love and the happiness we gain from it.

CP: [Laughs] That’s a loaded question!

KD: [Laughs]

CP: This came from, quite literally, a family secret that we’re not sure we should tell, because it involves a still-living family member. [Laughs]

KD: But yes, you’re absolutely right. Those couple of lines and down through the hook, “You can’t deny what you won’t confess about the family secrets …”

See, that sounds like the closet to me.

KD: And part of it is. That factored into it. But I had been reading a lot about epigenetics and considering my own family secrets. My mom found this old newspaper article about some great-great-great grandfather of ours that committed a triple murder/suicide type of situation, and it made national news in like, 1906. You could probably mine I don’t know how many country songs from it. That was one of the things that I grew up knowing, because my dad didn’t consider it something to keep secret from me, but then I’m not sure my cousins knew.

Then, of course, our own experiences falling in love factored in — that’s an intense enough thing on its own, to be falling in love without adding in the external dynamics and reactions. You don’t always know where that external influence is coming from or why. It could have something totally different driving it. Like a family secret. There was a whole bunch of information bouncing around in my head [while writing “Family Secrets”]. But I have to say, that chorus was one of those things that just popped out, and I’m not sure how.

I think the important thing here is representation. LGBTQ+ people who listen to your music see themselves reflected in it — where they don’t normally see themselves in Americana or country at all. For instance, I keep finding these bits and pieces of your songs that I can relate to as a gay man, that may or may not be coming from a LGBTQ+ starting point at all, but your visibility allows listeners to connect those dots, if they so wish. Do you consider that while you write and perform?

KD: I don’t think I think about it overtly, but I take what you just said as a tremendously high compliment. It’s such an inside-out process, to start with the seed of creation and then watch it launch into something that can exist on its own. When I first started writing, I didn’t sing, so I was used to writing words that were brought to life by someone else’s voice. I’m more grounded with the songs now, but it’s still such an inside-out experience for me. I just hope people listen and like the songs. I’m always so complimented by the fact that people relate to them.

What is the dynamic in Austin, Texas, and in the music scene and in your communities? How does it feel playing regionally, going from the progressive echelon of Austin to the deep red areas surrounding it?

KD: We haven’t been in Austin that long, so it’s hard to provide any sort of global context to it, but Austin has been very good to us. I’d say it’s a very relaxed and open community.

CP: It feels pretty fluid to me. That’s been our experience even on tour.

KD: In, like, rural Nebraska.

CP. Yeah. Again, I take it back to, you know, how I have survived in this world is by just being myself and being kind, and that’s usually what I’m met with, fortunately. Being out there, being in different rural communities, playing music, and being gay gives [our audiences] exposure to different types of people that they maybe otherwise wouldn’t have had. I hope by us being out there, being who we are, and being good people, we can continue to help represent and show who our community is. There are fewer barriers in place than we hear about sometimes.

Dori Freeman, ‘Just Say It Now’

Posted on by Editor

There’s nothing quite like a sad song that isn’t actually sad at all, or a happy song that’s anything but. It feels good to condition the emotions and not let things get too caught up in the predictable, the status quo. We’re programmed to think that minor keys and slow acoustics always mean that lyrics just as somber are to come; and we’re equally used to hearing sprightly tales alongside fast beats and carefree picking. But when music really gets interesting, is when this formula is dismissed completely: Often a tool of bluegrass, the instruments can walk a much different line than the brain, painting a more complex picture of the human experience. It’s rare that anything is cut and dry, anyway, and, like some mournful words paired with a dancing fiddle, there are usually two sides to everything … at least.

Dori Freeman, on Letters Never Read, knows this well. Many of her songs play with the ability to be many things at one time and unveil their true vulnerability once they have captured us within their inherent melodies. “Just Say It Now” is an ode to just getting the band aid ripped off before the pain is too intense, and it sounds delicate and light — a go-lucky sing-along with a gauzy, Lauren Canyon chug. “Just say it now before the silence makes me cry,” she sings. “From the beginning, I knew you would say goodbye.” Her voice is sharp and ethereal, pastoral and crisp, able to carry the task of complexity easily within a two-and-a-half-minute frame. Maybe the best sad songs are the ones that make us smile, too.

Canon Fodder: Cowboy Junkies, ‘The Trinity Session’

Posted on by Editor

“Roots” is an impossibly broad term that reasonably encompasses every strain of American music, from folk and country and gospel to bluegrass and blues and rock, from hollers, reels, and jigs to ballads, anthems, and laments. That makes for an incredibly diverse catalog of songs and albums that fall under that heading. Each month Stephen Deusner examines an album that lies either in the center — or more often in the margins — of what might be considered the roots canon … if there even is such a thing.

Let’s get the formalities out of the way first: The Cowboy Junkies’ second album was recorded at the Church of the Holy Trinity in Toronto in November, 1987. The church was initially reluctant to let a secular rock group hold sessions there, so the band broke the ninth commandment and bore false witness: They said they were a gospel act called the Timmins Family Singers and they were recording a holiday radio special. Many of the songs were captured with the band playing around one microphone, with Margo Timmins’ vocals broadcast over the church PA. It took either one day or several days, depending on who’s telling the story.

When fans talk about The Trinity Session, they almost always foreground the circumstances of its recording, as though that setting demonstrates the album’s authenticity — as though authenticity were objectively demonstrable. Overshadowing the music, the story of the album has become the album, and even the band is complicit: In 2007, they celebrated their breakthrough’s 20th anniversary by rebooking the same church, inviting some popular fans inside (including Vic Chesnutt and Ryan Adams), and re-recording the album song for song.

The music gets lost in that tale, so that it becomes easy to ignore the mood that the church itself went so far to create. It obscures the fact that this is an album that dramatically rewrites its folk source material, that conceives of personal and professional troubles (touring, romance, the usual) as the raw material for folk tunes, and considers Elvis Presley and the Velvet Underground to be folk artists. For many listeners (including yours truly), it was their first introduction to the folk process, years before Uncle Tupelo and others were revving up the Appalachian tradition to define alt-country. The Trinity Session is a seminal album, if it can ever escape the church.

The Church of the Holy Trinity did do one important thing: It created a sonic palette for these songs, eschewing the clinical silence of the studio for something with an audible ambience. It’s there in the a cappella opener “Mining for Gold,” a cover of a song by the Canadian folkie James Gordon. As Margo voices the worries of someone whose life is spent underground, you can hear the soft rumble in the background, a thousand small things coalescing into a roomy thrum: distant traffic, footsteps, whispers, birdsong, exhalations and inhalations, the bustle of Toronto just beyond the sanctuary. If you wanted to be romantic, you might say it’s the sound of a ghost in the room, a spectral musician accompanying Margo’s performance. But perhaps it’s something more: The entire world hushed so that the singer can get inside her own head for a few precious moments. That sound is the sound of sanctuary.

Reviewing the album in 1989 for Spin, Erik Davis described it as “a combination of Quaaludes and honey.” In this aural soup, the instruments take on lives of their own. Alan Anton’s bass doesn’t enter through your ear; rather, it already exists in your head. The harmonica leaps out of “I Don’t Get It,” almost like a jump scare in a horror movie. Michael Timmins’ guitar solos seem impossibly delicate, especially on “Dreaming My Dream with You.” His sense of timing makes the music all the more immersive; you lean in to hear his notes. Most of all, it’s the way these sounds collide and combine that reinforce the idea of the Cowboy Junkies as a band, which is crucial. They sway into oncoming traffic on “Walking after Midnight,” they swing delicately on “Blue Moon Revisited,” they jam industrially on “Working on a Building.” The church becomes a place of musical communion.

Margo Timmins sings “Mining for Gold” like the song wasn’t written but passed down through generations, and introduces a compelling strategy the band will deploy on most of the songs that follow: It uses the folk tune as a metaphor for band life. The Cowboy Junkies are miners searching for a rich vein of gold, and they persist despite the dangers such an enterprise entails. She may sing of silicosis (and who else could make that disease sound sing-song-y?), but the travails they face are more spiritual than physical. There is a sly nod to fellow Canadian Neil Young, who famously had “been a miner for a heart of gold,” but there are sly nods to so many performers here: the swaggering sex appeal of Elvis Presley on “Blue Moon Revisited (Song for Elvis),” the horrific isolation of Hank Williams on “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” the heroic stoicism of Patsy Cline on “Walking after Midnight,” even the unexpected compassion of Lou Reed on “Sweet Jane.”

These artists are the veins they’re mining, which inform the handful of originals on The Trinity Session, in particular “200 Miles.” At first, it plays like a rounder’s anthem or a trucker song, but it becomes not only a description of life in a touring band but a declaration of intent — an explication of why the Timminses might choose a life on the road: “I got Willie on the radio, a dozen things on my mind, and number one is fleshing out these dreams of mine.” It’s no coincidence that they follow that song up with Waylon Jennings’ “Dreaming My Dreams with You.” “I hope that I find what I’m reaching for, the way that it is in my mind.”

The Cowboy Junkies are not only running toward some dream they can only vaguely define. They are also running from something. Death stalks every song on The Trinity Session, whether in the form of black lung or a car collision or some unknown fate that befalls every one of us. “I want to make sense of why we live and die … I don’t get it,” Margo sings on “I Don’t Get It.” And, just in case you think this album is without humor, she remarks grimly, “I ask my friends if they understand, but they just laugh at me and watch another band.” Music is one means by which we might understand life and death — or at least the Junkies hope so.

Are these songs receptacles for the dead and the doomed? Do they contain the ghosts of Hank, Patsy, and Elvis, and now Lou and Waylon? Nearly every artist they cover has died, which means that, 30 years after it established them as one of Canada’s most daring rock acts, The Trinity Session isn’t so much an album as it is a séance — a means by which they can contact and interrogate the dead.

STREAM: Amber Rubarth, ‘Wildflowers in the Graveyard’

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Amber Rubarth
Hometown: Nashville, TN
Album: Wildflowers in the Graveyard
Release Date: September 29, 2017
Label: Cambium Records

In Their Words: “Nature has such a gentle way of answering questions and hardships. A few years back, I was swimming in unknowns and turned to nature out of necessity; her fluidity between birth, death, and rebirth gave my brokenness some hope. At the time, I was living in the Hudson Valley in New York and had just been hit by a car, had a severe concussion, couldn’t use my left side, and the doctor had given me a list of what not to do for the next month which included ‘thinking.’ Throughout these months of recovery, I would walk (without thinking, of course) to this old cemetery by my house and stare at a scene of wildflowers growing over gravestones underneath an ancient oak tree while dandelions were blown off into the wind. This became my touchstone and encouraged me to let go of what was ending and open to what was to come. My identity up until that point was that I was an artist and, right then, I didn’t know if I would be able to play instruments or write again. And so this question arose, ‘Who am I without that?’ This record became a slow exploration of these questions, and the journey became the gift.” — Amber Rubarth

That Ain’t Bluegrass: Darin & Brooke Aldridge

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Darin & Brooke Aldridge
Song: “ Someday Soon” (originally by Ian & Sylvia)
Album: Faster and Farther

When did you first hear “Someday Soon?”

Darin Aldridge: It’s one of the tunes that Brooke and I have been doing in the living room around our house, as we just sit around playing, coming up with tunes. [Laughs] Suzy Bogguss was probably the first for both of us. We were in Sarasota, Florida, about a year-and-a-half or two years ago with John Cowan — we’ve been on tour a lot with him lately. And the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, some of those guys were down there. We were just soundchecking, and Brooke started singing the song as a vocal check. And they all asked if we would do that song that night. We started doing it from there.

What was your process for arranging it and putting it together?

We kept it in the same key for her. It sang really well. The chords are so beautiful in it the way Ian Tyson wrote them, so we thought, “Why change anything that’s not really broken?” She does hold out a part of it toward the end. It’s such a good note for her. And that’s different from any other versions of the song. We arranged it with the band we would be performing live with, so it would have the fiddle and guitar break. Dobro was in our band, at the time, so that’s how we had that in there.

It’s been a tradition since the beginning of bluegrass for artists to take songs from outside of the genre and turn them into bluegrass songs. Why do you think that is?

I think that as people in different genres and different eras — say the ‘60s til now — people just play music that they enjoy, writing they enjoy. I got to be a part of the Country Gentlemen in the last decade or so that Charlie Waller was alive. They were probably known as the first bluegrass artists to really be reaching out in the ‘60s, doing a lot of folk tunes, a lot of rock songs, like things from the movie Exodus and so forth. That trickled down through the decades. If it’s just a good song, it’s hard to keep down, and I think that’s what keeps a lot of the music fresh. Even Monroe ventured into some of the bluesy music, so did Flatt & Scruggs, to keep along with the times. Different artists just picked things that they enjoyed or spoke to them.

What’s your favorite thing about performing this song?

Probably the crowd response. It speaks to a lot of new folks listening to it the first time, then you get the older generation that have heard it from the hit by Judy Collins in the ‘60s, or from Suzy Bogguss’s hit — people who are 40 or 50 years old remember that from the ‘90s. It’s a good crowd favorite. We got to perform it on the Grand Ole Opry this year, when we debuted, and it got a great response. It’s just been a wonderful song. It’s up for IBMA Song of the Year. It’s been number one for us on the Bluegrass Today chart, Roots Music Report, and, I think, Bluegrass Unlimited.

You know that ain’t bluegrass, right?

[Laughs] ‘Cause it don’t have a banjo in it! I see it from both sides. Considering bluegrass the way Monroe and them played it in 1946 with that instrumentation — that’s ground zero for bluegrass. This song doesn’t have banjo in it, but it’s got soul, it’s got instrumentation of bluegrass, and of course wonderful singing. It’s hard to keep that down. It can crossover to whatever. It’s not too far from Suzy’s version of it or mainstream country and it’s hit a lot of country radio.

That’s a hard question, you know? If it’s bluegrass or it’s not. I think it’s people’s opinion about what they enjoy and that opinion is growing wider and wider, which makes the music grow. Why not let them fight over what they think is and isn’t bluegrass? That’s why they make CDs and downloads, so you can choose yourself, I guess? [Laughs]

Linda Perhacs, ‘Eclipse of All Love’

Posted on by Editor

What if art didn’t need celebrity to survive? What if, somehow, it became possible just to create at will, without the pressure of the phone bill and the mortgage, or the parents to please, or a constantly ticking cultural clock? What kind of music would the world make, if we treated it like a gift that could be presented to us just when the mood strikes, but not as something aimed at relevancy — something more spiritual than a compulsory need to offer up goods to an audience in waiting? If there’s a catch-22 of art, it’s that once it becomes a viable way to make a living, it also becomes a job.

Linda Perhacs, now 75 years old, somehow managed to avoid all that. After she released the highly influential, psychedelic-folk cult favorite Parallelograms, she kept her job as a dental hygienist — a career she still holds to this day. She finally made a second record three years ago, and I’m a Harmony — her newest, produced by Pat Sansone of Wilco — carries the weight of someone who never let their art drag them down and kept that precious commodity from being just that … a commodity. That approach let her preserve a stunning, dramatic lightness on songs like “Eclipse of All Love,” featuring Sansone. Perhacs hasn’t lost her precious weirdness over the years nor her fascination with the metaphysical plane or her ability to warp sounds into a sort of tangible synesthesia: If you couldn’t hear color before, her songs are the audible version of a spinning, warping kaleidoscope or a kite in the wind. “Ain’t it a shame, if we are to blame, when we are the ones who can bring back the love,” Perhacs sings. She only asks questions when they need to be answered, no album cycle beckoning. We should listen, and do our best to heed the call.