Tag: indie

Haylie Davis is Keeping Laurel Canyon Sounds Alive and Well

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

California dreaming has become a sonic reality once more. An affinity for 1960s and ‘70s Laurel Canyon sounds is alive and well, including acolytes from onetime Brooklyn punk-rockers across to Los Angeles-based former pop and R&B singers turned country-rockers. A new cohort of such artists based in Tovaangar (the traditional lands of the Tongva, the region including Laurel Canyon and all of what is now called LA) follows Jonathan Wilson’s coronation as “the New King of the Canyon,” and the historical book round-up Canyon of Dreams published at the end of the 2000s.

Influenced by Gram Parsons and other period icons, Northern California-born-and-raised singer-songwriter Haylie Davis is a shining star of this current Laurel Canyon wave. Her debut album Wandering Star – released June 5 on Fire Records – situates her well in the cosmic American music pantheon.

Davis has circled the Los Angeles music scene for a spell with previous musical incarnations being as one-half of country duo Will & Haylie (with Will Worden); the folksy Lady Apple Tree; and under her given name, Haylie Hostetter, contributing vocals to projects of her Canyon-rock peers. Davis descends from the sonic lineage of Jackie DeShannon, whose trailblazing 1968 Laurel Canyon presaged Ladies of the Canyon. Her other key foremothers are Mary McCaslin (Mary Noel Singing Bear, Kiowa Apache) – who got her start at the Troubadour Monday Hoot Night in the late ’60s, often plying imagery of old-timey California and the Wild West – as well as Wendy Waldman, who wrote incisive songs about the tangled love affairs of hip LA.

Davis’s pellucid soprano ascends to the stratosphere, displaying that she has the voice, sounds, and image of a singer-songwriter transported to an LA canyon of yore (she did live in Topanga) – and of a singer-songwriter that could be a big star in 2026. Indeed, Wandering Star, showing a young woman artist with mythopoeic songs with quiet thunder and heartfelt illumination, could be enshrined as Carole King’s Tapestry for a younger generation.

What was your musical upbringing like in Northern California?

Haylie Davis: I was fortunate. My high school had a really good music program, so I was able to take vocal ensemble. But guitar, I would say to this day, I’m not the best at guitar. I mostly just write with guitar. I picked guitar up when I was 16 and have since just been kind of figuring it out.

Do you figure out your songs by ear or do you read music from that teaching?

I don’t know how to read music. I don’t know, honestly, much about music theory. I’d say it’s mostly just by ear. I’ve tried to learn more in-depth about theory, but I feel like my brain has a hard time understanding it. It’s still kind of mysterious. I feel like I learned singing best from just mimicking and singing along to songs consistently.

So, how did the songs from Wandering Star flow to you?

I think it’s just kind of a sequel or it’s just a continuation of my first project, which was Lady Apple Tree. I have one album out under that name, and that album was very much a naive, youthful take on music, just kind of starting out. And I think that Wandering Star is kind of a progression of that into something a little bit more mature, a reflection of more time spent in Los Angeles, the people I’ve associated with, and just a little bit more of a growth, you know? I didn’t sit down and just write the whole album as is; I think songs just kind of trickle in as time goes on. And so those were just my favorites from that passage of time.

What was your approach to producing as you did on the new album? How did you find the studio that you used for it?

So, most of the songs were recorded at my friend’s studio named Ian Doerr. He’s not at the same place anymore, but at the time he was in Highland Park in Los Angeles and he has an all-analog studio called Love Magnet.

And I partnered up with Sam Burton, who was my partner at the time as well, and I would say he was probably one of the biggest influences on the sound. He was kind of like my confidant, someone I’d always be asking for his input and advice and his guidance. He’d been in the music industry longer than I had at that point so he had a lot more insight. I just thought that he has a very, very good ear for production, and I think he’s really good at nailing what a song needs. I call it a partnership just because I feel like he took the lead on most of it, but I also have a very specific way that I want things to sound, certain instruments I want on certain things, and certain drum beats, so I participated in that as well.

How do you command your stage?

I feel like that’s definitely been developed over the years, and it depends on if I’m by myself or with band. I was opening for this band called Nude Party, and they were, at the time, a six-piece or seven-piece band of all dudes. And they were kind of rowdy, you know? I showed up by myself. At first, it was kind of hard wrangling a crowd of people who were there to see a full band just playing by myself. I feel like I was almost catering toward them, trying to win their attention over, and it was hard. I was struggling. And then by maybe the third or fourth show, I remember just being like I don’t care. I’m over this. I’m just gonna go up there and play the songs for me and feel them as deeply as I can. And that show literally just switched the energy; people were receptive.

I learned a lot through that experience. I think I learned that it was about communicating the songs as best as you can. You have to go up there and be strong and be unapologetic.

What is the story behind my favorite of the album’s songs which is “Country Boy?”

I actually wrote that song a long time ago, when I was playing with the first band I toured with which was Sylvie and we were all playing together. And I just came up with this melody, chord progression, and words, and I didn’t do anything with it for maybe two, three years, at all. Then, all of a sudden, the rest of the song kind of came together when I was living in Altadena. I feel like most of the people and men I’ve interacted with in the music scene and just in Los Angeles have been transplants from the Midwest or the South and trying to make it in California.

On the topic of California, how do you feel about previous reviews linking you to the Laurel Canyon scene lineage? Do you identify with any of the artists from that history?

Identify is a strong word. I definitely listen, and I feel like they’re all very much close to my heart, you know, I listen to them quite a bit, and I feel like they’re very formative in my music and also how my life progressed. Linda Ronstadt, and Neil Young, and Joni Mitchell, those figures I feel like musically were very inspiring to me. So, I don’t mind comparisons; I get it. Obviously, my goal is to not replicate but make something of my own.

I saw that you’re a fan of Gram Parsons. Do you have any specific influence from him?

Oh yeah, most definitely! I love him. He’s probably one of my top artists as well. I just think that song “Hickory Wind” is maybe my favorite song. Every time I hear that song, I’m just blown away. He’s huge for me; I’m very inspired by him. I was lucky enough to stay at the hotel room that he passed away in, in Joshua Tree, for a couple nights on New Year’s 2026 – which was really special.

I really think Wandering Star could be an equivalent of Tapestry for your generation. I don’t know if you relate to that statement or not?

Thank you! Oh, wow!

Love. Well, it’s hard. I feel like it’s hard to be completely self-aware of […] it’s hard to see yourself how others see you, you know? I’m just like me, and I’m just out here trying to make it, trying to survive. But I appreciate that; it means a lot. Because it takes a lot of work. I like Carole King as well. But I will say, it’s interesting because I do think that there’s been a kind of exodus out of LA at the moment. I’ve moved to Brooklyn.

Since you’ve moved across Turtle Island do you think the “California Dream” is dead for artists?

I think that there are energy hubs, like New York, LA, certain places that I don’t think it’ll ever fully go away. But I do think that there are seasons for places in cities. And I think that, at least for this specific niche that I’m a part of, I think that it’s a little bit in a low season over in LA. I think that it’s swinging over to New York right now.

Speaking of California dreamin’, I heard that you made pictures previously with my friend the photographer Henry Diltz. Do you think what he shot is like the ones that he did for various legends?

I actually took those a few years back. I was dating this guy named Will Worden who plays music. He lives in LA and I don’t know how he got Henry Diltz’s info, but he did. [Henry] came by and just shot us and it was really, really cool. Like, obviously, he’s a legend. I haven’t really posted any of those photos, so maybe I’ll look back and check them out.

Are there some albums that you find you listen to in emotional times that help you through?

There’s some things I always go back to, but right now, I haven’t really been listening to Joni Mitchell that much. I feel like she’s someone that I can listen to at any time. Right now, I am going through a breakup, and it’s crazy, but I’m surprised by the music that I’ve been listening to… I’ve been really into the first Gipsy Kings album – the second song on that record, it just really hits. I’ve been really feeling it. I love Elliott Smith; I’ve been listening to him.

Oh, I’ve been listening to Anita Ward lately, too. She does “Ring My Bell.” You know that song? And she also has a song called “Spoiled By Your Love” that has been on repeat.

What else about Wandering Star do you want known?

One of the reasons why it feels special to me is because of the people who were working on it, just like how much dedication they shared and it means so much. Just a lot of care from people who didn’t have to do that, but they did. It’s like a nice pin in all of our timelines. It’s coming to a point where we’re all kind of moving in different directions in a lot of ways. And I’m happy to have this shared moment.

I’m just grateful for everybody who participated because honestly it couldn’t have happened especially as I was broke. I didn’t have any money to really do it, and everyone just kind of showed up and was there for it. That doesn’t always happen. You don’t always have people around like that, so I really, really appreciate them for that.

Photo Credit: Sarah Ward

Keyland’s Friends in Low Places Playlist All About Tulsa

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

The music scene in Tulsa, Oklahoma, is alive and well. If I’d thought otherwise at any point in time, it wouldn’t take long for a stranger in an Austin dive or a songwriter in Nashville to remind me – and they have. I’ve called Tulsa home for 10 years and gladly claim and evangelize her as often as I can. This little-big town’s reputation of producing quality singer-songwriters and musicians is justified, however biased I am.

Come with me, Keyland, on a little walk through a Tulsa-Mixtape journey. Before we begin, I’d like to offer a few important listening notes:

1) I regret that I will inevitably leave some folks out, merely due to the limitation of brevity. My sincerest apologies. But I’d like to point out that this list is composed of my personal friends in the Tulsa music scene. Beers on me at the Mercury Lounge to any friends I leave out here…

2) This is a list of current artists. The Tulsa music scene is often associated with only a handful of eclectic deceased writers and musicians. God bless them – but Tulsa has changed a lot in the last 50 years or so. My friends included here do an amazing job of looking ahead at what the future holds.

Let’s jump in! – Kyle Ross, Keyland

“Dripping Coffee” – Ramsey Thornton

Ramsey is one of my best friends and most likely the very best musician I know. He plays drums and sings harmonies in my band, Keyland, and he is an incredible guitar and banjo player. In the best way, this album is more a composition than anything else.

“Stranger” – Wilderado

This is my favorite band. I so respect the way these guys approach rock and roll with a blue-collar “dad” mentality. It’s truly inspiring, and the way I want to approach music as a career.

“Coyote” – Ken Pomeroy, John Moreland

This is a two-for-one selection: Ken and John are both powerhouse songwriters and singers. Both these artists are gifted in very special ways and I’m glad they make music.

“Get to You” – Micah Felts

Micah Felts is hilarious, a fantastic songwriter, and an all-around great dude and friend. He is also a stellar acoustic guitar player.

“Better If Worse” – HAFFWAY

Sam Westhoff is slipping in this Tulsa music list, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave him out. He is one of my best friends and has produced all of my music. He lives in Nashville now and is famous (rightfully so).

“Comanche Moon” – John Ferrell

John Ferrell is one of the most rawly talented players and singers I know. I met John while we were both in college and he learned to play guitar better than me and all my other friends in like three months.

“Marigold” – Chris Bo Jones

Also sneaking in this Tulsa list is OKC rockstar Chris Bo Jones. Lineman by day, rock star by night, Chris is one of my favorite singers.

“Outside” – MORE&MORE, Beachfriends

Brady Ballew (the happiest person I know) used to play professional soccer. Now his band MORE&MORE and Keyland like to sell out shows in our favorite Tulsa dive, the Mercury Lounge. I’ve listened to this song 10,000 times.

 “Call Me Anytime” – Sports

Christian introduced me to nicotine toothpicks and Australian beer one time after a HAFFWAY show. These guys produce a lot of cool stuff in Tulsa. And Sports is like a huge band.

“Bullfighter” – Joleen Brown

Joleen Brown is Tulsa’s sweetheart. Her voice is crazy good and she is the sweetest, coolest person you will meet.

“Wishes” – Travis Linville

I’m new to Travis’s music and I’m so glad I found it. This is like a Tom Petty song in the best way. I don’t know Travis super well, but it seems like he has a really grounded view on the reality of what it means to be a musician in 2026, and for all the right reasons.

“More” – Kalyn Fay

Kayln Fay just put out a really cool record that highlights and honors her Cherokee culture and roots.

“This Damn Funky” – Johnny Mullenax

Johnny plays guitar 1000 miles per hour. Johnny’s band plays their music at 1000 miles per hour also. The live show is insane.

 “South and Pine” – Zach Bryan, King Cabbage Brass Band

I have not met Zach yet, but I have drank one million beers at 5 or 6 of his concerts. The horn section in this new record of his is a Tulsa band called the King Cabbage Brass Band and it is physically impossible to not have fun at a show of theirs. And they also do really cool work in our community by teaching band camps for kids – they recently held a concert at Cain’s Ballroom and their band camp kids absolutely crushed a song on the main stage.

“Cowboy Song” – BC & the Big Rig, Jacob Tovar

This is another two-for-one selection: Brandon Clark was one of the first people to ever believe in my band, Keyland, and let us play our first real gig with them. Jacob Tovar has a buttery voice and one of the funniest people you could give a microphone to. You can catch both of these gentleman holding down separate residencies at local dives – Tonkin’ Tuesdays with Tovar and BC’s Sunday Service – you guessed it, at the Mercury Lounge.

Photo courtesy of the artist.

The Working Songwriter: Joe Pernice

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Our guest on the Working Songwriter this week originally hails from Boston, Massachusetts, and now makes his home in Toronto. Joe Pernice got his musical start, though, in Northampton, Mass. At the time, it was a hot bed of indie music creativity. His band the Scud Mountain Boys built a loyal following in the 1990s with a string of critically acclaimed releases. He’s recorded for Sub Pop, One Little Indian, Team Love, and New West Records.

LISTEN: APPLE • SPOTIFY • REDCIRCLE • MP3

Over the years Pernice has collaborated with a variety of blue-chip songwriters such as Aimee Mann, Neko Case, Norman Blake (of Teenage Fanclub), Jimmy Webb, Rodney Crowell, and Jim White. He’s also a man of many talents; his novel It Feels So Good When I Stop was published by Penguin Books in 2009. NPR calls him “a workhorse of a songwriter who delivers hard truths with the softest of whispers.” Brooklyn Vegan declared, “Few songwriters today imbue frustration and anguish into the sweetest of melodies as Joe Pernice.”

I got a chance to catch up with him a few months ago to hear about his musical journey so far.

Photo Credit: Colleen Nicholson

The Expansive Universe of Hiss Golden Messenger

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Next year, singer and songwriter MC Taylor will have been leading Hiss Golden Messenger for two decades. For most of that time, critics and listeners have relied on a few familiar narratives about Taylor: that he is a singular figure, for example; or that his move from California to Durham, North Carolina, marked a formal shift from punk to Americana; or even that he thinks slightly more than he feels. Talking to Taylor, from his home in Durham (well, there was a Zoom call involved), I found these cliches about his practices were limiting, factually accurate but emotionally untrue.

Instead of laser-focusing on one narrative, on telling the same stories over and over again, listening to Taylor speak, I encountered a new understanding of his practice, one which placed Taylor in the background and moved his bandmates and genre-play into the foreground – shifting from the centrality of a singular figure to a greater emphasis on generosity and expansiveness.

That the new album is called I’m People is the first clue that Taylor wants to expand the perception of his music; it’s a title that considers mutuality as central to the enterprise of musicmaking. So, how does one expand this thinking – one could consider him geographically or complicate these tales of origin, or think about who is playing on this record, or even refuse the standard narratives of genre.

Instead of focusing on the fact that Taylor began playing in hardcore bands in California, think about the other influences: that he played in a band named after Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark, an album marked by an urbane distrust of other people’s desires. Or that, around the time he was carefully listening to Mitchell, he was also following that most American portable utopia, the Grateful Dead. Or think about his move to Durham, not strictly to play in a band, but to study folk music academically.

Or, consider how this album was recorded – at least partially – in upstate New York. A more cynical writer would note that Taylor borrows from Dylan’s Nashville Skyline, and that album itself was the foundation of a more isolated, lonely understanding of tradition after abandoning folk music, seeking a slightly more commercial understanding. Recording this in the Hudson Valley could be considered a pilgrimage or homecoming.

I don’t think that it is a homecoming just for Taylor; the record sounds lush, expansive formally, too. Perhaps because the people who sing or play on this record play in a collective of other bands, including Rhett Miller, the Mountain Goats, Bonny Light Horseman, and the Hold Steady.

The expansive nature of the band is not only connected to the history of music they listen to, or the other bands that they play in, but also more unexpected influences like Sade. The idea that Taylor is the band is false, and it is not even that Hiss is the band. Taylor expands the possibility of Hiss, but Hiss itself pushes the possibilities – because of where they come from, their other projects, and even the possibility of geography. Not because Durham is magically a place where music coalesces, but because for a long time it was a college town where rent was relatively cheap and lots of people liked playing music together.

When addressing genres, the promotional material calls the album Americana – but Americana is a useless category, one which might be country or folk or something else entirely. I’m People has a kind of intense richness that is neither of these genres. Listening to the LP, something happens where the expansion or fracturing of those playing on this record becomes its own kind of post-genre.

There are a lot of reasons not to love America right now, but emphasizing the American instead of Americana allows us to consider this album as a consequence of the totality of American music – Taylor addresses the improv nature of jazz as part of this, or traditional folk music, or even 1970s easy-listening. He speaks fondly of the detective novels of Elmore Leonard, and on at least one of his early albums the photography of William Gedney became a powerful totem.

I think of I’m People as a kind of ebbing and flowing for and against tradition, part of that decades-long wrestling with aesthetics and history. Consider the last song, “Depends on the River,” is another of his great songs about waterways. In a 2016 profile of Hiss, New Yorker critic Amanda Petrusich wrote about Hiss’s long tradition of river songs and how it fits into a century of metaphors from blues singer Geeshie Wiley to Joni Mitchell, working this tradition. Petrusich writes: “Taylor frequently evokes river imagery in his work; the river, of course, can be understood as its own kind of road, a direct line to somewhere else, far away.”

I don’t know if that’s wrong, but I also think about rivers as they turn into oxbow lakes, rivers which flow into swamps – literally bogged down – rivers that flow into oceans, and rivers that dry up depending on the season. Hiss’s meandering, deepening quality depends on that river, both the direct line that Petrusich talks about and the larger metaphor, one where Taylor literally talks about whether he dares to cross it. On I’m People, he not only crosses it and crosses it again, but brings along a whole community of other performers. And, an audience who is hungry for the difficulty and ambivalence of so much time playing – and thinking – with him, to the other side.

I know you have a degree in folklore studies, I also noticed that in the last few years there has been a cluster of second- or third-generation performers who have some academic training in folk traditions (see also: Jake Blount, Jake Xerxes Fussell, Willi Carlisle, etc.). Can you talk a little bit about the kind of intersection of formal and informal folk studies and also about your relationship to people who are making this kind of work? I’m thinking about the line on the song “Mercy Avenue” where you talk about the “boys on the corner knowing more than those with PhDs.”

MC Taylor: Well, it’s been a really long time since I was in the academics here. And that universe was one that I feel like I passed through briefly. I wasn’t destined to be in that realm forever. So, I’m not sure that I can totally speak to [that]. Like the place of academic/creative work.

I will say that my time in that space was a really good time for me, when I was restarting my brain and re-centering myself. School was a good way for me to step away from whatever I had been doing previously. I did a lot of field work at that time. I interviewed a lot of people, and I think that it made me a much better listener.

I think that, more than anything else, [that] is what I came away with, this feeling that people really, really like to be heard. So I think I just really tried to develop my listening skills.

Can you talk a little bit about working with a band – especially this band – and about how the bandmates are part of their own creative worlds? Is there a kind of politics there, or a kind of community making?

The basic tracking of the album was done with JT Bates playing drums and percussion, Cameron Ralston playing bass – both electric and upright – and Josh Kaufman, who was producing the record with me, playing guitars, mandolin, piano. My friend Chris Boerner was engineering the record. He plays guitar.

The road version of Hiss Golden Messenger, you know, [are] involved in a whole variety of things. JT, Cameron, and Josh play in Bonny Light Horseman. All three of them have also at various times been members of Hiss and have toured with Hiss. And in fact, that’s where those guys met – playing in Hiss. All of us have known each other for many, many years, so I consider those guys really good friends.

But we’ve never made a Hiss Golden Messenger record before. … They’ve worked on [other] records [together], but we never came together to create a Hiss Golden Messenger record together. It was this funny and unique situation in which we were already old friends, doing something that felt new and fresh. It didn’t feel like a complicated record to make for me. I think Josh Kaufman maybe would say the same thing, but Josh was performing sort of a different task than I was in the situation. It was a complicated record to write, but that was something of the solitary endeavor that took place over probably a year or a year and a half.

I really love those guys and I am delighted that they could be there to play on the record. I think of them as absolute top-tier musicians, every one of them. Cameron is currently playing with the Mountain Goats, he plays all kinds of jazz, he plays in the Spacebomb House Band. JT Bates plays drums with Big Red Machine, which is Aaron Dessner and Justin Vernon. And [he’s] just a legendary drummer in Minneapolis. Josh Galvin plays with everybody.

There are some songs on this album about hope and I wondered about making work about hope in this specific social and political moment? “Shaky Eyes” or “Heavy Worlds,” for example.

[I am interested] in how we [have] the energy to get through the messiness of life. And not only this particular time that we’re living through – although that is the most depressing. But just like life in general. I don’t think that we can do – or I don’t think I can do – life alone. So, in a way this record is me writing to myself. Maybe now [about] how important other people are.

I think I realized that the most important part is moving through, and needs to involve being around [other people]. Over the past few years, just speaking personally, the idea of community has felt like a more and more important part of it.

Thinking about that – and how dense/lush the production here is – though you are marketed as “Americana,” I wonder about how you view genre. And also how your band does – I’m thinking about background vocalist Annie Nero’s bio for radio: “She loves to find the common thread between musical ideas and genres…but also break free of genres because life’s too short to limit ourselves based on perceived taste!”

I listen to lots of different stuff. I think all of that stuff finds its way into what I’m doing. It’s a little tricky. I used to have a stronger stay-in-your-lane [attitude] about the term “Americana,” but I just don’t think that I care very much anymore. It’s not a word that I generally use. But I understand why it exists. Many of my favorite songwriters exist in that world.

What would you call your genre then?

I mean, I wouldn’t. I guess that’s what I’m saying.

Like, if I was at the dog park and I was talking to a stranger, and they said, “Oh, you’re a musician? What kind of music do you play?” I’d probably say, “Kind of rock and roll.” I generally am not describing my music in terms of genre, I guess. If I told someone that I played rock and roll, and they asked me to extrapolate on that, I would say something like, “Rock and roll that’s really swinging.” I try and concentrate on the rhythmic elements. I love singer-songwriter type music from the ’60s and ’70s. I like really oddball stuff. I love Bruce Ruffin reggae; I love free jazz. There’s a lot of music that I have inside of me. There’s a lot of music that Josh, Cameron and Chris – [that] we all have inside of us. I think it’s just a question of how we get it out and put it into use in a way that feels genuine and not forced. …

Thinking about the tension on this album between distinct geographical spaces and a more universal emotions – for example on “Seneca (Time is a Mother, Baby)” or “Mercy Avenue.” And also that becomes a larger theme of your work, thinking about how Amanda Petrusich writes about your decades-long commitment to writing about rivers. There’s even the river song on this album. What do you think your relationship is to the land, to rivers – especially. when you sing “Depends on the River.” Or is there specifically one river?

On previous Hiss records there are specific geographical places like city names mentioned. And not only are those places part of the fabric of the story that I’m trying to tell, but they sort of served as poles, maybe? What I’m trying to accomplish is sort of like a poetic travelog of my life growing up in America. I’ve been traveling as a musician since I was 18. I have been, it seems like, everywhere in this country – more than once or some places 10 times. I’ve been all over every highway. So, maybe the dimension of place names throughout is sort of like carving my name on a tree or something. It’s just kind of like, “I was here.” “This is where we are in this song right now.” “This is where we are in my life.” And then, “Now we’re over here.”

In terms of rivers, a river is always flowing, always changing. A river can kill you if you’re not careful. It can keep you alive and get you to the next place if you treat it with respect and understand its rules. The coda on that song, [“Depends on the River”], the last thing that we hear on the record is “the line depends on the river exactly.” I guess the meaning depends on what river of life we’re talking about. It depends how lucky we get.

I’ve always been impressed by the wide range of your reading, listening, and looking. For example, your careful thoughts on the photos of Gedney. What are you reading, what are you listening to, what are you looking at these days?

Well, you know what I’m reading right now? I’m like about 200 pages into this Gary Stewart biography. Gary Stewart, the country singer. It’s called I Am From the Honky-Tonks. Gary Stewart actually was someone that Chris Smith from [record label] Paradise of Bachelors turned me onto like 15 to 16 years ago. Those of us that are obsessive about him all knew that this book was coming. It’s finally out and yeah, if you’re Gary Stewart fan, it’s kind of like you can’t believe it exists. I’ve been waiting for it.

In terms of what I’m listening to, I’m always listening to all kinds of stuff. I just bought this record [that’s] The Sun Ra Arkestra doing Disney themes. It’s so beautiful, really makes you think about those compositions in a different way, [about] actually how deep they are. I’ve been revisiting some Ted Lucas. I’ve really been liking this McCoy Tyner record called Asante. It’s a 1974 record; might be my current favorite. It’s very deep in the zone with like Alice Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders – that era. Oh, it’s beautiful. [I’ve been listening to] some Paul Brady from ‘78. He’s amazing! I’ve been listening to Welcome Here Kind Stranger. [Also] a record that I was checking out for a while [was] by the Universal Liberation Orchestra. It’s kind of this weird, very minimal– I guess it would be jazz.

Photo Credit: Graham Tolbert

Phillip Phillips’ Songs for Curing (or Wallowing in) Homesickness

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

This Mixtape sits in that space between where you came from and where life has taken you, full of memories, change, and longing for home. Songs like “Old Friends” by Ben Rector and “Rivers and Roads” by The Head And The Heart reflect on growing up and holding onto the people who shaped you, while “Fast Car” and “Clocks” capture that pull between escape and comfort.

At the center is my song, “Homesick,” written from the tension of chasing a dream while missing the people I love most. It’s about time passing, love deepening, and the quiet ache of being away from home. I’m excited to be touring later this year and releasing more music, and this playlist feels like a piece of that journey I get to share. – Phillip Phillips

“Old Friends” – Ben Rector

I love how this song connects the dots of those friends you grew up with and where you are as you’re older with them. Things change. Life goes on. But the memories and things you shared growing up with someone you’ll always remember. I love the lyric, “But I’ve never seen their parents’ back porch…” Such a real thing.

“Clocks” – Coldplay

Timeless song. You feel as though you need to be somewhere that gives you comfort if things start to feel uneasy or too much.

“Home” – Phillip Phillips

It’s me. Take it as you will and have your own meaning!

“Fast Car” – Tracy Chapman

Such an emotional song about needing to get out of the place that feels like it’s suffocating you. Sometimes the places we come from can feel that way.

“Rivers and Roads” – The Head And The Heart

For me it’s feels like time passing. Longing for the little moments that made life feel slow. I have kids now and it hits that much harder. To go the distance to see the ones you love just one more time.

“To Build a Home” – The Cinematic Orchestra, Patrick Wilson

I cry every time I listen to this song. So pure and raw. “Emotional” is an understatement for this one. It’s hard to listen to sometimes for me.

“Homesick” – Phillip Phillips

This is my newest song. I love it so much. I travel a lot and I get to do something I love, but I also have to sacrifice, spending time away from the people I love more than anything. I wrote this while my son was napping. Knowing that I was going to leave for another trip soon. I love playing music, but I love to be home to change the dirty diapers and take the trash out. Playing in the mud. I hope you love it as much as I do.

“Danny’s Song” – Loggins & Messina

Love over money. Always the goal. I love this classic song. Makes me think about being with my wife before getting married and having kids. How special those times are when you’re building a foundation in a relationship.

“The Book of Love” – The Magnetic Fields

I didn’t hear this song until later in life and it hit me like a train. Gets me emotional every time. Saying that love is boring and long. Which it really can be at times, and that’s okay. Loving someone is difficult. And for me, this song speaks to all relationships. Not just a husband or wife. I have flashbacks of my life when listening to this song.

“Livers and Onions” – Aaron Espe

My good friend wrote this song and when I first heard it, it made me think of growing up and being with my uncle Joey and my dad and thinking about my relationships as a kid with my cousins and family. Such a great song.

“Father and Son” – Yusuf / Cat Stevens

This song is just everything. I can only dream to write a song half as good as this. Makes me cry. Makes me think of being a father to my son and my relationship with my father.

Photo Credit: Sean O’Halloran

Unplugging Made Josiah and the Bonnevilles’ As Is Possible

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

By now, Josiah Leming is a master of reinvention. In the early 2000s, he signed a major label deal, then went indie for a while. Some of his albums leaned on his rock influences; others were more folk-oriented. He’s released a healthy number of covers projects, but can write songs as well as anybody who’s been in the business for 20 years. Leming also recorded under his own name before rebranding himself as Josiah and the Bonnevilles. And he’s about to be all over the map, literally, when he launches his Redline North American Tour in May with openers Max Alan and Brenna MacMillan.

Josiah and the Bonnevilles’ base should only grow with As Is, out May 8 on Rounder Records. Returning with a more electric approach, Leming co-produced the album with Konrad Snyder.

“It was important to me that the album sound different, but not so different that people don’t recognize it,” Leming tells BGS. “That was actually a pretty tough thing to do, because it’s easy to change things and really turn them on their head, but to have it still feel like it came from the music that came before it was something I thought a lot about.”

A proud native of Morristown, Tennessee, and now living in Nashville, Leming caught up with BGS to talk about how he picked up the banjo, the positive results of listening to Ralph Stanley, and how Jack Reacher helped him define his relationship with his fans.

I noticed the first line of the first song on the new album is, “I’ve been staying out and off the internet,” and after listening to the album a couple times, I realized that’s an important line for this whole record. Was there sort of a recentering, or a desire to disconnect, maybe, as you went into this album?

Josiah Leming: It was a huge part of it. And I still struggle with it a little bit, because the reason I got to where I am now is because I embraced the internet, I embraced social media, and I shared my life with people, day in and day out. I was 33 years old, fighting and scrapping to have a place, making music as a living. But I found as we got toward the end of 2024, the things that I was doing to sustain the level that I was at were coming directly at the cost of the essential thing that goes into the music.

Like, things had never been better. My shows were as big as they’d ever been. Everything was cooking on all cylinders, but I didn’t have any new songs that I was very excited to share. I needed to completely cut myself off from that world of the promotion cycle and the daily posting. … I have always written so autobiographically, and it would have been very easy for me to write an album about the struggles of the road or an album that would make a lot of sense to me. But I started thinking about 13-year-old Josiah in Morristown, Tennessee, and that guy doesn’t care what it’s like to be in Tulsa on a Thursday night, and maybe you’re a little lonely. Like, I gotta cut deeper to the core of this thing that’s not just about me.

That took me 30 or 40 songs to write out all of that stuff, to get to where I could look a little deeper for the meaning and the songs that somebody would understand if they weren’t a touring musician. That was the ultimate goal for me with the record, to make something where people don’t think about me when they listen to it. They can maybe just put it on in the garage. When I put on Ralph Stanley or AC/DC in the garage, I don’t think about Angus Young or Malcolm Young or Brian Johnson. I think, “Damn, this is an awesome day. This is a soundtrack to my life.” And I hope I have done that somewhere on this album.

How much of an influence did your Appalachian roots have on this album?

It’s really interesting. So the bio for the album was written by an author named Silas House. We had a chat and he actually asked me a similar question. He was like, “It feels Appalachian, even though it isn’t that obvious.” I think that’s because of the language I use that I grew up with. I think a lot about when I write, “Would my dad understand it?” My dad’s a simple, working-class man. So if things get too complicated, lyrically, then I want to change that to make it simpler.

That’s a lot of it, and I really went into the deep phase with Ralph and a lot of older stuff. That really changed my perspective on how I see myself in this industry. It’s very easy to start to get into this race to the top, and you’re looking at analytics, and you want more monthly listeners and all this stuff. Listening to bluegrass, and Ralph Stanley especially, all that kind of disappears, and it just becomes about the raw emotion of it. Which is what I fell in love with in the first place, when it felt like I had to do music.

How did Brenna MacMillan get involved with the project?

I was tracking a demo to a different song, a song I love but that’s very strange. And I was like, “I really want a banjo player.” Back in the day, I used to use Craigslist to find background singers because I love finding new people. So I put up an Instagram story and somebody sent me Brenna’s account. I watched one video and I thought, “This is just like lightning in your veins.” She’s so awesome. The energy in the banjo and the voice. And we had connected but it didn’t work out that particular moment.

So when it came time where I wanted banjo on the record, I hit Brenna up again because we’d exchanged numbers. She came in, and she’s just amazing. She doesn’t know how good she is. She’s been tour managing the band East Nash Grass, which I love. I’ve been listening to them a ton right now. I was like, “We need you in the band.” So now she’s in the band, she’s touring with us, and she’s going to open up the shows. I’m so excited for people to hear her.

When did you first pick up the banjo?

My grandpa gave me a banjo. He loved George Jones. He was a hard-drinkin’, George Jones-lovin’, bluegrass-lovin’ guy. He had a banjo and a Dobro he gave me, and I fiddled around with that. And then, all of us guitar players, when we find the six-string banjo, we’re so pumped because we don’t have to learn all these new chord shapes. So, it’s been a couple of years that I’ve been adding in the six-string banjo on things when I play, and I still play that on “Redline.” I am using the finger picks now, rather than my nails. So I feel like I’m starting to cross the bridge… if I can learn some shapes on the real banjo, maybe I can do some damage one day.

In “Redline,” it seems like you’re writing for the people you grew up with. People in your life who have hope, but it’s just hard. Who do you have in mind when you write a song like “Redline”?

It makes me emotional, honestly. I think about my dad all the time. It’s like I have all this… it’s not anger, but there’s very strong feelings. While I’m doing very well in my career, it’s better than it’s ever been, most people that I know are not winning in this modern world. Where everything is through the phone, and it’s the only way to access social circles. It’s the only way sometimes to order a damn McDonald’s sandwich. And there’s just this barrier, there’s this divide.

I see it with my dad, and my grandparents, just being left behind. And also working people. We shot the video for “Hell Without the Flames” down in Colombia, because that’s where all these jobs have gone, and now they pay these people even less than they paid before. So there’s just something that I can’t get out of my brain. I think about it all the time. That’s an important song to me. We love playing it. The band loves playing it. So I appreciate you asking that, it means a lot.

You’re welcome, and this may be a good segue to ask about “You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive.” I found your version when I was going through your Country Covers EPs. It tells a similar story, about how grandma and grandpa had to keep working to live. Why did that song pull you in?

I probably heard that song first on Justified and I think that would have been the Darrell Scott version, the original. And I had always loved it. I mean, that’s just one of the best songs ever made. Talking with Silas about it, or anybody from the region, it’s so complicated because there’s so much pride. I like to think that there’s so much pride in working for so little, but these people are exploited over and over again. We don’t have aspirations of gold palaces or island complexes, so we’ve just been consistently taken advantage of, because we have this value system that’s a lot different. It makes you sad, sometimes it makes you angry, and sometimes it also makes you proud, and it’s really complicated feelings around all of it.

But it also seems like it’s important for you to share the music that you like. You’re writing songs that you want your audience to relate to. You’re covering songs to maybe introduce the music you like to your fans. You’re bringing musicians you like out on tour with you. Your fans can tell what you’re into through the company you keep. Is that part of your creative vision, to share with your audience who you’re listening to and what you like?

I think so, yeah. I was thinking recently, I always had service jobs growing up. I would serve tables or I would bartend. As I get older, I just see myself as having a responsibility. I think I had the responsibility to get off the internet for a year to write the best album that I could, rather than perpetuating my brand with songs that sounded similar. I feel like I have a responsibility to have the upbeat songs in the set list. If people are flying into town or driving 10 hours, it’s my responsibility to give them an experience.

There’s a great quote that I love from the Jack Reacher books. I love anything like James Bond, Reacher, or Tom Clancy. I love that stuff. But the author of Jack Reacher has a great quote about a handshake. And to make a handshake work, there’s got to be the hand on the other side that shakes back. I think about that in everything I do these days, since I read that. I wouldn’t get a lot of benefit out of just making music that I love and putting it out in the world if there’s not that hand on the other side. So I am at the point in my life where I think about those people that I’m looking at when I play live, and there’s a responsibility to me to weave what I’m excited about into what I hope will connect with them.

Want to see Josiah and the Bonnevilles live at the Fonda Theatre in Los Angeles on May 21, 2026? Enter to win tickets here!

Photo Credit: Sam Desantis

Shakey Graves: Time, Tape, and the Shape of Becoming

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

There has always been something uncontainable about Shakey Graves – a sense that his songs arrive not as glossy statements but as lived artifacts, scuffed at the edges, humming with the residue of wherever they’ve been. Born Alejandro Rose-Garcia, he first emerged from Austin’s DIY scene as a one-man band, stomping out rhythms on a suitcase kick drum while threading guitar lines that felt equal parts front-porch confession and desert hallucination. It was a sound built on immediacy and invention, earning him a devoted following long before the industry quite knew what to do with him.

That restless instinct runs straight through Fondness, Etc., his fifth studio album, due May 15, and the subject of the hour-long Artist of the Month conversation that follows. Where earlier releases by Graves leaned into the spectacle of one-man-band ingenuity, this collection turns inward – quieter, stranger, and more revealing. Recorded at home over a single, focused month, the album trades gloss for atmosphere, unfolding as a lo-fi meditation on time, memory, and the uneasy grace of becoming someone new while still carrying who you once were.

The record often feels more uncovered than constructed. Graves tracked the songs onto a pair of TASCAM tape machines, committing performances in ways that resist the endless revisions of digital recording. What remains are nine lived-in tracks that breathe with their surroundings – passing trains, stray birds, the soft blur of the tape – all of it absorbed into the music’s grain. In that sense, Fondness, Etc. becomes a document of a moment, caught before it could be refined into something less human.

That approach shapes the album’s sound, which drifts between avant-garde folk and restrained indie rock without settling too comfortably in either. Graves plays nearly everything – guitar, drums, synth, even Optigan – building arrangements that feel intimate but slightly off-center. There’s a tactile quality throughout, as if each sound has been handled, worn down, and set in place with intention rather than perfection.

“I Once Was an Ocean,” the album’s lead single, offers a clear window into that sensibility. Inspired by mid-century composer Martin Denny, the track re-envisions exotica through the stark geography of West Texas. It moves in a slow, dreamlike sway, as if the land itself were remembering what it used to be. The idea that the Big Bend area of the Rio Grande River was once a prehistoric ocean lingers beneath the surface, mirroring the album’s quiet fixation on change and the long arc of transformation – how nothing holds its shape forever, and perhaps never did.

Elsewhere, the album keeps its footing in that same reflective terrain. A cover of “Time Flies,” originally by Frankie Sunswept, is rendered with a measured restraint, its string arrangement adding a subtle weight to an already wistful meditation on love and impermanence. Across the record, Graves circles a familiar tension: how to hold onto the past without getting stuck in it.

That question carries added weight now. Removed from his early, road-worn persona, Graves approaches this work from a life reshaped by family and fatherhood. The songs don’t proclaim that shift, they absorb it. There’s a quiet awareness of time passing, of priorities morphing in ways that are less dramatic than they are decisive – changes that, indeed, tend to reveal themselves only in hindsight.

If there is a unifying thread here, it is the idea that imperfection can tell the truth more plainly than shine. By choosing limitation – tape over digital, immediacy over endless revision – Graves has made a record that resists easy categorization. It stands as a snapshot of a particular stretch of life, captured without much concern for how it might be received.

In the interview that follows, he traces that path with candor, moving between the making of Fondness, Etc., the milestones that have marked his recent years, and the earlier chapters that continue to echo through his work. It’s a conversation about process, memory, and the slow accumulation of experience – how a life in music is shaped not just by forward motion, but by the willingness to look back and take measure of what still lingers.

You’ve had an ongoing relationship with the Bluegrass Situation over the years, across different formats and moments. What has that meant to you?

Shakey Graves: I’ve always really loved the way Bluegrass Situation approaches things. It’s never just one lane – it’s a bunch of different formats, different kinds of events, different ways of presenting music. That flexibility feels true to how music actually exists in the world. I’ve gotten to be part of it at a bunch of different stages, and it’s always felt natural, never forced. There’s something about that openness that I really connect with.

Austin is a destination for so many people – a pilgrimage of sorts. But you were born there. What has it been like watching it change from the inside?

Growing up, Austin always felt small. Not isolated, but intimate – like a place where you could run into people you knew almost anywhere. Even as the capital, it had a small-town heartbeat. That’s probably the most noticeable shift: it’s now fully becoming a major city.

There was a time when “Keep Austin Weird” didn’t exist. That slogan showed up at some point during my lifetime and, honestly, people who grew up here didn’t feel like it was necessary. It was already weird. So when that phrase came along, it felt almost like labeling something that didn’t need to be labeled.

Now it’s different. The growth is real, the changes are real, but at the same time, the essence is still there if you know where to look. For me, Austin isn’t just a place – it’s the backdrop to everything I’ve done creatively. I don’t really know how to separate it from my identity.

Your parents were both involved in the arts. How did that shape your sense of what was possible?

They both ended up in Austin through the University of Texas theater department. My dad was a set designer, my mom’s an actor who later taught directing. So from the beginning, I was surrounded by people whose lives revolved around making things – plays, performances, stories.

But it wasn’t a traditional path. It wasn’t like there was a clear blueprint for success. I used to think of it as “magic beans income.” Somehow, through theater or dance or whatever project was happening, we’d get by. That unpredictability didn’t feel scary to me. It felt normal. What that did was make creativity feel viable. It never seemed unrealistic to pursue something artistic, because that’s what the adults around me were doing. The more I’ve traveled, the more I’ve realized that’s actually a rare environment. Austin gave me that without me even realizing it at the time.

What are your earliest musical memories – the ones that really stuck with you?

Music was always there, but it wasn’t always front and center. It was part of the atmosphere – something happening around me all the time. The first moment where I really engaged with it was in middle school. My mom let me go to a concert with my neighbor; we saw the Bloodhound Gang at La Zona Rosa. I got to come into school late the next day, which already felt rebellious. Then at the show, I got crowd-surfed, got kicked in the head – just total chaos. It was perfect. That’s probably my first vivid concert memory.

At home, my parents had their own band, Moon Coup. It was kind of this eclectic, world-music thing. There were always strange performances happening – Alejandro Escovedo playing in our backyard at a birthday party, stuff like that. It wasn’t polished or industry-driven. It was just… happening.

What about the records that shaped your taste early on? How did you discover music for yourself?

It was a mix of tapes and CDs, a lot of those old mail-order deals – buy one, get a bunch free. I got a steady stream of whatever my parents were into: R.E.M., Talking Heads, The Beatles, even Enya. For a long time, I didn’t really know what I liked. So I leaned heavily into soundtracks. If I loved a movie, I’d get the soundtrack, even if the music didn’t quite hold up outside the film. I had some strange ones – like the Predator 2 soundtrack, a lot of Alan Silvestri stuff. So my early listening habits were kind of all over the place. It wasn’t curated. It was just whatever stuck.

You’ve experimented with performance in a lot of settings, but busking never really stuck for you. Why is that?

I’ve barely done it – maybe a handful of times. It’s not something I enjoy. Even when I built my setup in LA, which could have worked for busking, it wasn’t about that. It was about having control over my sound wherever I went. I wanted to feel like I could present something intentional, not just fill space.

The challenge with busking – or even playing certain bar gigs – is that you’re often background noise. And I’ve always wanted the opposite. I want people to stop, to listen, to be pulled into it. I had friends who were incredible at busking. They had systems, routines, ways to make real money doing it. But for me, it felt like it took me away from what I actually wanted, which was connection.

Where did you first start playing your own material in a serious way?

A lot of that happened in Los Angeles. I was bouncing between LA and Austin at the time. One of my first gigs came through Craigslist – a Chinese restaurant on the [Sunset] Strip. I thought it sounded great. It wasn’t. I basically played to people who were just trying to eat dinner, yelling songs at them for half an hour.

Then there were the pay-to-play situations, like the Viper Room, where you had to bring a crowd or pay to perform. I didn’t always know what I was getting into, but I learned quickly. At the same time, I was playing DIY spaces – warehouse shows, house shows. That’s where things started to make more sense. When I moved back to Austin, everything clicked a bit more. I got a happy hour slot at the Hole in the Wall, and that place became foundational for me. It’s still one of the most important venues in my life.

You’ve said there’s no “right” or “wrong” way to make music. Where does that philosophy come from?

It’s something I come back to constantly. It’s kind of my guiding principle.

Recently, my daughter gave me a new perspective on it. She’s two, and at her preschool they were explaining how she loves the process of doing things. Like painting – she’ll get excited about setting everything up, picking colors, putting on the apron. But when it comes to the actual painting, she doesn’t really care about the result.

That hit me. Somewhere along the line, we lose that. We start focusing on outcomes – on whether something is “good” or “successful.” But the process is the real thing. You don’t need a studio or a perfect setup to make music. You can make it with anything. What matters is that you’re engaged in it. Some days I feel completely lost with my gear and other days everything aligns. That unpredictability is part of it.

How has fatherhood changed the way you approach your work and your life?

It shifts everything. Suddenly, the stakes are different. Spending hours worrying about a reverb setting feels a little absurd when you’re also responsible for raising a person. But at the same time, I’ve realized how important it is to hold onto your sense of self. Parenthood can completely disrupt your routines – everything you’ve built to manage your life just gets wiped out. You have to rebuild from scratch. That process – figuring out how to balance those things – is a big part of what this record came out of. It’s not about losing one identity to gain another. It’s about learning how to carry both.

Fondness, Etc. feels reflective, even intimate. How did it take shape?

It felt less like building something and more like uncovering it. Like an archaeological dig. I don’t usually go in with a clear concept. I start with a song, or even just a feeling, and follow it. The first piece was “When the Love Is New,” which I wrote before my daughter was born. It had a certain honesty, a kind of Western tone, and that became the direction. From there, the record revealed itself as a series of vignettes – little snapshots of relationships. Not necessarily my own, but drawn from experiences, observations, stories. It’s not linear, but it’s cohesive in its own way.

Big Bend shows up in your writing. What draws you to that landscape?

It’s an otherworldly place. Growing up in Texas, you learn that it was once a shallow ocean and when you’re out there, you can almost see that history. It looks empty, but it’s full of life – you just don’t always see it. That contrast is something I connect with. Texas in general has that dual nature. It’s complicated, layered, sometimes contradictory. No matter who you are, there’s a little bit of that mythology in you if you’re from Texas. Big Bend just makes it visible.

You’ve also talked about exotica music influencing you. What appealed to you about that genre?

I got into it pretty late – about 10 years ago – and then went all in for a while. What I love about it is that it’s not literal. It’s music imagining a place rather than representing it. It’s like fictional geography in sound form. That idea resonates with me. I’m not a traditional country artist, but there’s something Western in what I do. It’s not about authenticity in a strict sense – it’s about interpretation, imagination.

As a DIY artist, who helped shape your sense of independence?

Elliott Smith was huge for me – someone who could do everything himself. And Beck, especially One Foot in the Grave. That record felt chaotic and free. Hearing that made me realize there were no rules. Songs could be short, messy, weird – whatever they needed to be. That freedom has stayed with me.

Your audience has grown steadily over time. What does that connection feel like?

It means everything… The first time someone I didn’t know – someone far away – connected with my music, that was it. That was the moment I felt like I’d made it. What’s really amazing is how people continue to discover it. There’s always a new group coming in, finding something in it that I might not have even intended. That’s incredibly comforting.

Have you ever felt like walking away from it, or has it always been forward momentum?

I’ve never really felt like quitting, but I do think about expanding. If I could go back, I might have separated some of my projects under different names, just to give myself more freedom. Everything being under one umbrella can get a little limiting. Moving forward, I want to collaborate more, experiment more, maybe not always be the center of it. That feels exciting.

Storytelling is such a big part of your work. Where does that come from?

It’s always been there. My family are storytellers, my dad especially. And then there’s what I grew up on: Calvin and Hobbes, The Far Side, The Simpsons, Shel Silverstein. Those things are deceptively deep. They’re funny, but they’re also philosophical. Later, hearing artists like Townes Van Zandt or Tom Waits, it felt like a natural extension of that. Storytelling through music just made sense.

There’s a remarkable story behind the 1932 Gibson L-7 guitar that you’ve recorded with on this new album and other previous offerings. What does that instrument mean to you?

It’s one of those things that feels almost mythic. I met a guy at a weird speakeasy in LA, a bar in the warehouse district when I was figuring out who Shakey Graves was. After talking for a while, he told me he had this guitar – his grandmother’s boyfriend had owned it. The guy played on the Chitlin’ Circuit, took it to World War II, survived a fire that burned his hands, but still kept playing. It was a crazy guitar with all of the newspaper clippings of the guy who played it.

After the ten-year anniversary of my first album, Roll the Bones, the guy I met in LA gave it to me. When I first handled it, it was this stubborn, living thing – it didn’t want to stay in tune, felt like it had its own personality. But I connected with it immediately. I wrote some of my most important songs on that guitar. Then I broke it. The neck snapped clean off. It stayed like that for years before it was finally restored. Getting it back for this record felt like being reunited with something essential. Like picking up a tool that had shaped you in the first place.

What do you want at this point in your life and career?

I want everything. I want contradiction. I want to be obscure and famous. I want to be a family man and also like a scamp disappear into something unpredictable. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting all of it at once. That’s kind of the beauty of it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop wanting every opposing direction in some shape or form.

Explore more of our Artist of the Month content on Shakey Graves here.

Photo Credit: Jonathan Terrell

BGS 5+5: Spencer Cullum

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Artist: Spencer Cullum
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Latest Album: Spencer Cullum’s Coin Collection 3 (released March 27, out now!)

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

I’m a film nerd. I try to watch as many movies as possible, and also love the cinema (shout out to the Belcourt in Nashville), so if I’m burnt out from touring or music I fall back on that for influence. If you hear my music there is a deep influence of British folk horror from classic titles such as The Wicker Man and The Blood on Satan’s Claw to modern British folk movies such as Enys Men and Bait.

I do tend to go on the hunt for obscure ones I haven’t seen. I recently watched the 1977 TV series Children of The Stone and 1972’s A Warning to the Curious. Both incredible early origins of folk horror. Worth a look if that floats your boat.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Bonnaroo with Rich Ruth. Our backline was these giant Fender Twin [amps] and we all just turned up. It was this incredible wall of sound. I also think a big percentage of the audience had taken acid and there was a certain sway to everything.

Green Man Festival in Wales was also pretty magical, the sun was setting over Bannau Brycheiniog [National Park] and I got to play my favorite Trees cover, “Road,” in that environment with Sean Thompson, Erin Rae, and Hollow Hand.

What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?

Surround yourself with friends that inspire you and encourage you. Be in a community you treasure.

Commit to what you enjoy and care about.

This is more advice for the “session” musician world. For years I was insecure about not being as good as x-y-z or the older players I look up to, but there’s something so powerful about harnessing insecurity. It’s what makes art special. To be confident in taking a risk and not knowing the outcome. There’s a lack of that in Music Row cause everyone plays to a formula, so the idea of risk and insecurity is not there.

What is a genre, album, artist, musician, or song that you adore that would surprise people?

Oh, I have some very questionable tastes. Especially if I’m behind the wheel and it’s an eight-hour drive home. I love Robert Palmer. I weirdly like Primus (especially the Brown Album) – I think it’s a nostalgia thing with them. Kicking around blasting Tommy the Cat at the Romford Skate Park on my CD Walkman.

Oh, Bruce Hornsby. I can burn through three hours of Bruce in one stint. Easy!

What would a perfect day as an artist and creator look like to you?

With my wife and two dogs on a hike, then a pub lunch by the seaside (somewhere in Cornwall), then a cheeky tobacco pipe outside in the evening with the cat listening to John Peel archives, but like the intense Aphex Twin archives… really loudly.

Photo Credit: Rebecca Moon

Ber Is No Longer Hiding Her Folk Elements

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

When you think of common musical touchpoints for young roots artists, the Shrek movies’ soundtracks likely don’t come to mind. But those compilations, beginning with the first film in 2001 and continuing through a handful of sequels in the aughts and ‘10s, feature an impressive if surprising roster of artists, including Rufus Wainwright, Tom Waits, Frou Frou, and David Bowie.

Quickly rising singer-songwriter Ber laughs as she reveals her penchant for those soundtracks, but her affection is sincere. On the Minnesota-born artist’s first full-length album – the newly released Good, Like It Should Be – she turns that winking sincerity inward, writing a dozen songs about opening up to love despite the real risk of heartbreak.

Ber wrote and recorded the bulk of the LP with close friends and collaborators Rob Milton, Austin Ward Sherman, and Bradley Hale, who joined her on a writing trip to Pepin, Wisconsin, and helped deepen both the record’s narrative vulnerability as well as its sonic range. The resulting songs are self-assured and lived-in, with an emphasis on melody and emotional tension that lets her agile, nuanced vocal shine.

Below, BGS catches up with Ber the day before Good, Like It Should Be releases, chatting about songwriting, a-ha moments and, yes, everyone’s favorite big green ogre.

Tomorrow – or in just a few hours, really – you’ll release your new album, Good, Like It Should Be. What are you feeling in this last stretch as you get ready for folks to listen to the project in its entirety?

Ber: It’s a little crazy. I think it’s actually out in Australia already. Maybe this slow burn of me realizing, all day, that it’s just gradually coming out will make it a little less overwhelming. But I would say overwhelming is the default nature of the last month. Coming up to this April 3 date has been challenging but also really exciting, and something I’ve tried to accept and just be really happy about, because it’s really crazy to be putting a whole album out. It feels really, really wild. I’ve never done that before. It’s new territory. We’ve been rolling out singles for six months, and I’ve been listening to the whole album for like a year, so really it’s not going to hit me that other people haven’t sat with it yet until tonight. I’ve been crying a lot, mostly happy tears. But it’s definitely a little bit of a release, emotionally, too. So, it’s a weird one to have to process.

To your point about living with this music for so long, do you feel like your relationship to the music has shifted in that time? Has any new meaning or insight been revealed to you?

It feels really solid. I don’t think it’s shifted so much outside of maybe me reaching for songs for the month of November, and then kind of getting sick of that one so then going for another one. I think I’ve sat with all of it in different ways. I haven’t been doing loads of writing in this period of releasing the album, so this is really the stuff that exists for me right now. And it is where I am still, which I think is really fun. We were pretty careful about choosing what the singles would be, so that there was still some magic in the unreleased tracks that people could hopefully discover when the whole album came out.

Let’s talk about the early days of the record. As you mentioned, this is your first full-length album. Did you originally set out to write a full LP?

Definitely. When I decided that it was going to be an album, there was a moment where I shocked myself that I even felt capable of that. But we definitely were like, “Okay, this is going to be a full-length record. We’re going to do 12 songs.” It was pretty concise in the planning that way, but I didn’t realize I was writing it at the time. The first songs from the album were just moments where I was pulling from things and writing for fun. I hadn’t really signed up to the task yet, so I think that’s really fun.

The first song that was written for the album is called “Smooth Ride.” I wrote that in my second EP cycle, in 2021 or 2022, with Rob Milton and Benjamin Francis Leftwich, who are just great. It was the first day we had all met and it was the first day I met Rob, who since then has been this really sturdy and really inspiring collaborator. We wrote that song and I didn’t like it then, so it got tabled. It’s something we revisited last summer, and I was like, “Oh, it lives on the album. It’s here. It’s time. I wasn’t ready for this yet, but now I am, and I love it now.” It’s one of my favorites…

The rest of it all came in a window of eight months of really intentional writing towards the album and trying things with different people, being in London or going back to Minnesota, going on this writing trip with my friends Brad and Austin [Ward Sherman] to this Airbnb in Pepin, Wisconsin. We wrote eight songs in three days and five of them shaped what the album ended up sounding like and feeling like and being about. It was the glue for all these other songs that I’d been working on in my own time with Brad. So, it was really like a puzzle to piece it all together and to choose the track list. There were probably 50 songs that we whittled down to 12.

To write eight songs in three days, you must have a special creative relationship with those friends. Do you know what it is about your working relationship that makes it so fruitful?

I just trust them implicitly. They both know so much about me and I think that trip really cemented our relationship as a collaborative team. We had been working together for a few years at this point, but Brad, who produced the record, is one of my dearest friends… It’s a really specific thing to be able to sit in the studio with someone and just make eye contact and go, “So that’s what this is.” Or, “Oh no, that’s not what you’re trying to say.” He could call my bluffs a lot and tell me to chase something, and I could follow that direction, because I trust him and I love him.

Then bringing Austin into that, too, was so fun, because he’s brilliant and he suggests things that I would never in a million years think of. He has a very band-y sensibility about his production and his vision for music and I really loved that… When you do a writing session with someone, you basically spill your guts for a few hours. You have to be really honest with yourself and with the people around you, otherwise the thing you make is gonna sound like trash. With the album, I really wanted to make something that felt true to where I was at the moment, and I was falling in love. I had to be really vulnerable with them about the things I was feeling and the way I would possibly describe it.

It is indeed a very personal record, so it makes sense to hear you are so close with your collaborators. When you write songs grounded in your own experience, do you end up understanding yourself or your place in those experiences better?

Absolutely. It’s a point of reflection for me, often. I used to journal a lot. I’ve been doing that a little bit less recently, which is something I want to pick back up. But when we were writing these songs, regardless of what we would walk into the room with, as you’re writing about it and sitting there with music around you, you’re thinking about how it actually feels. You’re putting down words onto paper and it is a very telling experience, because you find stuff and you write words in an order and it moves you, and you go, “Oh, my God. I didn’t even think that I felt this way about that.”

“Good, Like It Should Be,” I cried after writing that song. We all did. I’m tearing up thinking about that moment. That song was about getting out of your own way and letting something just be good, because it is good and you don’t have to question everything being good. At that point, I don’t think I even realized that I was suppressing so much.

There’s a line in there that’s like, “I know it’s a choice, I can be sturdy/ Let it be good, good, like it should be.” And I was like, “Oh, wow, that explained it to me. Actually, this new love, this letting something be good, this is actually a decision for me. Not only is it natural, but I have to also accept it and come to terms with this.” It was such a big moment that was like a light bulb for the entire album, and for what I had been writing about for a year at this point. Writing these songs revealed pieces of me that I didn’t really know were in there, and that’s such a treat. It’s exhausting emotionally, but in the good type of way where you feel like you walk out of it learning something new about yourself. It’s like tarot, getting you toward those subconscious things that need to come up.

The production is so lush and intricate, and really gives a fullness of emotion to the lyrics you wrote. Could you hear a fleshed-out version of a song in your head as you were writing it, or did they find that fullness in the studio?

Probably both in different situations. I’m so pleased with the production. It was really fun to sit with Brad and to sit with Rob, and not only watch them create magic but also be able to listen to it and partake and play these instruments. We played all of the guitars. I got to play tambourine on a lot of stuff. Brad took it upon himself to teach me how to engineer a little bit while he was recording all the drums in our basement, which was really fun. And it gave me the itch to get into more production.

But yeah, when we wrote them, there were some songs that just had to be the way they are. “Forget Me Not” was like, “Okay, we should essentially just do a demo. This is so touching and beautiful.” When we did that writing trip, we just brought this one Korg eight-track recorder and that was all we were allowed to use. So, we did a lot of in-the-room recordings of the six songs that ended up on the album from that trip. “Hey, Bluebird” and “Give It All Away” both have samples from those demo recordings in the final product. We wanted to hold on to the energy…

With other songs that are a little bit more produced, like “Cool, Boy,” I did that one with Rob and he had just gotten off of vacation. He was like, “I am only listening to Clairo and I absolutely love the beach, and I think we should do something beachy and flirty and fun.” And I was like, “Bet, that sounds cool. Let’s just see what’s up.”

In addition to Clairo, what were you listening to or feeling inspired by while you were making the record?

You might laugh, but I pretty much exclusively listened to the Shrek soundtrack. It’s brilliant. There’s just bangers on there. “I Need a Hero,” the Frou Frou version, is amazing. We were referencing Counting Crows. I also am a massive Kacey Musgraves fan. I grew up on Mumford & Sons, and the Decemberists, and Kings of Convenience, and some really rootsy stuff my parents turned me onto.

For a long time, at the start of me writing songs on my laptop and posting them and putting EPs out, I was really hiding from this folk element that I knew I had in me. But I wasn’t ready to touch it yet. I decided with the album we’d just really dive deep and let it be good. It’s some of the stuff I resonate with the most. But yeah, Clairo has been a huge indie inspiration. I love everything she does. And, again, it was Shrek that really did it.

You spent a lot of time figuring out the record’s sequence. How did you eventually settle on a final track list?

There were, like, 40 iterations of the track listing. It was the bane of my existence for a long time. And I actually really credit my manager for putting up with me for that window of time. Honestly, I love where it landed, but it was never my first choice. All I knew was that I wanted to sandwich the entire album between “Good, Real” and “Good, Like It Should Be,” that was my non-negotiable. So, it was like a deck of cards, sort of feeling it out.

I know a lot of people like to try and tell a story through the songs, but as I was listening to them, the story was just me. These are all things I felt and there wasn’t necessarily an order or a rhyme or a reason to it other than I made them. I would be remiss to say it was purely artistic.

My team was pretty heavy on the idea of most of the singles landing on side A of the record. And I hated that. I was so angry at the time, because what do you mean we’re gonna prioritize how an album feels on a streaming platform, of all things? It genuinely drove me over the edge for the longest time. But then I got to this point where I was like, “Maybe it’s not that deep.” … I wanted to have the journey of listening to the album feel like you land somewhere at the end, and it’s like a soft pillow. I think with where it’s landed, that’s the experience I at least have. You get to boogie a little bit in the first few and then I slowly go through the motions.

You’ve already been out playing shows around the record and you have more dates coming up later this month. What are you enjoying and looking forward to most about playing this new music?

These songs are where I feel I resonate the most at the minute anyway, so what a treat to be able to push these and to sit in them and sing them for people. I love my first three EPs and I have a lot of empathy for the girl who wrote them. I love those songs and how far they’ve reached people, and I definitely will never just let them go, but I think it’s going to be so special to be able to sit down and sing most of these songs at, like, First Avenue in Minneapolis. I’ll probably cry so much that day.

I’ve been testing the waters on these last two tours. I’ve been so lucky to fill the first quarter of my year with touring with SYML in the EU and then touring now with Callum Scott on the West Coast in America. It’s given me the opportunity to sing acoustic versions and the response I’ve gotten has been amazing… It’s really wild, I think artists are constantly releasing and performing behind themselves, in the sense that you grow so much in the time that it takes to put out an album. So often, that album and that album cycle exists in a year or two years before the person you are when you’re actually performing them and talking about it to people. But in this moment, it feels true to me and it feels really exciting to talk about still. It’s very cathartic.

Photo Credit: Tom Thornton

A One-of-a-Kind Conversation with Jonny Fritz

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

It is deeply joyful sitting with Jonny Fritz at a restaurant he suggested (Pollos Puebla #1) in an area of Los Angeles he’s an expert on (Pasadena/Altadena border) and talking about subjects he thinks about a lot, ranging from rebirthing ceremonies to alimony to how…“different” Nashville is now. He’s keenly honest about his life, his work, and his thoughts about any question thrown his way. Nothing is out of line or off limits. Nothing is filtered by a publicist or an agenda. It is off the cuff and real and wild.

We met over grilled chicken, rice, and beans to discuss his newest work, Debbie Downers (Woodwinds), a reimagining of the original 2025 album Debbie Downers. The conversation unfolded much like the album, with unexpected turns and humor that expose raw nerves about an unfriendly music industry, the beauty of PG Tips, the subtlety of serving a song, and the goal of taking a ride on the wave of a sliced open above-ground pool.

Well, let’s talk about Woodwinds. I’m a huge woodwind fan. How’d this come about?

Jonny Fritz: Oh, yeah? Me too. I love woodwinds. I’ve always loved them. I think they’re so great.

It’s so expensive making a record. It’s just stupid, you know? For example, the last record I made, Sweet Creep, I made it pretty cheap. I think it cost about 12,000 bucks. But ATO Records had an option on it so they could pick it up. They bought Dad Country, the record before that, for 5,000 bucks. It cost me five grand to make. “We’ll pay you five grand for it.” All right, fine. And then, hidden in the contract – or at least hidden to me – they got the option on the next one. Same deal. So when I made Sweet Creep they picked up the option. So for $5,000, they got this record that cost me $12k. I was like, “Jesus, man, this business is so rough.” And I just knew it was going to be something similar with the next one.

By this one, Debbie Downers, I thought, “What do I really want to do?” I might as well just do what I want, because there’s nothing worse than having something be expensive and unsatisfactory. I just decided I really wanted to make the record over and over and over again. I have a bunch of different visions for how it should go and I wouldn’t call any of them the one.

The Woodwinds one was something I’ve always just wanted to do. So I’m pretty pleased with it. I got this amazing guy in Highland Park who does film and TV stuff. There’s not a lot of work going on right now, so he was willing to do it. And the first couple of arrangements that he came up with, I was just giddy. I couldn’t believe how cool it was.

Were there any revelations for you? When you heard them in that arrangement, was there anything that shocked you about it?

Hmm… Yeah, some of the versions with the woodwinds really lent themselves to the winds better than any other version. I wrote this song called “Have You Seen Her.” I wrote it coming off of anesthesia. I was out of my mind. I got a hip replacement at UCLA 10 years ago. You know, coming off anesthesia affects people in weird ways. I’m one of them. It really got me, I wrote this song and I felt like it was the most brilliant thing.

It was so embarrassing. I wrote everybody who I knew who was high up at Rolling Stone, and all the Newport Folk Festival team, and all their PR team. I mean, I wrote everybody. And I wrote these really incoherent emails. I haven’t actually looked at them in a long time. I looked at them right after I wrote them and I was so ashamed. But I wrote all these emails being like, “You’re gonna want to get Scarlett Johansson down here. I need to perform this for her. And you need to get Joaquin [Phoenix] here, too.”

I’m not a social climber, but there was something in me that was like, “You need to make some moves. Call out a lifeline.” I was so ashamed of it for so long, because it was one of the most embarrassing moments in my life, for sure.

All of that to say, I didn’t want to play it or record it. I had to overcome it, admit it, and start talking about it. When I heard it with the woodwinds, I was blown away.

Years ago, I worked with Chris Crofton on a comedy event at Third Man Records that involved a compilation of found video footage that was submitted. There were so many submissions of people coming out of anesthesia, and I remember Chris immediately going, “No, that isn’t funny.” It really isn’t; you aren’t in your right mind.

God bless that man. He always knows exactly what the fuck is up. He is driven by pure heart and knows exactly where his morals should be. He’s incorruptible.

Do you spend a lot of time on social media? What is your relationship to it as a creator?

Pretty passive. I like social media. I feel like I’m kind of floating above social media. By like eight feet, just kind of looking down at it. Like, “What are you guys doing? That’s insane.” Then I dive into it to interact, and then just kind of get out of it. I get a little hooked on it for sure, but I hear about the addictions and the stuff that people fall for, and just like the amount of engagement. But it’s like engagement versus quality of life. I get so much fulfillment from everything else. I like playing with it. I always have fun with it, but I try not to let it get sticky.

Well, one of my favorite social media posts in the past bit is the one with your kiddo singing “Tea Man.”

Oh, wasn’t that so sweet?

So sweet.

She’s 6.5 now. She was like 2.5 then. And I just was like, I can’t post this. It felt so…I don’t know…

Personal?

It was personal, but I didn’t have a problem with that. I definitely want to protect her, you know? But that’s not her anymore. She doesn’t even look like that. She’s like doubled since that song came out. But then I was like, “Oh, fuck yeah, I’m posting this!” There was no risk of seeing her in public and recognizing that she’s the girl from the video.

Are you a tea man? In real life?

I got a PG Tips tattoo. I really like tea. I drink enough tea to float a canoe every day.

Really? All caffeinated?

Usually. Well, when I’m on tour, yeah. I get so tired. I can’t really mess with coffee. It just makes me so jittery. But I can just drink tea all day.

Are you an equal opportunist, or is it mostly black tea?

Oh, I like it all. Really like it all, but I love the black stuff, though. I think it happened when I was on tour 10 years ago with Josh Hedley. We were in England somewhere on a train, and they came down the lane with a steaming cart and it was £1 for a cup of tea. I don’t have an addictive personality. I don’t care about alcohol or anything. But I felt like, “Oh, I’m in trouble.” Just sitting on a cold, rainy train going through England with a cup of PG Tips.

It reminded me of something I heard about Andy Warhol. Although I’m not a big fan, I don’t know much about the guy. But what I do know about him is that one thing that made me really like him. I heard that he doused his whole world in a certain scent for a season. For example, in the summer of ‘63, he would just cover everything with lavender oil. And then come winter, it would be a totally different scent. And you’d put lavender away, and it’d be bergamot. So then the sense memory of whatever happened around that time would be so strongly connected to that scent that you could be completely brought back. And I really love that.

I think there’s something to it with the tea thing, because that tour was really big for me. It was a fantastic time. It was a really, really wonderful, lovely tour, and drinking PG Tips like that, I just got into English culture too. Everywhere you go, somebody’s like, “Well, you want a cup of tea?” Like, yes, I fucking do. I decided I’m never turning down a cup of tea. And I never have since.

Tell me about writing “Hot Chicken Condos” with Jordan [Lehning] and Skylar [Wilson]. I deeply connect with that song because I also left Tennessee, and for many of the reasons you list in the song.

Yeah, that was the point. Everybody who really gets this place will really understand these things, even like Pit Bull puppies in parking lots.

And humidity.

Fucking unrelenting humidity.

Were those things you were storing? How did that song come about?

God, why I love writing with Jordan and Skyler is because they don’t bring any ego to the write. They don’t fucking care. They’re just such good vibes. I’m really pretty neurotic about writing and also I’m pretty protective of my words, too. When I get into the writing space, I’m just so sensitive about what’s being said. So if somebody says or suggests the wrong thing, I can quickly be like, “This is the wrong association.” I can be a little trigger-happy.

But with Jordan and Skylar, they’re always just like, “Just play what you got.” And they usually edit everything that I have. With that song, one of the lyrics was “Mustard in the corner of his tiny little mouth.” And Jordan said, “Why don’t you say, ‘Mustard cracking in the corner of his tiny little mouth?'” And it was perfect. Mark Twain said the difference between the right word and almost the right word was the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.

It’s so true.

I got to hang out with Guy Clark once in Nashville, and it was like one of the best moments of my Nashville career. I was going through really bad writer’s block. And I asked him, “Do you ever get stuck?” And he said, “Yeah… Do you ever write with other people?” And I told him, “I don’t like the idea of giving somebody 50% of the song just because they’re sitting in the same room.” He leaned over and he goes, “Well, you never would have fucking wrote it if they weren’t sitting there.”

I was like, “Damn, old man schooled me.” Because so much of writing, I feel like, is picking up on something else that’s happening. And who’s to say you don’t owe somebody credit just because they’re sitting there?

The other thing that Jordan suggested for [“Hot Chicken Condos”], which was so right on, was that he asked me how high I could go on the Tennessee part. I told him I could go falsetto, and he told me to try it. I hit it and he said, “That’s it.” He took an idea of a song and made it a song. I just so appreciate those guys.

I just feel it is like a pedal steel player who plays about eight notes per song. That’s the best player in town, ‘cause all the other players are nonstop. Same with fiddle. Take Josh Hedley. The guy just stands there most of the time, then he pulls out something incredible, and he sets it back down. He doesn’t overplay. If you don’t overwrite and you don’t overplay, those are heavy attributes.

Those are both things to do in service of the song, not in service of self.

Absolutely. You know who I saw last night was Erin Rae. Kevin Morby and I were standing next to each other, just like, ”Oh my god, she’s so good.” One of the most amazing things about her is that she underplays the guitar. She’s playing the whole time, but if you really focus on how much she is actually playing, it is barely. It’s just enough to fill in where she’s not singing and she works the mic so well.

All those things are so important, but nobody teaches them, you know? You have to kind of know it. It’s innate, right?

Or you got to learn it trial by fire. And you have to be playing with players who know what they are doing to learn that.

Yeah. That’s right. Sometimes people are technically good, but they just don’t stop noodling, and it sucks.

You took a long hiatus from music, huh?

I did. I took nine years between records. I didn’t mean to. And I didn’t actually think that I was doing it. I was playing shows here and there. I blame it on real estate. I got into real estate because my heart got broken from music so many times from wanting to do better. Wanting to succeed more. Really, really caring what people said and thought and comparing myself. All the things you really shouldn’t do ever in any aspect of life. I mean, if you did that in a relationship, then your therapist would be like, “That’s your problem. Stop. Don’t do that.”

I couldn’t get out of it. I just felt so bad about how it was going. And I know what I’m doing is not for everybody, and it’s not gonna take off. But I love what I do. I’m not putting myself down, but I just knew my ambition was a lot faster than everybody’s interests. It was just wearing on me and I needed to do something that’s purely about money and doesn’t have anything to do with creativity, because I’m just getting my feelings hurt. And I got polyps in my vocal cords. I was touring too much. It just wasn’t going well.

So I thought, “I’m just going to pivot. I’ll still do shows and if somebody asks me to do something, I’ll do it. I love music.” I stopped prioritizing writing. I stopped prioritizing recording, and then the pandemic happened, and I had a kid, and real estate took off, and I looked up, and it was 9 years. It really was like, “Oh, crap, how did that happen?” It shocked me.

What’s your writing process like typically? Do you write everywhere?

I write everywhere. I use my voice memos a lot. I really love just making up new country songs and fake country songs – like, really bad ones. I find that if I can get them out, I can expand upon them or delete them and move on.

I was writing with Skylar [Wilson] one time and we were trying to write a song called “Remember the Alimony?” We wrote for hours and hours and it was a stupid song and it didn’t go anywhere. It went, “I’m just a poor man. All I eat is beans and write checks to my ex, one and only. I rolled the dice, but I lost my wife. But I remember the alimony.” So stupid. God. But we were writing all day and just hanging out, and neither of us thought to finish it. It just didn’t work. But then I got home and I had like 6 other song ideas that went on Sweet Creep. It’s that muscle thing that everybody talks about.

I’m also a pleasure seeker to the nth degree. If things aren’t fun, I just drop them so quick. I’m really bad about that. So I just make sure that it’s really fun and get the idea out quickly. I try to stay hovering above it, just stay light. Because as soon as I dig into it, that’s when I’m like, “Oh, my God, right. I don’t know how to do this.” Just keep it fun and it will grow. But I like to write all the time, every day.

Do you wake up and do it?

It is in the shower, on the way to school, washing dishes. You know, when you have a great idea and no way to write it down.

Soapy hands! Sometimes it happens when there’s an absence of anything else and those ideas pop up.

I have to really protect myself when I’m diving in. I wash all the dishes, do all the laundry, sweep up a bit, and make sure no one is going to ask me for anything. I’m really self-conscious about that. If nobody is home, I’m going to the basement and putting on Ken Burns’ Civil War, and I turn the radio on at low levels where it is just kind of humming. I drink a tremendous amount of caffeine. That’s my favorite.

But it is intense. I can get really emotionally rocky after diving in pretty deep.

I was thinking about Roger Miller when you were talking about the “Alimony” song. I’m drawn to that kind of writing because you can get really dark while staying very light.

People think that the meat is deep, but the nerves are on the surface. There’s meat down there, but it’s dead. I feel like the most cutting and incredible songs kind of sound like an email to an old friend. My favorite Lucinda Williams songs all sound like they were written to a buddy.

Or she’s talking to somebody over tea.

So true. And John Prine, too. Everyone’s like, “How did they do it?” They just did it. They’re just talking.

Will you play any live shows with the woodwinds?

Yes, actually, April 14, we’re doing a free show at Zebulon. It’s going to be good. I have this giant golf ball, it’s like a concession stand, and I’m bringing that to the show. The whole point of it is to give away free tea. It’s my tea ball. The tea is free, just buy a house from me!

What will the live configuration look like? How many players will you have?

Four, but they play multiple winds. It’s the players on the record. They’re such pros. They’re all symphony kids.

There’s something about stripping it down to just woodwinds; it’s so cinematic. It takes you directly to the meat and it makes you lighter when it is time, as music does for film. It helps direct your emotional experience.

I like that. I’ve always loved demos of songs. Sometimes I just want to hear someone play the songs, not the record. Or just hear someone sing it. As close to the song as I can get, I’m most happy. I love a cappella stuff. Sometimes the most powerful way to arrange a song is to remove everything.

With winds, too, it’s nice because that’s pretty much it. There’s the vocal and then there’s some wind behind it. I love that.

At the top of my notes that I took while listening to the record, I have the words “jello rebirth” scribbled down regarding the song “Polished Turd.” Can you tell me more about that concept?

For this record, it was a bit of a cynical and fatalistic career thought, but I wanted to make a record of real estate songs. The whole idea behind it was that people would hear it and would say, “This sucks.” And my reply can be, “Yes. That’s what happens when you give up on your dreams.” Music really suffers when you just write about what you’re doing. It’s like this martyrdom thing.

You know the three D’s in real estate are like death, diapers, and divorce – all the things that make people sell their homes. So I wrote one that went, “Death, diapers, and divorce. And the lottery, of course.”

During the pandemic, I had this fantasy of buying someone an above-ground pool. Have you heard of rebirthing ceremonies?

No.

Oh, rebirthing ceremonies are a thing. A fucking thing. People simulate a mother’s vagina in like a mega fucked up Christian ceremony. They make you relive your birth so you can be reborn and let go of all your childhood traumas. They have a gelatinous vagina and people push themselves through it. So anyway, I got that in my mind and thought, “What the hell is this world?” But I could see that for real estate, like a used car salesman going, “We are doing rebirthing ceremonies, come on down!”

And I have always wanted to slide through the tsunami of an above-ground pool that gets sliced open.

Yeah, that does look fun.

Right, who hasn’t wanted to do that? But then I want to turn it into jello. And then I thought maybe I should do that for my clients or have a commercial about it. I could cut a slice in the pool with a katana sword, then they’d ride in slow motion through the incision of the above-ground pool, I could hand them the keys, and they’d be reborn into home ownership. Follow me?

Yep.

That is a song very near and dear to me, but it is a hard one to explain. What was your experience with it?

Well my first thought was that wherever it was coming from and whatever it meant, you have thought a lot about it.

Fair enough, that’s true.

Photo Credit: Bobbi Rich