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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
This week it’s absolutely packed in our weekly roundup of new roots music! You Gotta Hear This…
From the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina, the Asheville Mountain Boys kick us off with a new performance video for “Don’t Take Me Back Again.” It’s a track from their debut self-titled album, which was just released in February. It’s straight-ahead bluegrass that will transport you right back to their beautiful home turf in Southern Appalachia. Also in bluegrass, from just down the ridge from NC in Boiling Springs, South Carolina, husband-and-wife duo Benson (Wayne and Kristin Scott Benson) have a new single out today, “Maybe It’s You.” Featuring their friend Heath Williams on the lead vocal, it’s a clean and crisp example of modern bluegrass with traditional bones.
You’ll also get to hear a lovely bluegrass-gospel-western rendition of a Randy Travis cut, “He’s My Rock, My Sword, My Shield” below, brought to us by Southern California singer-songwriter and roots artist Victoria Bailey. She effortlessly combines bluegrass, classic country, country & western, and gospel with her version of the familiar tune. The loping, cowgirl feel is just perfect. Plus, impeccable fiddler and multi-instrumentalist Andy Leftwich has a new album out today, Aced. To celebrate, we’re sharing “Crossville” from that collection, a tune from the catalog of Ricky Skaggs – Leftwich’s former boss, who’s a friend and a mentor – that has a transatlantic and somewhat Celtic feel. It features Leftwich on both fiddle and mandolin.
From further territory on the roots genre map, Paula Boggs Band calls on both Blind Boys of Alabama and Valerie June as special guests on their recording of “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me ‘Round.” Soulful string band folk is a perfect backdrop for the languid, marching track – one that remains all too timely and applicable in 2026. Watch a new lyric video for the song below and join the sing-along party, and the struggle for justice, too. Don’t miss Serafima and the Shakedowns’ paean to Seattle, the Queen of the Pacific Northwest. “Shivers” is a chill and vibing Americana track with lush guitars backing gentle ruminations on friendship, community, and place. Whether you have or haven’t felt the “shivers” in a while, this song will be there for you when you do again.
Keep scrolling, as there’s more gold to find. For instance, Gregory Alan Isakov and Sylvan Esso released a track together earlier this week, “Fade Into You.” It’s a lovely cover song of the cult favorite ’80s and ’90s alt-rock band Mazzy Star. For a while, Isakov wasn’t sure the track was finished – that is, until he called upon Amelia Meath of Sylvan Esso to complete the number with her vocals. Like Isakov, we love how it turned out. Finally, a legend of country music returns, posthumously, with a new album on May 29. Don Williams passed away in 2017, but his powerful legacy lives on. We spoke to his son, Tim Williams, about the latest single from Epilogue: The Cellar Tapes, a collection of found recordings made by Don himself dating back to the ’70s. The new single is an alternate version of a favorite track, “I’m The One,” that puts a magical focus on Williams’ vocals. You won’t want to miss it.
So much to love and enjoy is waiting for you below – You Gotta Hear This!
The Asheville Mountain Boys, “Don’t Take Me Back Again”
Artist:The Asheville Mountain Boys Hometown: Asheville, North Carolina Song: “Don’t Take Me Back Again” Album:The Asheville Mountain Boys Release Date: February 12, 2026 (album)
In Their Words: “‘Don’t Take Me Back Again’ is an original song written by our guitar player, Marshall Brown, and is featured on our new self-titled LP. Marshall brought the song to the group about a year ago and we had so much fun working it up into an early ’50s-style bluegrass song. Zeb and I wrote exchanging mandolin and banjo riffs for the song instead of normal solos; we felt that was an homage to how early Jimmy Martin songs would have more melody-based riffs than conventional solos. We shot the video at Asheville Guitar Pedals in West Asheville as sort of a tongue in cheek reference to our motto: ‘No Plugs No Pedals Only Bluegrass.’ We loved working with Rebecca Jones (video) and Carter Giegerich (audio) on this in-person, fully live take of the song. “ – John Duncan
Track Credits: Marshall Brown – Lead vocal, guitar Jacob Brewer – Tenor vocal, bass John Duncan – Banjo, baritone vocal Zeb Gambill – Mandolin
Video Credit: Videography by Rebecca Branson Jones, audio by Carter Giegerich.
Victoria Bailey, “He’s My Rock, My Sword, My Shield”
Artist:Victoria Bailey Hometown: Huntington Beach, California Song: “He’s My Rock, My Sword, My Shield” Release Date: April 24, 2026
In Their Words: “My cover of this Randy’s Travis gospel song, ‘He’s My Rock, My Sword, My Shield,’ truly sets the tone for where I am in music and with my faith. It’s been a few years since my album release (A Cowgirl Rides On) and I continue to grow a deep love for bluegrass and gospel. It only made sense to go in and record one of my all-time favorites by Randy Travis before I dive into my next record.
“This song was recorded live in studio with my bluegrass band at Station House Studio in Los Angeles, produced by my good friend Brian Whelan. It was a sweet reunion being back in that room and to honor such a beautiful, spiritual song. I often describe my sound as ‘a little bit gospel, a little bit bluegrass, and everything in between.’ This next single is a perfect recipe of all those things and I’m looking forward to more of it this year!” – Victoria Bailey
Track Credits: Victoria Bailey – Vocals Brian Whelan – Producer, lead guitar, BGVs Ted Russell Kamp – Bass Luke Adams – Drums Philip Glenn – Fiddle Leeann Skoda – BGVs
Benson, “Maybe It’s You”
Artist:Benson Hometown: Boiling Springs, South Carolina Song: “Maybe It’s You” Release Date: April 17, 2026 Label: Mountain Home Music Company
In Their Words: “We love the tried-and-true themes of classic bluegrass songs. Cabins, farms, and mountains were relevant to the writers then. In fact, if you can find a new song that is reminiscent of those standards, it’s a real find. I think ‘Maybe It’s You’ is a nice representation of a modern bluegrass song, lyrically. Troubled relationships are timeless, but this is a contemporary take on that same theme.” – Kristin Scott Benson
“Heath Williams sang lead on ‘Maybe It’s You’ and we are so lucky to work with him. He has been a huge part of many Benson songs, like ‘Oh Me of Little Faith’ and ‘Lay ‘Em Down.’ He’s not from a bluegrass background, but is perfectly suited for it and has a really fresh, special take. In fact, Terry Herd, one of the co-writers, specifically mentioned him because Terry thought his approach would be ideal. After years of going to church with Heath and playing with him on occasion, it’s a joy to be recording with him now.” – Wayne Benson
Track Credits: Heath Williams – Lead vocal Wayne Benson – Mandolin Kristin Scott Benson – Banjo Cody Kilby – Acoustic Kevin McKinnon – Bass Zack Arnold – Harmony vocals
Paula Boggs Band, “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me ‘Round”
Artist:Paula Boggs Band Hometown: Seattle, Washington Song: “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me ‘Round” featuring Blind Boys of Alabama and Valerie June Album:Sumatra Release Date: March 27, 2026 (album) Label: Boggs Media LLC
In Their Words: “Our cover of the civil rights anthem, ‘Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me ‘Round,’ feels more relevant today than when we recorded it. To highlight its American roots heritage, we incorporated bluegrass instruments like banjo and fiddle. The featured artists, Blind Boys of Alabama and Valerie June, further enhance the song’s messages of hope and determination. The lyric video grounds the song in present times.” – Paula Boggs
Track Credits: Paula Boggs – Lead vocals Tor Dietrichson – Percussion Jacob Evans – Drums, percussion Darren Loucas – Acoustic guitar, Dobro, banjo, ukulele Paul Matthew Moore – Acoustic piano, percussion David Salonen – Upright bass, fiddle Blind Boys of Alabama (Ricky McKinnie, Sterling Glass, J.W. Smith, Joey Williams) – Co-lead vocals Valerie June – Co-lead vocals
Gregory Alan Isakov and Sylvan Esso, “Fade Into You”
Artist:Gregory Alan Isakov and Sylvan Esso Hometown: Gregory Alan Isakov: Born in Johannesburg, South Africa; grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Sylvan Esso: Durham, North Carolina Song: “Fade Into You” Release Date: April 16, 2026 Label: Dualtone
In Their Words: “I grew up listening to Mazzy Star and sort of sketched this song out one afternoon. I had read an article about Hope Sandoval (the singer of Mazzy Star) the week before and there was this paragraph about how she played a few shows at the Sydney Opera House in almost complete darkness. Some of the crowd was super disgruntled about it and walked out. I remember thinking, ‘Wow, what a hero.’ I sat on the recording I made for a long time, thinking it wasn’t quite finished, and reached out to Amelia of Sylvan Esso. She has one of my favorite voices of all time. Once I heard her on it, it felt ready. I really love how it came out.” – Gregory Alan Isakov
Andy Leftwich, “Crossville”
Artist:Andy Leftwich Hometown: Carthage, Tennessee Song: “Crossville” Album: Aced Release Date: April 17, 2026 Label: Mountain Home Music Company
In Their Words: “One of the greatest joys of playing music with Ricky Skaggs was getting a chance to jam on his original instrumentals! They all have great melodies and are structured in a way that gives you an opportunity to stretch out and push yourself. This song is certainly that. Ricky has always inspired me with his creativity and heart behind each note that he plays and I always looked forward to playing this one with him each night! It’s one of my favorites! I thought I’d pay homage to my friend and former boss by recording one of his wonderful compositions, ‘Crossville.'” – Andy Leftwich
Track Credits: Andy Leftwich – Fiddle, mandolin Byron House – Upright bass Cody Kilby – Acoustic guitar Matt Menefee – Banjo
Serafima and the Shakedowns, “Shivers”
Artist:Serafima and The Shakedowns Hometown: Seattle, Washington Song: “Shivers” Album: Ride Easy Release Date: April 14, 2026 (single); May 1, 2026 (album) Label: BWGiBWGAN
In Their Words: “‘Shivers’ is an ode to Seattle, Queen of the Pacific Northwest – a cloud-soaked rumination that finds the song’s lonely voice wondering, is there anyone out there? My friends have left the city and I’ve heard I’m supposed to have a guardian angel – but where is she? Maybe she’s hiding behind the marine layer.
“This is a song about the city I grew up in, missing all your friends that have moved far away, feeling like they lied to you about stuff like having a guardian angel, and wondering if heaven is a real place – either up there or down here.” – Serafima Healy
Track Credits: Serafima Healy – Vocals, guitar Sam Burrows – Guitar Joe McPhee – Bass Jules Tennyson – Drums Finn O’Hea – Trumpet Aaron Khawaja – Piano Jay Kardong – Pedal steel
Video Credits: Hand animations by Serafima Healy.
Don Williams, “I’m The One (Alternate Version)”
Artist:Don Williams Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee Song: “I’m The One (Alternate Version)” Album:Epilogue: The Cellar Tapes Release Date: April 17, 2026 (single); May 29, 2026 (album) Label: Craft Recordings
In Their Words: “I remember this song very well from when I was 13-14 years old. I always loved the song. Obviously, Daddy did too, or there would not have been strings on it. Strings are always about the last thing before mixing (sometimes percussion). When I realized that it was one of the songs on the tapes in the cellar, I was excited. I did, though, want to take a crack at stripping it down a bit or making a little more room for Dad’s vocal, which was my intention and the approach I took. The original version is definitely cool and pretty complicated, actually, but I wanted a version that would be a platform from which maybe there’d be a little more focus on the vocals.” – Tim Williams, son of Don Williams
Photo Credit: Don Williams by Jim McGuire via the Grand Ole Opry Archives; Victoria Bailey by Dylan Gordon.
We are so excited to kick off our Interviews at Sea series with DAWES! We had the chance to talk to brothers Taylor and Griffin Goldsmith aboard Cayamo: A Journey Through Song in front of a packed audience during the music cruise’s 18th voyage in March 2026. The guys have been performing as Dawes since 2009, but the band has been a duo since their 2024 album, Oh Brother.
The Goldsmiths have been singing and playing together their whole lives inspired by their musician father, Lenny Goldsmith, who toured as the lead singer of Tower of Power in the 1980s. Taylor was never told it was hard to play guitar or sing, so he just did it. He always knew he wanted to be a professional musician. We talk about the ways his musical career turned out as not quite what he had expected. We also touch on how their singing has evolved over the course of their lives together.
Both Taylor and Griff are fathers, so of course we asked about the freedom that comes with priorities changing in their lives and careers – as well as what toys they may have regretted ever letting their kids have.
One thing following Dawes around for the past year is the aftermath of the January 2025 Eaton Fire in Los Angeles. Both brothers and their parents suffered immense loss due to the flames sweeping through Altadena, California, destroying thousands of homes and causing over 30 deaths. Griffin’s son was born two weeks after the fire, a month early. Dawes became the musical face of the disaster with an emotional performance on Jimmy Kimmel Live! and opening the GRAMMYs with Randy Newman’s “I Love LA” with a veritable supergroup: Sheryl Crow, Brad Paisley, Brittany Howard, St. Vincent, and John Legend. The brothers get into what the experience taught them about healing and reaching a place where this tragedy does not define them. We hear a bit about Taylor’s love of collecting first editions and his fear of the comment section and we wrap up with a fun “Which One?” lightning round. Thanks to Dawes!
Photo Credit: Joel W. Parks
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