Circles have played a huge role in fiddler and singer Morgan Toney‘s life thus far: from drum circles, to talking circles, to the Earth itself (a circle!). In our Basic Folk conversation, Morgan talks about his L’nu (also known as Mi’kmaq) heritage and growing up on what’s now called Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, where his ancestors have lived since time immemorial. He elaborates on the significance of the terms ‘Mi’kmaq’ and ‘Nu,’ explaining the shift in terminology among his people. As a teenager, he discovered his Indigenous heritage and cultural roots from his elders after he moved to Wagmatcook (a First Nations reserve) and learned about how the power of music could shape his life. He shares the story of first hearing Phil Collins at his uncle’s house after school, which inspired him to take up the drums. He soon discovered First Nations drumming by directly learning the songs from elders in talking circles. Morgan also talks about his transition from a shy teenager to a confident musician deeply immersed in both Mi’kmaq and Celtic musical traditions, creating a unique fusion which Morgan calls “Mi’kmaltic.”
We also talk about Morgan’s emotional connection to his community and the importance of music in rediscovering and celebrating his Indigenous heritage. He recounts how his exposure to traditional Mi’kmaq songs and ceremonies as a teenager was a transformative experience that reignited his cultural pride. In music and in our conversation Morgan pays homage to his family members, especially his elders, who played pivotal roles in nurturing his musical talents and helping him embrace his cultural identity. Finally, Morgan reflects on his musical collaborations, including his close partnership with producer Keith Mullins, and the creation of his new album, Heal The Divide. He further explains the innovative process of blending Mi’kmaq and Celtic musical elements, the album’s thematic focus on community and healing, and his aspirations to inspire the younger generation of his community. This was truly an inspiring conversation exploring the intersections of culture, history, and music with a very special musician!
When he was in his early twenties, Marlon Williams watched a series of major earthquakes flatten Ōtautahi/Christchurch, the largest city in Te Waipounamu (the South Island of New Zealand). In the wake of that tragedy, the Māori New Zealand artist ascended onto the national and later international stage as a singer-songwriter, guitarist, and actor with a million-dollar smile and a golden, heaven-sent voice.
As a narrative device, it would be easy to enshrine his experiences during the earthquakes as a baptism by fire, a star emerging from the flames. However, as he puts it, “It’s tempting to say that experience fostered the folk scene here, but we’d been building something for a while before the earthquakes. When you look backwards through the haze of time, it’s easy to start telling yourself stories.” It’s a fitting reminder that things are never as simple as they look on the surface.
Now, fifteen years on, Williams is on the brink of showing us how deep things go with the release of his fourth solo album, Te Whare Tīwekaweka (The Messy House). In a similar tradition to the outdoorsy, range-roving sensibilities of his previous three records, the album represents an antipodean blend of country and western, folk, rock and roll, and mid-to-late 20th-century pop, connecting the musical dots between America, Australia, and Aotearoa (New Zealand).
This time around, however, Williams – a member of the Kāi Tahu and Ngāi Tai iwi (Māori tribes) – made the decision to step away from English and sing in his indigenous tongue, te reo Māori. Therein, his guiding light was a traditional Māori whakatauki (proverb), “Ko te reo Māori, he matapihi ki te ao Māori,” which translates into “The Māori language is a window to the Māori world.” As displayed by the album’s lilting lead singles, “Aua Atu Rā,” “Rere Mai Ngā Rau,” and “Kāhore He Manu E” (which features the New Zealand art-pop star Lorde), he’s onto something special.
During the reflective, soul-searching process of recording Te Whare Tīwekaweka, Williams found solidarity in his co-writer KOMMI (Kāi Tahu, Te-Āti-Awa), his longtime touring band The Yarra Benders, the He Waka Kōtuia singers, his co-producer Mark “Merk” Perkins, Lorde, and the community of Ōhinehou/Lyttelton, a small port town just northwest of Ōtautahi, where he recuperates between touring and recording projects.
From his early days performing flawless Hank Williams covers to crafting his own signature hits, such as “Dark Child,” “What’s Chasing You,” and “My Boy,” Williams’ talents have seen him tour with Bruce Springsteen and the Eagles, entertain audiences at Newport Folk Festival and Austin City Limits, and appear on Later with Jools Holland, Conan, NPR’s Tiny Desk, and more. Along the way, he’s landed acting roles in a range of Australian, New Zealand, and American film and television productions, including The Beautiful Lie, The Rehearsal, A Star Is Born, True History of The Gang, and Sweet Tooth.
From the bottom of the globe to the silver screen, it’s been a remarkable journey. The thing about journeys, though, is they often lead to coming home, and Te Whare Tīwekaweka is a homecoming like never before.
In early March, BGS spoke with Williams while he was on a promo run in Melbourne, Australia.
Congratulations on Te Whare Tīwekaweka. When I played it earlier, I thought about how comfortable and confident you sound. Tell me about the first time you listened to the album after finishing it.
Marlon Williams: It was that feeling of nervously stepping back from the details and seeing what the building looks like from the street. I felt really pleased with how structurally sound it was.
What do you think are the factors that allow you to inhabit the music to that level?
I’ve spent my entire life singing Māori music. No matter my shortcomings in speaking the language fluently and having full comprehension in that world, the pure physiology of singing in te reo Māori has been my way in. There’s a joy and a naturalness that has always been there. That gave me the confidence to take the plunge and really enjoy singing those vowel sounds and tuning on those consonants.
We’ve talked about this before. Part of what facilitated this was singing waiata (songs) written in te reo Māori by the late great Dr. Hirini Melbourne when you were in primary school (elementary school).
Those songs are so simple and inviting, especially for children. They really help you get into the language on the ground level. A lot of what he did for this country can feel quite invisible, but most of us have some knowledge of the sound and feeling of the language as a result. It feels like a really lived part of my upbringing. His songs gave me a push forward into something that could have otherwise felt daunting and deep.
For those unfamiliar, could you talk about who Dr Hirini Melbourne was?
Hirini Melbourne was a Tūhoe and Ngāti Kahungunu educator and songwriter from up in Te Urewera [the hill country in the upper North Island of New Zealand]. He was born with a real sense of curiosity about the world and a sense of braveness and self-belief about taking on Te ao Māori [the Māori world] and bringing it to people in a really straightforward way. Hirini decided the best way was writing songs children could sing in te reo Māori about the natural world around us.
If you listen to his album, Forest and Ocean: Bird Songs by Hirini Melbourne, you’ll also see a lot of Scottish influence in terms of balladeering, melodies, and instrumentation. Later, he started collaborating with Dr. Richard Nunns. They’d play Taonga pūoro [traditional Māori musical instruments] and go into some very deep and ancient Māori music. Hirini’s whole career was this beautiful journey that was tragically cut short [in his fifties].
When I think about your music, I think about historical New Zealand country musicians like Tex Morton and John Grenell, who emerged from Te Waipounamu before finding success in Australia and America in the mid-to-late 20th century.
I wasn’t super aware of that tradition until I learned about Hank Williams and completely fell in love with country music. After that, I realised there was a strong tradition back home. I guess it gives you a sort of reinforcement, a sense of history, and a throughline you can follow to the present moment.
I also think about New Zealand’s lineage of popular singers. People like Mr Lee Grant, Sir Howard Morrison, John Rowles, and Dean Waretini, who I see as antipodean equivalents to figures like Roy Orbison, Scott Walker, and Matt Monro. What does it say to you if I evoke these names around your album?
A lot of the celebration around this record is the celebrating the ability of Indigenous people – in this case, Māori specifically – to absorb what is going on in the world and make something from it. You can think about it in other terms, but I think about it in the sense of creativity. If you think about Māori religions like Ringatū [a combination of Christian beliefs and traditional Māori customs], there’s this willingness and this sort of epistemological elasticity to be able to go, “Oh, these things make sense together.” I can wield this tool. I’m going to come to it with my own stuff and create something unique and strong that is a blend of worlds. The main energy that was guiding me on this record was that tradition of synchronisation.
When do you consider to have been the starting point for Te Whare Tīwekaweka?
The literal start point was May 2019. That was the first time I sat down, had the melody and the structure of “Aua Atu Rā” and realised there was an implication in the music of what the song was about. This lilting lullaby was emerging. I’d say it was boat stuff. That was the first moment when I realised I was writing a waiata. I didn’t quite have it yet, but the phrasing was in [te reo] Māori, and I knew where it was telling me to go. At the time, I had a [Māori] proverb in my head, “He waka eke noa,” which means, “We’re all in this boat together.” I’ve always struggled with it. I believe it’s true, but we’re also completely alone in the universe.
From there, everything locked into place.
It strikes me that feeling connected could be considered an act of faith. You have to believe that it’s more than just you.
If I think about faith, I think about surrender, being humble, having humility, and going to a place I can acknowledge as new ground. I think faith is a useful word here.
Tell me about the conditions under which Te Whare Tīwekaweka came together.
It was pretty patchy in terms of the momentum of it. Once I had “Aua Atu Rā” loosely constructed, I took it to Kommi [Tamati-Elliffe], who helped me make sense of the grammar. After that, it sat there for a bit.
Kommi is a writer, rapper, poet, activist and lecturer in Māori and Indigenous Studies and te reo Māori. They perform te reo Kāi Tahu, the dialect of the largest iwi (tribe) within Te Waipounamu (the South Island of New Zealand). How would you describe them?
Kommi is a shapeshifter. I can’t work out how old they are. I found it hard to work out what they thought of me, but I knew there was this lovely softness there that belies a lot of deep thinking and some real sharpness. They’re very enigmatic as a person and a creative entity. One time, we got drunk at a party and talked about some work they were doing on phenomenology through a Te ao Māori lens. We were talking about that and making the most crass puns imaginable. There was this dichotomy of high-level and low-brow thinking that felt really playful.
What you’re telling me is you felt safe with them?
I guess. That’s all I can hope for in a collaborator.
Let’s get back to Te Whare Tīwekaweka.
After I’d been sitting on “Aua Atu Rā” for a while, my My Boy album came out. In retrospect, you can also hear a lot of the direction that eventually went into Te Whare Tīwekaweka was already starting in My Boy. That took off for a bit, but all the while, I was back-and-forthing on songs in [te reo] Māori with Kommi. They’d send me lyrics all the time and I’d play around with them without really committing anything to paper.
Once I was near the end of touring My Boy, I started to turn my attention back to Te Whare Tīwekaweka. Then I agreed to let the director Ursula Grace Williams make a documentary about me [Marlon Williams: Ngā Ao E Rua – Two Worlds]. I thought, “Right, they’re filming me, so I better do what I’m saying.” Part of the intentionality was that the documentary would frame it into a real thing and make it happen. There was nowhere to hide.
Across the album, you sing about living between worlds, love, the land and sea, the weather, solitude, and travel, often through metaphors that invoke the natural world. Why do you think you gravitate towards these themes?
On a very basic level, I’m a very sunnily disposed person in terms of the way I comport myself. I feel desperately in love with people in the world and feel terrified of losing people, situations or understandings. These are the things I think about. The fact that I write songs like this is my outlet for ngā kare-ā-roto [what’s going on internally] and my darker side. I like to be warm and friendly in how I deal with people, but a little bit more severe when it comes to matters of the heart.
What do you think it has meant to make an album like this right now in Aotearoa and Te Waipounamu (New Zealand)?
Personally, I have a sense of achievement from having built something in that world. It also does something for my sense of family, in terms of representing a side of them very publicly that hasn’t always been accessible to them. There’s a lot of Kāi Tahu dialect on the album, so in terms of iwi, it feels good to put something on the map that speaks directly to the region. At the same time, this all sits within a very heated and fractious national conversation. On one level for me, it’s by the by; on another level, it’s great to have Māori music accepted into the mainstream. Whatever the political conversation going on is, if you can compel people with music, you’re really winning the battle on some level.
Taking things further, what do you think it means to be presenting Te Whare Tīwekaweka to a global audience?
Most places I go overseas, there is a sense of goodwill and excitement about marginalised languages being platformed. There’s a broader appetite due to people having instant access to a range of music through the internet. The threads you can draw together now are so vast and ungeographically constrained that I think people’s Overton window of what they’ll sit with and take in, even without knowing they’re not fully comprehending it, has shifted. I think people are generally either really open to that or completely shut off, which is something I don’t personally understand.
We can’t get around talking about Lorde singing on “Kāhore He Manu E.” It felt like she really met you where you were standing.
This speaks to the album in general. It was about bringing things to where I was standing. I didn’t want to jump into anyone else’s world. I had it in the back of my mind that I wanted her to sing on it. In the past, she kindly offered, “If you ever want me to sing on something, I’ll do it.” I could hear her on it from the moment I started writing it. There have been a few songs like that which have been very easily labored. They don’t take much writing and are always my favorite songs. It was important to me to get her involved in a way that wouldn’t be a post-hoc addition. She had to be part of the stitching of the record itself.
How do you feel in this moment, as you prepare to see what happens next?
I’m just excited to get these songs out into the world and see what they morph into when I start getting on stages and seeing what they do in a room. That’s going to change the way they feel and the way they want to be played. The second creative part of it is getting to the end of the tour and realising that the songs have become completely different from on the record. That can be a fun thing. Sometimes, it leads to remorse that you didn’t record them in the way they’ve gone. Other times, you realise you’ve completely ruined the song and gone away from what was good about it. I’m excited for the deployment.
Artist:Cary Morin Hometown: Born in Billings, Montana; now based in Fort Collins, Colorado Song: “Whiskey Before Breakfast” Album:Innocent Allies Release Date: January 26, 2024
In Their Words: “‘Whiskey Before Breakfast’ is a song that I learned as a child, when my interest at the time was mainly bluegrass music, something I loved very much. Since those early days, I have abandoned the guitar pick and prefer to play fingerstyle guitar. I was inspired to record this old traditional tune by my interest in the famous Montana band, Mission Mountain Wood Band. I loved their combination of bluegrass and other genres of the time. Their album, In Without Knocking, was always on my list of favorite recordings and I particularly liked the album cover, which is the painting by [Charles M. Russell] titled, ‘In Without Knocking.'” – Cary Morin
The headline for Los Angeles-based Raye Zaragoza’s new album Hold That Spirit is that after she broke off her engagement, she used her wedding budget to fund the recording. She wrote the songs the year she turned 30 while she was thinking of the expectations placed on women in society to have everything together at a certain age: marriage, kids, career, etc. She’s decided to let those expectations go and live in the joy that life offers, and explores her newfound freedom and indigenous identity in these new songs. She’s moving forward as a role model in Los Angeles’ indigenous community, which she has been a part of since she was 14 years old.
We go through the album track by track covering topics of social justice, eating disorders and perfectionism. She worked exclusively with female collaborators on Hold That Spirit, which allowed Raye a vulnerability in her writing sessions and studio time that she had yet to experience. She found co-writing with other women an easy space to feel emotionally safe. Working with like-minded feminists and activists fueled this album, which has allowed Raye to begin to break through those unfair expectations society places on women. In our conversation, Raye is thoughtful and serious, yet fun and playful even with such heavy topics addressed. Thank you, Raye!
Artist:Kim Moberg Hometown: Cape Cod, Massachusetts, the traditional territory of the Indigenous Nauset and Wampanoag Nations Song: “The Eighth Fire – Wings of the Winds” Album:The Seven Fires Prophecy Release Date: August 11, 2023
In Their Words: “The Seven Fires Prophecy teaches us that the Native Elders go to sleep because the people turn their backs on their ancient wisdom and teachings. It also tells us that if we learn to live with one another and our environment in peace and respect, the Seventh Fire will light the Eighth Fire which is the fire of brother and sisterhood.
“It is my never-ending hope that, with a lot of work, we can and will accomplish this.
“I wrote ‘The Eighth Prophecy – Wings of the Winds’ as my vision of hope after hearing a comment by National Indigenous Archbishop Mark McDonald who said, ‘When it is time for Indigenous People to return to the land, it will be the artists who will call them back.’ I believe the time has come for artists — songwriters, musicians, painters, dancers — to awaken the Elders by being open, listening, understanding, and learning from their wisdom and sharing what we learn through our art.
“The song title honors all directions of the winds – north, south, east, west, up and down – winds that carry the ancient wisdom of the Elders to us. That wisdom tells us that we already hold the power to rise up and take action for peaceful and positive change. All we have to do is listen.” – Kim Moberg
William Prince spent a long time recording his debut album. By the time Earthly Days was released in 2015, Prince had lived a lot of life and was ready for the sort of instant stardom that would throw a lot of emerging singer-songwriters for a loop. A number of extraordinary things happened followed the release of Earthly Days: the song “Breathless” was a hit on the Billboard adult contemporary music charts, Prince won the Juno Award for Contemporary Roots Album of the Year, and he toured the hell out of the record for several years, opening for artists like Neil Young. This extended tour gave him the opportunity to basically perfect his live set in a way many new artists don’t get to.
William has gone deeper and deeper and deeper with subsequent releases. He describes love and loss and self and community and fear and courage with universal appeal on 2020’s Reliever. He reinterprets the orthodoxy and aesthetics of his Christian upbringing through an indigenous lens on Gospel First Nation. He synthesizes varied traditions and flexes impressive vocal chops almost casually.
William’s new record, Stand In The Joy, comes out April 14th on Six Shooter Records, and it is a catchy, ambitious testimony about the power of love and hope. Talking about the album with William gave me the chance to ask him about his evolving spirituality, the tension between tradition and trendiness in roots music, how the loves of his life change how he shows up as a performer, what it’s like to work with superstar producer Dave Cobb, and what freedom looks like from a Peguis First Nations perspective.
By the mid-2010’s, Canadian rock legend Tom Wilson’s life was already pretty epic: he had perfected his blue collar roots rock sound in his bands Blackie and The Rodeo Kings and his seminal 90’s outfit Junkhouse. He was a home-grown rock and roller with humble Hamilton, Ontario roots. In addition to his musical output, he had overcome addiction, he was a father, grandfather and painter. However, his life completely changed when, by chance, he discovered he had been adopted and that he was actually of full blood Mohawk descent and not Irish like he was raised to believe. His birth-mother was actually a “cousin” of his, who had been forced into Canada’s cruel residential schools. The people he thought were his parents, had actually been his great aunt and uncle. At 53 years old, his world was about to get 100% more wild.
Ever since then, Tom has been on a path to identity. He’s written a memoir, made a documentary, an album as his musical alter-ego Lee Harvey Osmond and his latest project, collaborating with fellow Canadian, the Cree-Métis musician iskwē | ᐃᐢᑫᐧᐤ. Tom’s new mission at this point in his life is to tell his story. “Our greatest job as storytellers is to open up the door to the next person and let them know they can tell their stories, too.”
Artist:Julian Taylor Hometown: Toronto, Ontario Song: “Seeds” Release Date: June 24, 2022
Editor’s Note: “Seeds” was inspired by a text that Taylor received from his cousin the morning after it was announced that 215 uncovered remains of buried Indigenous children had been discovered at a former residential school in Kamloops, British Columbia. The message simply read: “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds.”
In Their Words: “Seeing and reading messages from members of my family felt crushing because genocide has and continues to be attempted where me and my loved ones live and it’s happening all over the world. When I look at my family I see a group of undeniably strong people with stories to share and that also gives me hope and that’s when I started to write ‘Seeds.’ I hope that this song touches people’s hearts in some way and makes them think. Think about their lives in a different way. One that brings them closer to the natural world and the universe. I hope it makes them feel the need to help others and see just how important and special the teachings of the ancient ones truly are.” — Julian Taylor
The self-titled country album by East Texan singer-songwriter Vincent Neil Emerson (Choctaw-Apache) oozes of the iconic “Wild West” with honky-tonk sensibilities and bluegrass touches that combine so many favorite textures and styles of country and Americana’s primordial ooze. His personality and identity are forward in every aspect of the project, from the lyrics to the production to the genre fluidity of each individual track – all of which marvelously combine into a cohesive whole.
In Emerson’s exclusive Shout & Shine live session (watch below), he performs two tracks from the album, “High on Gettin’ By” and “The Ballad of the Choctaw-Apache,” a song that dutifully tells the story of his grandmother’s community which was impacted by the creation of a man-made lake, the Toledo Bend Reservoir. The flooding of Toledo Bend had a disproportionate impact on impoverished, rural, and marginalized communities – including many Indigenous people – on the Texas-Louisiana border.
On first listen, “The Ballad of the Choctaw-Apache” feels like many classic country songs telling of injustice and standing in opposition to empire and “the man,” but Emerson’s personal connection to the tale is the entrancing spotlight under which this song shines. As you enjoy Emerson’s performance, take in our interview, when we connected via phone to discuss the album, Emerson’s creative process, and the overarching fact that, as he puts it, “Indigenous music is folk music. Indigenous stories are part of American folklore.”
BGS: I loved listening to the album and something that’s striking to me is that it feels so country, but also combines a lot of different genre aesthetics from different subsets of country in a unique way. I hear bluegrass in it, I hear string band music in it as well as western swing and classic country. How do you approach production and deciding which songs sound like what? There are a lot of different flavors here, but they still sound cohesive as well.
Emerson: With this one I got really lucky having Rodney Crowell producing the album. I think a lot of his ideas were what I was hearing in my head anyways. It matched up very well. As far as instrumentation, song by song we sat down and said, “Here’s what I think the song needs.” We were trying to fit the instrumentation around the song and around the story of the song. As opposed to doing it the other way around. If it sounded bluegrassy, that’s because it probably needed it, I guess!
To me it sounds like that golden age of country before it was divided into sub-genres and all country was just country.
I appreciate that!
What was it like working with Rodney? What was the balancing act like as far as his fingerprints being on the music and yours?
Nothing was forced, it was kind of like, “We got this song and this is what we’re going to do.” And, “Yeah, that sounds good!” [Chuckles] I wouldn’t say he was very hands-off, he knew exactly what he was doing. I didn’t really question any move that he made. It was kind of surreal getting to work with him.
A bystander, or a casual listener, when they hear “Ballad of the Choctaw-Apache” might just hear a country & western song, but I know for you it’s not just a classic, archetypical country song tale, it’s much more personal. It tells the iconic story of this country and this continent of the theft of land, culture, and ways of being from natives. I wonder if you could tell us a bit more about that song and how it’s more than just you writing a “rootsy” song.
I started writing that song after I sat down and talked with my grandmother about her upbringing, what she went through, and how the whole Toledo Bend Reservoir [creation in Texas and Louisiana and the displacement of natives and entire communities] affected her family. As I’ve been learning more about my tribe I felt that it was necessary to write something about that. I haven’t heard any songs written about it – in fact, not a lot of people talk about it. I thought it was needed.
Sometimes music like yours can get pigeonholed as “time capsule music” or throwback music. Something I love about this collection of songs is that, even though it’s classic and timeless, it doesn’t feel dusty or antiquated or divorced from the present. Can you talk a bit about that? Your music is down to earth, too, but it doesn’t feel like you’re trying to make music that’s retro.
There are a lot of bands out there that sort of play dress-up. There’s nothing wrong with that! I respect that and I’ve done it, too, but they’re trying really hard to be a certain era. I love all that music from the old school — I love Bob Wills — it’s just a personal choice. I don’t feel the need to “dress up” or try really hard to make the music sound like it was from back then. I’m so heavily influenced by the people around me and what’s going on around me constantly.
One guy who really had a good mix of that, too, was Justin Townes Earle. He had the old-time thing going on, then he could bust out “Rogers Park,” a piano ballad, and move in and out of [many different styles]. A personal style of songwriting should be a melting pot, it should be all eras – past and present.
Music is so subjective, I’m a firm believer in the idea that however you hear it is what it is. Whether that’s a positive thing or a negative thing to someone, I think it’s their right. I can’t tell anybody they’re wrong for forming their own opinion about my music – or anybody’s music.
It sounds like the process of letting a song have a life of its own is a big part of the process for you and that you understand an audience is always going to project onto or perceive meaning maybe where you didn’t yourself.
I don’t like to bounce my stuff off of people that much, because I’m going to write what I’m going to write. I don’t want to let people influence me too much in that way. But it is a really good feeling whenever you write something and you get a positive reaction or positive feedback. I think I’m more focused on the songwriting. As long as I’m being one hundred percent honest with myself in the song then I feel like it’s a tool for me to express myself completely. I feel that’s good enough.
A point that I always try to make about country, Americana – especially “country & western” specifically – Texas swing, and western swing traditions is that none of these genres would exist without the contributions of Indigenous folks. Especially when you think about Indigenous folks living in the occupied “Wild West” before any other folks did. And there were Black and brown folks who were cowboys before white folks ever were. I feel like that’s always missed, forest-for-the-trees style, by the roots music establishment these days. Country wouldn’t exist without Indigenous folks. Do you have thoughts on that? Have you thought about how your music draws on that legacy?
That’s something I’m still trying to understand myself and really learn about. I think you definitely have a great point there. If you think about it, the settlers came over and they didn’t know how to work the land, they didn’t know how to hunt over here. Natives taught them all that and the settlers took that information and they thrived with it. Our society would not exist in the U.S. if it weren’t for the people who were here before. And it applies to the music as well, yeah.
The album feels so western. Like rhinestones and cactuses and false-fronted buildings. It feels so “authentic,” but it’s not just about the nationalism of settling the Wild West and it’s not about these white supremacist myths about cowboys and western culture. Could you talk a bit about that aesthetic? How Texas and the West and something like cowboy poetry and storytelling come through your songwriting?
I never really set out to try to write about these things, it’s just the things I’ve been surrounded by. I worked on a ranch for a little while. “High on the Mountain,” that song came to me while I was literally on the top of a mountain – well, it was more of a hill – while I was in Palo Duro Canyon. Growing up in Texas, seeing all that stuff, it kinda [left an impression]. A lot of it, as far as stylistically, comes from listening to people like Bob Wills and Townes Van Zandt and Blaze Foley. Anyone that I’ve been influenced by, their influence creeps into it. It’s definitely not just a brand, it’s more my life. [Laughs] I never really thought about it, actually!
I grew up between a horse ranch and a cow pasture in East Texas. I grew up in the middle of nowhere. When you get into cities like Dallas, Fort Worth, Houston, Austin, San Antonio, these bigger cities, there’s a lot more to the area I’m from than just little podunk country towns. I learned that when I was 19. I moved over here [to the Fort Worth area] and was like, “Holy shit!” There was a lot going on. There’s a lot of rich, cultural, musical history. I’d like to dive more into that on the next record. I want to try to put some Tejano music in the blender. Maybe some polka and western swing. See what happens! If you go down around the Hill Country there’s a lot of German music, German immigrants, there are entire communities that still speak German over there.
Maybe this is a good way to wrap up our conversation: Who’s inspiring you right now? Who are you listening to?
As far as Indigenous artists go, I think folks really need to listen to Leo Rondeau. He is one of the baddest motherfuckers out there doing it right now. Really, really great music. In the realm of music I play, there’s not a whole lot of Indigenous people doing it. Of course, I think there are a lot of people with Indigenous heritage, but as far as being able to immediately trace your roots back like my grandmother who is Choctaw-Apache from Ebarb, Louisiana, there’s not a lot of that. It’s kind of a shame. And I’m not the end-all be-all on the subject! I’m not the most up to date on things. I’m sure there are a lot more, I’d love to learn more and hear more. It’s a good thing to bring up and a good question to ask, because it’s something people should be thinking about.
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This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. These cookies will be stored in your browser only with your consent. You also have the option to opt-out of these cookies. But opting out of some of these cookies may affect your browsing experience.
Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. This category only includes cookies that ensures basic functionalities and security features of the website. These cookies do not store any personal information.
Any cookies that may not be particularly necessary for the website to function and is used specifically to collect user personal data via analytics, ads, other embedded contents are termed as non-necessary cookies. It is mandatory to procure user consent prior to running these cookies on your website.
