This week on The Show On The Road, we feature a conversation with an admired and sharp-witted singer-songwriter in the fertile Nashville Americana scene, Caroline Spence.
A sought-after lyricist who mines her own vulnerabilities and lovelorn past to tell delicately crafted story-songs, Caroline Spence’s voice seems to always hover angelically above the page, bringing to mind new-wave country pop heroine Alison Krauss or her vocal hero, Emmylou Harris.
Growing up in Charlottesville, VA daydreaming to Harris’ signature twangy honey-toned records like Wrecking Ball, Spence admittedly was a bit starstruck when the silver-maned lady herself came on board to sing harmonies on the title track of Spence’s newest LP, Mint Condition. It quickly became a critic’s darling and an Americana radio staple nationwide.
As a conversationalist, she usually leads with cheerful southern modesty, but beginning with her 2015 debut, Somehow, Spence wasn’t afraid to push at country music’s guy-centric boundaries. She brought aboard a talented group of genre-defining collaborators like blue-eyed soul hero Anderson East and pop-folk favorite Erin Rae to give the songs new heft. Her follow-up Spades And Roses brought more lush atmospherics to her yearning acoustic stories, elevating the clear-eyed feminine power behind emotive songs like “Heart Of Somebody.”
While Spence will tell you she is just furthering the empowered spirit of roots songwriter pioneers who came before her, during this time of high anxiety, her deeply felt love songs like “Sit Here and Love Me” and “Slow Dancer” seem especially fitting, touching on her bouts of depression and her inability to connect with the ones who are trying to help her through.
Sometimes sad songs truly do make people happy, and if you’re feeling a bit low, maybe pop on her newest single “The Choir,” about finding your people when you need them most.
Covering her remarkable six decades in show-business, we dive deep into LaVette‘s beginnings as a Detroit hit-making teenager during Motown’s heyday (her neighbor was Smokey Robinson), to her early career touring with Otis Redding and James Brown, and the hard times that followed, as a music industry steeped in racist and sexist traditions largely turned its back on her.
While other soulful song stylists like Sharon Jones, Tina Turner, Mavis Staples and others saw their status and popularity rise with time, LaVette remains an underrated, best kept secret on the Americana circuit, with younger listeners just discovering her remarkable work covering anyone and everyone from The Beatles to Neil Young to Billie Holiday.
After nearly dropping out of music, her remarkable comeback began in 2005 with a string of acclaimed records — bringing her from half-filled bars to singing “Blackbird” at The Hollywood Bowl with a 32-piece orchestra, being nominated for five Grammy awards, and being inducted into the Blues Hall of Fame.
One thing you’ll notice immediately is her fiery laugh, which punctuates the episode — even when telling the darkest stories, like her early manager getting shot and her 1960s hits being recorded by white artists, leaving her versions largely forgotten. Her Grammy-nominated newest LP Blackbirds, produced by legendary drummer Steve Jordan, shows her at her most vulnerable best.
Artist:Esther Rose Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana, and sometimes Taos, New Mexico Latest album:How Many Times Personal nicknames: Dayfire, Wild Rose
What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?
Seeing as how there haven’t been any stages as of late, my favorite recent performance was singing “Handyman” with my nephew Cedar. Cedar is three years old and he knows every single word.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
The moment that I knew I wanted to be a guitar player/songwriter was on my 28th birthday when I wrote a song called “The Game” on piano. ‘Til then I had been a supporting member of my partner’s band, but that morning I wrote a breakup song. I remember thinking I need to learn how to play the guitar immediately and I did.
What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?
In the studio I set up a good-luck altar with little treasures from the past year; pretty rocks from significant places, jewelry, photos, whatever has been close to me for the past year of songwriting I will take off and turn it over to the altar. It is grounding to look over and be reminded of why I wrote the songs, or where I was, or who I was with. I keep a candle burning the entire time. It gives me great satisfaction to blow out the candle at the end of a long day, signifying that the work is over.
What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?
Writing “When You Go” was tough. My songwriting golden rule is “no bullshit.” I will write and scratch out lines to get closer to what’s really going on. With this song, I wrote the first verses and then froze. The song starts as this kind of self-assured, “I’m getting over you” song. I was scared to go to the no bullshit place to see what was below the surface. I sent it to my best friend and songwriter soulmate Julia and she urged me to finish it. The next day I wrote the chorus and I remember crying, crying, crying and then crying some more. It’s a very primal feeling; please take me with you.
Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?
I want to have a glass of wine and a cigarette with Joni Mitchell. I don’t even smoke anymore.
John Smith is resilient. You have to be, when you’ve spent your 15-year musical career — by choice — unsigned to a record label. When you’ve arranged every gig, every tour, every album release yourself. When you’ve invested your own money in everything you’ve done. As Smith himself puts it he’s been “planning for the worst” his entire professional life.
So when catastrophe hit a year ago, he was ready, in his words, to roll with the punches. The pandemic had already necessitated the painstaking and anxiety-inducing cancellation of all his gigs and tours. His mother was diagnosed with cancer at a time he couldn’t visit her. His wife lost a pregnancy. “It was devastating,” says Smith, from his home in North Wales. “But all you can do is try and make sense of it and the way I do that is write songs.”
The result is The Fray, an album of searing honesty and lithe beauty whose songs amplify the emotions and experiences of so many of us this year — the reassessed relationships, the self-reflection, and the ultimate search for hope. It is, perhaps, something of a change of pace for the British singer-songwriter, who describes it as his most honest album yet.
“In the past I’ve been drawn towards mythic perspective and character-based songs and more fantastical references,” he nods. “This one I just wrote about me and what I was feeling.” In doing so, he has created a work of extraordinary emotional nuance. As he puts it: “There’s lots of color and dark and light in everyday life. ‘How do I get to bed tonight without cracking up?’”
The songs are deeply tender — “She’s Doing Fine” and “One Day at a Time” are poignant responses to the grief of losing a baby — but they’re not as spare as Smith’s 2019 folk record, Hummingbird. This one is a cashmere blend of guitar, piano and horns, with eloquent contributions from friends in the US and elsewhere. Sarah Jarosz and Courtney Hartman lend their ethereal voices to “Deserving” and “Eye to Eye,” respectively. Milk Carton Kids contribute, alongside Smith’s longtime collaborator Lisa Hannigan, to the rousing title track “The Fray,” which tips the hat to the West Coast stylings of Jackson Browne’s Late for the Sky, one of Smith’s favorite records.
For Smith, it was a delight to be able to sing and play with his friends, even if they couldn’t be in the same space. “I normally see Lisa, for instance, very often, and I haven’t seen her for a year. So in the absence of being backstage at the same festivals, drinking and laughing, I thought let’s all get on the same track, then it’s like we’ve all seen each other.”
It had been six months since he had played with anyone else at all. When the pandemic first began to spread, Smith was touring in Australia, about to play the Blue Mountain Festival near Sydney. “I woke up in my hotel room to a text saying that the festival had been cancelled,” says Smith. “I looked at local news reports and it was obvious everything was going to get pulled and they were shutting down the borders between Australian states — it was just time to get out of there.”
Having got himself home from literally the other side of the world, Smith undertook the soul-crushing work of cancelling all his gigs, including what would have been his first-ever headline tour in the US. “It had taken years to get to that point,” he adds, ruefully. But managing his own brand has made Smith resourceful and he quickly worked together an album of unreleased recordings (Live in Chester) and took them on a “virtual world tour,” playing dates in different time zones.
“That all went really well and after the last of those gigs, that evening, my wife started feeling really bad and we had to get her to hospital and she spent a week there. And within a few weeks of that I’d found out my mum had cancer. So suddenly everything in my life was upside down.”
New songs simply fell out of him, he says. Some came from ideas he’d worked up with others, such as the opening track, “Friends.” The chorus had been written with fellow singer-songwriter Paul Usher, before the UK went into lockdown; four months later, it found a new meaning. “When I sat down and listened back to the voice memo on my phone I started singing it and wrote all the verses in one go.”
Other songs were inspired by particular instruments. He bought a classical guitar and quickly wrote “She’s Doing Fine” on it. A ‘57 Telecaster replica he acquired — “just a piece of swamp ash with a neck on it really” — inspired a riff which stayed under his fingers for five weeks before it was followed with any words. The finished product was “Hold On.”
Britain’s strict lockdown laws, which have included stay-at-home orders with only an hour a day allowed for exercise, were partially lifted in the late summer and fall, giving Smith the opportunity to get inside a studio. He and Hummingbird producer Sam Lakeman both isolated ahead of the session, and so were able to work together freely and without masks. The other musicians, too, self-quarantined before they arrived: “We didn’t have anyone involved we didn’t trust completely,” he says.
Smith laid down his own tracks in the first couple of days — the bare bones of guitar and vocals — so that the sound could build organically with each additional contribution. “Since recording all together live logistically wasn’t possible, I had to take a slightly different route,” he says. “We went with a lot of first takes and kept a few mistakes in there and tried to allow it to breathe spontaneously and didn’t overthink it… I’ve been guilty of that in the past.”
There’s a lovely moment at the end of “Friends,” as the song finishes and is punctuated with a little applause. It feels, for just a brief moment, like you’re in the room with the band. Smith laughs and explains its origins: “I’d put down the vocal take and it sounded so good in the headphones I just started clapping. And Sam shot me a look as if to say: ‘You know we’re going to have to do that again now.’” But it was such a joyful and spontaneous sound, they decided instead to ask the other musicians to clap at the end of their takes, too.
The other contributions — from Hannigan, Jarosz, et al. — were recorded at their homes and sent in digitally (“You can catch a lot of horrible stuff over email,” smiles Smith, “but not COVID”). They include electric guitar from Bill Frisell, one of Smith’s heroes, whom he approached via their mutual friend, Joe Henry. It is clear, from Smith’s tone, that having Frisell play on “Best of Me” is one of the best things to have happened to him in a very long time.
The future remains as uncertain as ever. “I’ve just moved some gigs for the third time,” says Smith. “It’s going to be a while before I’m going out and physically playing these songs.” It’s typical, he says, with good humour — he’d lined up some great venues to play in, and with the social distancing requirements significantly reducing their capacity, he would even have been able to say he had sold them out.
But Smith is not one to dwell on what-might-have-beens. Instead, he’ll be launching The Fray with a collection of livestreamed gigs, knowing that they have proved successful for him before. He has been reading a lot, recently, into business and economics and financial strategies – as he very sensibly observes, “it’s important for any musician to understand how money works because there’s going to be less of it going around.”
Smith has always been one to live the simple life, and with full lockdown resumed in Britain since the start of 2021, there has been ample opportunity to do so. There is no doubt that The Fray’s themes of getting by in the day-to-day will resonate broadly. After all, never before have so many humans experienced such similar circumstances all at the same time. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?” says Smith.
This week, we take The Show On The Road to the countryside of Sweden for an intimate talk with Kristian Matsson, a poet-songwriter and masterful acoustic multi-instrumentalist who has released five acclaimed albums and two EPs over the last decade and a half, performing as The Tallest Man on Earth.
Growing up in the small hamlet of Leksand, a three hour trek from Stockholm, Mattson was in rowdier indie-rock outfits like Montezumas before breaking out with his own dreamier acoustic material and gaining international notice with his breakout solo offering Shallow Grave in 2008. Tours with Bon Iver across North America gained Matsson an adoring audience in the states, where he ended up setting up shop in Brooklyn.
Most often performing solo even on the biggest stages, Matsson is known to have seven or more intricate tunings for his guitars and banjos, and with his high, cutting voice and cryptic, nature-inspired lyrics, he has been compared to some of his heroes like Roscoe Holcomb, Bob Dylan, and Paul Simon, but with a Swedish-naturalist touch. Songs like “Love Is All” or “The Gardener,” while gaining tens of millions of steams on folky playlists, pack quite a punch, often detailing how the cold cruelty of the animal kingdom filters into human life with its many frailties.
In 2019, Matsson found his marriage to a fellow Swedish singer-songwriter ending and he holed up in his Brooklyn apartment to write, produce, and engineer his newest Tallest Man On Earth LP, I Love You. It’s A Fever Dream. Like Springsteen’s eerie and emotional Nebraska, Matsson’s collection is a clear-eyed view of our current state of interpersonal (and even societal) isolations. Standout songs like the warm guitar and echoey harmonica opener “Hotel Bar” — though written before he knew what would happen with our current pandemic — seem to capture the lost closeness and romance of our very recent past, where one could fall in love with a new stranger every night in a new town and think nothing of it.
Sequestered in a small house in the middle of Sweden since the world shifted last year, a new Tallest Man On Earth album is sure to be on its way. Admittedly Matsson is going a bit stir-crazy away from the road, but really he’s grateful to be able to have the time to explore and create new sounds without any distractions. A fall tour of the states is in the works (fingers crossed), including an opening slot at Red Rocks joining Mandolin Orange and Bonny Light Horseman.
Welcome to Season 2 of Harmonics! On episode 1 of our new season, we’re kicking things off with the incredible, four-time Grammy-nominated folk singer-songwriter, Jewel.
Jewel joins host Beth Behrs for an insightful conversation about her experience with mindfulness throughout her life as a response to anxiety. She presents multiple tangible skills she has developed along the way that hopefully anyone can easily apply to their own lives to expand their mindfulness.
Throughout her career, Jewel has brought these skills to struggling children as well, having been an avid advocate for mental health awareness and using her platform to lift others up. Her work through her own Jewel Never Broken program, in conjunction with the Inspiring Children Foundation, has supported so many children with mental health support resources, mentoring, education, and equipping kids with important life skills and tools to earn college scholarships, becoming forces for good in the world.
Jewel’s honesty regarding her own struggles, and how it informs her creativity, her art, and her life, is incredibly inspiring.
In case we haven’t yet convinced you of the wealth of knowledge and wisdom present in this episode — Jewel also gives Beth a personal lesson on how to yodel!!
Listen and subscribe to Harmonics through all podcast platforms and follow Harmonics and Beth Behrs on Instagram for series updates!
Chris Pierce has cultivated a significant following in the Los Angeles area and beyond, usually writing soulful and emotional songs that have populated fifteen years’ worth of albums and appeared in TV shows like This Is Us. But in 2020, accompanied by little more than his 1949 Gibson J-45 (“Blondie”) or his 1973 Martin D-18 (“Doriella”), the California native recorded the album American Silence with a mission of social activism against racial disparities.
Pierce gained a love of language from his mother, an English teacher who taught at-risk youth. She introduced him to the lyrical writings of Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss, as well as essential writers like Langston Hughes and Walt Whitman. The economy of words in all of those authors is immediately evident in original compositions like “American Silence” and “It’s Been Burning for a While,” where Pierce gets his point across directly, and with power. His convictions are never more optimistically presented than in the album’s closing anthem, “Young, Black and Beautiful,” which details the experience of maturing from a cute little kid to a perceived threat.
Calling from Los Angeles, he had a lot to say about American Silence, which is poised to become one of the most resounding folk albums of 2021.
BGS: To me, “American Silence” is like a message from a folksinger to an audience. What was on your mind when you wrote the song?
Pierce: History and resilience, and that cycle of bad things happening and people becoming aware of those things. Jumping on the train of, “Let’s try to end this,” and doing what we can to create awareness about a problem. And then kind of fading away. That song, for me, I was thinking about being young and cuffed on the streets, and stopped for things, and how being a Black kid – and now a Black man – can sometimes feel like a crime in itself, just walking around.
I wanted to write a song that addressed complacency, and remind people like myself, and Black people, and anybody’s been oppressed, to never give up. And also, to remind songwriters and artists that it’s important to not give up on reaching out to people, even though it’s sometimes hard. It’s important to keep that fight going in whatever way you can. And it asks those folks: “Hey, you come to my shows, you say you support, but if something were actually happening to me and you saw it, would you do something? And are you willing to do something in your everyday life that would create a more positive experience for people who aren’t like you?” That’s the short answer. [Laughs]
What has been the response so far?
It’s been getting good response from folks who have had my albums through the years. I’ve been getting emails and notes, and I’ve gotten to speak for a couple of schools, which is great. I’ve been invited to speak at events and play songs, and I think it’s doing a little bit of what I wanted it to do — which is to open up the continued conversation. And through a song, let it be another reminder to not let this moment, and these horrific things that happen, and how appalled you are by them, fade into the distance.
Does it change the vibe in the room when you walk in with a guitar?
Yeah, you know, I’m not a petite individual. I’m 6’4” and I’m a big man! And I’m a Black man, and I think walking into a room with a guitar raises a few eyebrows, to where folks will want to listen to a few lines and open their hearts, and to hear what I have to say. It’s being a gentle giant — a man of stature and size, and having this sensitive heart. In a lot of ways, the core of who I am is somebody who really wants to make music and make a difference and spread love. To get into a room with a guitar and sing about our history, and some of the ways I think we could change for the better, is thrilling for me. I’m really looking forward to walking into more rooms soon to play live. I miss it so much!
“Sound All the Bells” is a call to action, too, but it’s also very personal. What’s that like for you to put those experiences in a song and then share it with people?
All of the songs from this album came out of me last year, and for me it was a moment of clarity. Here I was, at home, trying to be safe and responsible, and in a lot of ways being still forced my heart to open to some of these compartmentalized feelings that I tucked away over the years to survive – and face them in a way that I’ve never faced them before. …
“Sound All the Bells” is almost like a timeline through different experiences that I’ve personally gone through, but it also offers the message of, “You know, I consider myself one of the lucky ones, for getting broken ribs and thrown in jail and stabbed and shot at – I’m still here, to sing songs.” So, I want people to really consider that perspective, in hope that it encourages them to do something about it.
One of the lyrics is about seeing a cross burning in your yard when you were 5 years old. That’s a powerful image.
Yeah, throughout the years I’ve had little flashes of memories about that. And a couple of years ago, I was sitting at lunch with my mom, in the town where that happened. We were talking about how things have changed over the years, and she started walking me through exactly what happened, and what she and my late father felt, being the first interracial couple in the neighborhood and the pushback from that. That wasn’t the only instance of hate that they encountered. And once I came along, there was this protectiveness from both of them, having a young child.
When that happened, from my mother’s perspective, it was something that [told them] they had a choice. And their choice was to be strong and to carry on and stay in the house, and try to be an example of love and acceptance. And that’s what they did. I’m so proud of them. It’s one thing to go through that when you’re a kid, but it’s another thing to imagine young parents having that happen. I feel like, in a lot of way, that example of their strength and resilience carries on into who I am, and the kind of music I make. And just the fact that I keep going is part of that moment.
On this record, it’s essentially just you and the guitar. Why did you choose that approach?
A big part of it was the pandemic and wanting to be safe and responsible, and not add to the problem of people getting sick and dying. It made me want to set up a session like this. And the other thing was, I wanted the listeners to not have anything in the way, and to let the words sink in. I have some extremely talented friends and folks that I’m around that are incredible at their instruments, but instead of picking up the phone and calling them, which was very tempting, I just said, you know, let me sit down with a guitar and sing these truths. Sing them in a way that means something to me and see if that translates.
“Young, Black and Beautiful,” feels like an encore to me. You’re closing the album with a message of encouragement, and I think the strength of your voice is part of that, too. Why did you want to end the album with that song?
The song in general was inspired by reading a friend’s Instagram post. She was talking about her Black son and how he was getting to the age that instead of folks on the street saying, “He’s so cute,” it’s turning into folks feeling threatened by him. That got me thinking about my own history, and what happens in that pivotal moment as a Black child that people are starting to look at you differently. You start hearing doors lock and you see purses clenched, and people walking to the other side of the street.
I wanted to offer something that went along the lines of the old term from the ‘60s, that Black is beautiful. It doesn’t mean that other things are not beautiful! It’s just a reminder that Black is beautiful. It’s about Black self-love, and I feel like it’s a song that I have benefitted from hearing when I was that age. I also wanted it to feel like an anthem that people could sing along to.
And at the end, I wanted to hold the word “Black” as long as I could, to give an example that you should never be ashamed of your Blackness. Sing it loud! And give folks as many examples as you can of your authentic self. And walk on through all these things that you’ve experienced, and that I’ve experienced, and find a new purpose in each days, knowing that your authenticity makes you beautiful.
Langhorne Slim didn’t intend to make his new record, Strawberry Mansion, but he found a musical path through a crooked piece of time. He isn’t escaping the chaos of the era. Instead, we find him traversing it, soaking it in, and sharing a real-time creative reaction.
In “Sing My Song” he writes, “I’ll sing my song when my song appears.” By facing his own addiction and the many hardships the world has been dealt this past year, he cleared the path for the 22-song record to appear. With the support and musical collaboration of friends like Paul DeFiglia and Mat Davidson — as well as his family, label, and management — Strawberry Mansion stands as a fruitful monument to Slim’s hard work as a person and as an artist.
BGS: Will you talk a little bit about what you were experiencing leading into making this record?
LS: Well, I wasn’t writing music to write a record. I had been working for a long time trying to finish another project (the unreleased Lost at Last Vol. 2). I quit drinking and drugs about seven and half years ago and I relapsed with prescription medication that was prescribed to me and one thing led fairly quickly to the other, where I became dependent on that medication. That led me to about a year out West and a decision to come back to Nashville where I’ve lived for almost a decade. It is where I got sober the first time.
So the conversation in my head was, I’m going to go back home and get healthy. Right now, I’m actually in the apartment of my friend who came and drove me from Los Angeles back to Nashville and it was a brutal trip. And he’s a brother to me. He didn’t know that I was in bad shape and weaning myself off of these prescription pills. Prescription medication is a motherf***er and I have all kinds of thoughts and feelings about that. He found me in a place that he had not ever seen me in. I could see through his eyes that he did not recognize me and I don’t mean that poetically or metaphorically. My boy was clearly disturbed, frightened, annoyed, sad, and confused. When I dropped him off, he looked at me and I looked at him and I knew it was bad. He was just a mirror and I could see where I was at.
I called around some places and people and found some help. Shortly after I got home, the tornado hit. And then of course the pandemic. So energetically and physically, it was such a crazy wild time for everybody. On a deeply personal level, I think in retrospect, the slowing down and forced confrontation of things that needed immediate dealing with, there’s just so much that has been revealed in this. For me, who am I when I’m not a touring musician? Who am I when I’m facing my anxiety, my fear, whatever it might be? Some might say life on life’s terms.
For this record, I read that you had a friend that suggested that you write every day, which you had not done prior to that. Is that right?
It is right that you read that but it’s not the entire story… One of my friends, who I’ve known for many, many years sort of jokingly said, “If you just write a song every day, come over and we’ll record it.” As soon as the quarantine started, some songs started to come and at that point, it almost seemed like they were quarantine jingles. They were kind of on the nose for the situation but it felt good to have these new little songs. I would finish a song. I would not overthink the song. I would take it to my friend’s house in its rawest form. We would record it and I would post it and then I wouldn’t think about the song again. It was a cathartic thing. Catch, release, and on to the next one. And that wound up going on for a couple of months.
Were you interacting with fans over social media about the songs? And if so, did it wind up affecting the output?
Let me put it this way, I think what it was allowing me to do was to scratch an itch. I don’t know what would have happened if I wasn’t having some interaction, some connection in that way without being on tour. In this raw and intimate way, I was writing the song that day, making a little video, and putting it out to people who care or like what I do. It means a lot to me that other people not only relate but are feeling uplifted if only for the two minutes that they are listening to it. I’m sure that was a fuel and energetic force that allowed me to continue to do it.
When did you know that Strawberry Mansion was a record?
I’m superstitious and one time I told my good friend Jonny Fritz that there had been a black cat that was stalking my lawn and he laughed and rolled his eyes and said, “You know what is bad luck? Being so superstitious.” He’s a smart boy. When these songs were flowing, I didn’t want to call my manager or the record label because I thought it was taking it out of the spirit world and putting it into the more tangible physical one. After about 20-25 songs I had the idea for it to be a record, but wanted to keep writing and they finally called me and said, “We think that you should just record a stripped-down record,” which is what I wanted. A stripped-down, raw, immediate, and true to how the songs came about kind of record.
One of my favorite lines from the record is from “Panic Attack,” when you say, “I’m feeling things exponentially.” And that line can be for the good and the bad. What are you feeling exponentially right now in this moment?
I’m excited about the record. I’m proud of the record. I am looking forward to continuing to write songs and getting busy with whatever comes next. The feeling feelings exponentially can be positive. It can be negative. That was in terms of, obviously, a panic attack. I have been a sensitive boy my whole life so what I’m trying to do is to not let every feeling take me over or guide my next step, because if I’m not looking out for it, a certain kind of thought can manifest into an intense feeling very quickly.
There is going to be a lot of talk on this record about sobriety. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten sober and I’m not trying to market or promote my sobriety. I’m trying to take that very seriously. It is part of the real shit that is in my life and it had to stop before more songs came. It seems dishonest for me not to discuss it. I still feel feelings very exponentially and would be lying to say that by getting sober or by writing a record that that cures any of it. It is a daily practice.
What are you most looking forward to musically after the pandemic has passed, and what are some things that you might do differently from having had this quiet time?
I think I am going to realize how much I miss the live experience. I think because I have been so fortunate to be able to write a bunch of music during this time, it has really fed that need. If I hadn’t been able to do it, I think I’d probably be really missing touring and being on the road. It feels weird to say but I don’t have that craving to be back out on the road. I miss performing for people.
For me personally, I could absolutely see touring a lot less and continuing to practice some semblance of stillness, whatever that means for me. More home time, I think would be healthy for me. Perhaps because I haven’t been under the delusion that touring is coming back any time soon since the beginning of this, I haven’t been constantly disappointed. I’m just trying to keep my shit together and have a healthy attitude about it and not have any expectations for what might be waiting for me down the street.
In normal times, you might find Kentucky-hearted duet the Local Honeys touring the UK or out on the road with folks like Colter Wall and Tyler Childers. But, like so many, the past year has been a paused their movement, allowing space and time to experience life in a way that most busy artists rarely get to.
Many caught wind of the group after a viral New York Times article in late 2020 about our nation’s cultural depression. But like other defendants of Appalachian people and culture, Montana Hobbs and Linda Jean Stokley, who make up the pair, have been outspoken via their music for a long time. Their new double-sided single continues a demand of accountability from big industry. “It’s a modern anthem of the American working class,” said Stokley.
BGS caught up with the Local Honeys to talk about these two songs — “Dying To Make a Living” and “Octavia Triangle” — as well as the message in their music.
BGS: In the before times, you’ve led pretty busy schedules, including multiple international tours. What have you been up to since the pandemic began?
Montana Hobbs: Well, I can tell you what we’ve be into. We’ve been in our jammies a lot! But you know, we’ve experienced probably a similar story to anybody else that has been in the gig industry. We’ll all remember it as a point in our lives and a point in our careers that was kind of sedentary, if you will. I think our story is not much different, we’ve had more time at home to focus on things that we don’t get to do on the road – like exercise, cook at home, read. At the new year we both decided that we weren’t gonna think so much about what this past year has been, but think more about what this new year is going to be for us.
Linda Jean Stokley: In 2019 we went on about five separate concert tours. So the beginning of 2020 was our last tour, we were all over the UK as well as greater Europe, on our own headlining tour but also supporting Tyler Childers. That was a huge tour, and it really took a lot out of us, so it was kind of welcoming to have a little bit of a break after that. But over this past year, we have done a few cool things. We went on the Tyler tour, we got signed to La Honda Records — that’s a pretty big deal for us. We love everything that they do, and have been constantly inspired by them. Our management and being with a label have proven so helpful, even during this time, to have someone like our manager that is so good about keeping our spirits up. Another thing that we’ve done this past year is put out a Western AFvideo, and that was a highlight. We didn’t get to do much, but what we did was really welcomed.
In a time of so much uncertainty, what inspired this new release?
LJS: We recorded those in October of 2019, and we’d been working on trying to change up our sound a bit, to make our sound bigger but not non-traditional, kind of neo-traditional. So we were thinking in 2020, how are we gonna release these songs? Then in October 2020, our friend Jimmy McCowan, who’s on one of those tracks, suddenly passed away from a heart attack. So, we talked to La Honda and asked if we could finally get these out. That’s kind of what spawned the release of this A-side/B-side single.
These songs show two perspectives on life in the coal mines: working like hell to provide for your family, while enduring personal struggles both medical and mental. What are you trying to tell the rest of the world about these Appalachian issues?
LJS: In July of 2019, there was a blockade in Harlan County, [Kentucky], and over a thousand miners in central Appalachia were out of work, because of the Blackjewel mining company. They went bankrupt, and they didn’t tell anybody. They didn’t tell any of their workers until the day of. In the middle of the day, they said, “this is your last day.” That is completely illegal. It was strange that it had to happen in Harlan County, which is so synonymous with all these bloody labor wars. To have something like this happen with one of the largest coal companies in the nation just shows that they can get away with all kinds of unlawful behavior. These people, their checks bounced. Of course that’s going towards their mortgage or rent, but it’s also going towards their medical costs, because there are so many disabled miners. We started thinking about this song more and more. We sang it a little bit, but didn’t have a need to sing it necessarily because we didn’t have anything to say. When we were on tour a lot, we would tell the story of what was going on, and put song and emotion into what’s happening, to get people to listen.
MH: To add on that, the song became more relevant to us in this time frame. It was a song that we were familiar with, via the band Foddershock, but also Rick & the Po’ Folk, Rich Kirby and his traditional band, and Pierceton Hobbs [who released his own version in 2020]. Basically, we felt like when you’re given the stage to speak on things like this, you might as well take advantage of the time and the attention that you’ve been given. Make that time worth it, and get a message that you feel is important across. When we would go over to England, which is also a very post-coal society that we didn’t know much about, we had firsthand connections where they told us stories of tragedy, how their grandfathers were miners, and so on. It made the whole history of traditional music come full circle for us, to where we had the opportunity to sing a song, but we also had the opportunity to tell a story of where we’re from and what’s happening where we are. Which is what traditional music was in its first iteration.
I know that you both, along with other musicians, visited the miner’s blockade. What was that like?
MH: We went and visited the miner’s blockade in August. We just went down there and hung out with these people, they had their entire families on the train tracks. They had little encampments set up. People like Brett Ratliff, Rich Kirby, Tanya Turner at the time worked for Appalshop, went down there with us. Son, it was so hot. It was very much like third world conditions in what’s supposed to be the greatest country.
The week before, we were at Cowan Creek Mountain Music School in Whitesburg, Kentucky. Jim McCowan has been a member of the faculty there probably as long as the school has been around. This guy in my class asked, “Have you heard the song that Jimmy’s mother wrote?” We were both very close to Jim, he was a very bright light. So I sat on a picnic table with him and said, “I heard that you do a song your mother wrote.” And I’m one of those people that’s a real sneaky recorder with my phone, and I have about a 10 or 15 minute clip of him playing this song called the “Octavia Triangle.” He had such a beautiful delivery of the song.
We were thinking of something that would pair well with “Dying To Make a Living,” which is economic hardship, being pushed under the rug. Even though this work is essential, they’re being treated less than they’re worth. So then I thought that “Octavia Triangle” completely highlighted what it is to actually live, and work, and die, and love, in the coalfields. This was a true story that happened in Pike County, Kentucky. Who’s to blame other than these harmful practices which we still practice today?
As a fellow musician from Central Appalachia, I feel like Foddershock (who wrote “Dying”) rarely get the attention or recognition they deserve. Do you have a favorite album, or a starter pack for those who have never heard the band?
LJS: I absolutely love Foddershock, I’m always trying to find their CDs. I’m waiting on WV [Hill] to send me some recordings. Obviously, I think “Dying to Make a Living” is one of the best places to start. I would also say “Eat Possum & Prosper” is one of my favorite tracks of theirs. And I really love “When Coal Was King.” There’s one that’s called “Live in a Trailer.” “Cahoots,” as well.
Do you have any new goals or ideas to try for when things turn around and we can all get back on the road?
MH: Hmm… we are ready and willin’! Open for suggestions, open for bookings… But like I said before, this is a time that we will all remember as a pause in our lives and a pause in history, even though it’s been a hell of a lot of history put into one year. We’ve been granted this time to kind of work on things, we’ve been writing a lot. It’s always been something we’ve done and tried to practice, but now it seems like it’s at the forefront of our minds. We want to be seen as not just traditional musicians, not just old-time musicians, but we wanna be known as songwriters as well. Carrying on that storytelling, and showing how I feel about what’s going in the time and place I’m from. That’s one of the biggest connectors in music in general, it’s saying you’re not alone. Like when we went to Wales, even our song “Cigarette Trees,” which is about strip mining, people would come up to us and say, “They do that here too, and we don’t like it either.”
LJS: We’re finding so many relatable things to talk about when we tour in the UK specifically. Touring has really given us a way and a platform to connect with all these people around the world that are dealing with similar situations. Every time we go anywhere, we talk to people about the whole idea of ‘saving Appalachia,’ and trying to tell people that no, we have to pay attention to the causes of poverty and suppression that are happening within our state and within the entire southeast region. We don’t need saving, and we don’t need developing — we need somebody to actually understand what is going on in our area. We’re looking forward to reconnecting with people.
This week, host Z. Lupetin talks to one of the founding members of beloved folk-rock hitmakers, The Lumineers, drummer and pianist Jeremiah Fraites. After following his heart to Italy, Jeremiah dialed into the podcast from Turin, his wife’s hometown. Alongside juggling duties as co-songwriter and performer in one of the most successful acoustic groups of the last twenty years and raising his two-year-old son, Fraites released a gorgeous instrumental record called Piano Piano this January.
Nearly fifteen years in the making, Piano Piano was created at Fraites’ former home in Denver during the height of the early COVID-19 lockdowns. His two favorite pianos lead the way, as main characters in a story that seemed to unfurl, as his wife would say in Italian, “step by step” — delicately, but with passion. First, he used a newer Steinway for the brighter, more forceful tones, and then a warmly creaky creature, that his piano teacher sarcastically named “Firewood,” for the most personal moments. Really, it’s the tiny imperfections that make this solo work shine: when you can hear the bench swaying slightly; his wife making dinner in the next room as the sustain pedal is pressed into the wood floor; when the aged instrument struggles to hammer out the final notes, but finally does; and when Fraites and the instrument seem to breathe and speak and cry out, together.
While certain smaller songs like “Departure” and “Chilly” are as intimate as fateful field recordings, other standouts like “Tokyo” and “Arrival” are more polished pieces, blooming from that same small space, but growing into masterful, orchestral, widescreen soundscapes with the help of violinist Lauren Jacobson (who often plays with The Lumineers), cellists Rubin Kodheli and Alex Waterman, and the 40-piece FAME’s Orchestra from Macedonia.
Fraites was born in New Jersey, where he grew up with Lumineers frontman Wesley Schultz. When they self-released their confessional and warm-hearted self-titled record in 2012, the two friends never imagined that they would have a chart-topping hit on their hands. Playing the scruffy bars around Denver before their fanbase expanded exponentially and their first record went triple-platinum, The Lumineers soon found themselves headlining international pop festivals, opening for U2 and Tom Petty, placing songs in The Hunger Games and Game Of Thrones, selling out Madison Square Garden (twice) and finally filling their favorite hallowed Colorado venues like Red Rocks. Before the pandemic slowed them down, The Lumineers were bringing their same acoustic spirit to a full-on arena tour coast to coast, showcasing their newest album III. If you’re reading this right now, you’ve probably found yourself singing along to their romantic, stomping ear-worms “Ho Hey” or “Ophelia” or heard them accidentally a thousand times in the last decade (both tracks have been streamed over 500 million times and counting), but all of that is paused for now.
What a perfect time for a peaceful piano record to clear our heads. As Jeremiah Fraites has gained confidence as a sought-after composer, songwriter, and unlikely pop performer, he’s given himself the space to finally create the deeply personal record he’s been hoping to share for decades.
Photo credit: Roberto Graziano Mora
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