Artist:The Lost Wayne (AKA Hunter Hoffman) Hometown: DMV (DC/Maryland/Virginia) Latest Album:Tangerine Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): Hamster, Smooch
Which artist has influenced you the most and how?
There have been, and there continues to be, so many that it’s hard to narrow it down to just one. But the artist who has had the deepest impact on me has definitely been Noah Gundersen. My sister introduced me to his music in my early 20s and I have been a massive fan ever since. His honesty and vulnerability in his writing is something I’ve always admired and been drawn to. We’re both around the same age and I felt the experiences he was singing about were lining up exactly with my life. I’ve seen him play live many times, both solo and with a full band, and you can feel the crowd just completely magnetized to him and feeling every lyric and emotion of each song. One way I like to test if a song is well written is if it’s message and gravitas holds up with just the artist and their instrument. His music is equally impactful with the fullness of produced sound or a solo acoustic set. He’s inspired me in so many ways in finding the deep truths in my songwriting and how to translate that into performing live. I could go on and on, but I feel like it’s starting to sound creepy so I’m going to stop!
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
I moved to New York to go to acting school at The Neighborhood Playhouse and in my college years I had played little open mic showcases on campus and had written a handful of songs. I had dreams of becoming a musician, but was primarily focused on acting. I set a goal for myself that I wanted to get a show playing a full set of original music, so I went to an open mic at the former coffee shop/concert venue Waltz-Astoria in Queens. Pedro Gonzalez and his wife Song were the owners, and after I played my two-song slot he asked if I wanted to perform a set that weekend, since another artist had dropped out at the last minute. All of a sudden my dream became a reality in the first few weeks of moving to the city. After I finished my set and felt the rush of baring my soul through my songs on stage, I knew this was no longer going to only be a therapeutic hobby. I’m grateful to say I’ve been able to juggle both acting and music in my adulthood and I take pride in saying I am an actor AND a musician. It’s been a wonderful ride so far.
What other art forms – literature, film, dance, painting, etc. – inform your music?
All of them. I just finished reading Rick Rubin’s book, The Creative Act: A Way Of Being, and it’s really opened me to finding inspiration everywhere. I’ve grown to appreciate how individual and subjective art is for everyone and that what I appreciate and connect to could be the complete opposite experience for someone else. So even if I don’t relate to something or “like” it, I try to keep my mind open and attempt to analyze why it doesn’t. Art helps us define who we are to ourselves, and as an artist I try to consume as much as I can, because you never know what’s going to hit you.
What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?
Steal from other artists. And not in the copyright way, but in the inspiration. Sometimes if I’m caught in a writer’s block or a creative lull in my songwriting, I get so much from learning a new song from an artist I love. Or messing with it to sound a different way and make it cater to my voice. I’m also self-taught on guitar and have relatively zero knowledge of music theory, so when I learn and practice other people’s music, I discover new chord progressions or playing styles that can be so helpful to my own songwriting.
How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me?”
I’ve written a few songs through a sort of character in mind, but inherently every song I write is a form of me. 95% of the songs I’ve written have started from me in a room with my guitar, sitting with whatever feelings or circumstances are making their way through my life, and doodling around ’til something sparks. Sometimes I’m in a sad place and out comes a corny love song, or I’m happy as a clam and I word vomit a full existential crisis, my world burning down around me. At the end of the day it’s all me, whether I’m inhabiting a character or not, I have to start with the truth of it for myself. I think it can be a great exercise to write from the perspective of a character, and I can attest it’s a lot of fun, but my favorite songs I’ve written are the ones that are uncomfortably me. My experiences and stories are the only things I can honestly share, and if I can write a song that impacts someone the way so many artists have impacted me, then hopefully I’ll find myself in the ballpark of making something meaningful.
Artist:Abby Hamilton Hometown: Nicholasville, Kentucky Latest Album: #1 Zookeeper (of the San Diego Zoo)
Which artist has influenced you the most?
It’s always been Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash. My mom used to have us stop before a Myrtle Beach or Gatlinburg vacation growing up to have us pick out a book. At 12 years old I resented this greatly. But, as luck would have it, I landed on a June Carter Cash biography, Anchored in Love. Realizing I had known this music my whole life, I saw so much of myself in her story and it led me down one of the richest love affairs of discographies I’ve ever experienced. The music and life stories of Johnny Cash and June Carter have always been a north star for my writing, performing, and presence as a person and a writer. I adore them. It also opened the doors to the world of country and folk music.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
Speaking of Johnny Cash, I remember being in college and discovering that Kris Kristofferson had written “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” not Johnny. I had no idea people could be songwriters and not the artist. It was like this huge “aha!” moment in my life. I never really felt like I was good at anything growing up. Not very high achieving in school and not super passionate about anything. Until that moment. I thought to myself, “If I can write songs, I will be happy. No matter who sings them.” And that’s what happened!
When I started writing here in Kentucky, I quickly realized everyone who made music here wrote their songs. A beautiful legacy from these parts, but it made me shift my attention to performing them. Thinking maybe, “If I sing these songs, someone might want to sing them, too.” This lead to a beautiful and unexpected journey with performing and falling in love with singing and my band. Don’t know how I got here really, but that’s the most I know.
Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?
Man, I think I’d take a bowl of Vodka Pasta and Bruce Springsteen. Those two always hit. And make it spicy.
What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?
There’s so many things. I’m lucky to be surrounded by so many friends, family, and influences who know me and tell me the truth. The biggest thing has always been staying true to myself. Protect my tribe and be honest with those closest to me. CLICHES I know. But, it’s true.
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?
Anytime I’m in Eastern Kentucky on a dewey spring morning, I’m writing like a fiend. TRULY. If I can catch a sunrise and see the spiders making webs in the grass in the morning, I’ve always finished a song. Something that feels like a retreat from the real world always inspires me. No matter the season.
There’s no group around who either looks or sounds like The Shindellas, a trio who’ve shown they can charm audiences in every setting – from a New Year’s Eve party hosted by Nashville’s top urban contemporary radio station, 92Q, to a Grand Ole Opry crowd on a Tuesday night. Kasi Jones, Tamara Chauniece, and Stacy Johnson exude confidence, charm, and poise with very specific and thoughtful outlooks not only about their music, but also the messages they want their fans to get from their songs.
“We embrace the term girl group,” Kasi said, when asked if they found the term outdated or demeaning when used in 21st century conversation. “We’re always been about empowering women and girls, expressing strength and unity in our songs about love and life, and telling the truth. We view ourselves as expressing the term in every positive sense.”
They’ve been operating since 2017 in the town of Franklin, 20 miles south of Nashville. The trio arrived to become part of Weirdo Workshop, a company started by the writing/production duo of Claude Kelly and Chuck Harmony, Louis York. Their versatility and flexibility in working with artists – such as Mary J. Blige, Miley Cyrus, and Bruno Mars – and in particular women artists, all who come from vastly different places, has worked well. The Shindellas credit Kelly and Harmony with, among other things, providing them their unique name.
“It was definitely Claude and Chuck’s idea,” added Tamara. “We wanted a name that sounded fresh and generated excitement, as well as one that didn’t sound like anything else out there at the time.”
The Shindellas also emphasize and celebrate the collective, both as performers and songwriters. There is no lead vocalist by definition and each one doesn’t even consider that possibility. This is the ultimate trio, one whose harmonies and polish are pinpoint, yet there’s no hint of the tedium or boredom that might come from a group who’s overly rehearsed. The emphasis and focus on originality in performance, ethos, look, and viewpoint is also a reflection of the fact that all three have their own backstories of dissatisfaction – with things that they’ve witnessed and/or encountered, in terms of the music business. Stacy Johnson once worked with a family-operated music company in Chicago, before moving on to doing vocals on dance tracks, plus a brief tenure in a girl group where she quickly departed over concerns about how she was being asked to present herself. She was intrigued by Harmony’s idea of creating a trio whose members valued respect in every aspect of their treatment and presentation.
Jones had seen some of the worse aspects of predator behavior in Los Angeles after she’d previously done musical theater and booked her own overseas tours as a contemporary soul artist. When she made a visit to the Workshop and was impressed by the treatment and attitudes, she knew she’d found what she wanted. Chauniece had been a child gospel singer working on the Texas circuit with her mother managing her. She got a temporary boost in exposure and stature from being on the fifth season of The Voice, but was uncomfortable with the notion of getting lost on a major label. Both the Workshop and the trio’s other two members proved an ideal fit.
The Shindellas have definitely been expanding their fan base and earning more acclaim over the past few years. Their 2019 EP Genesis created some buzz and more followed their 2021 full-length debut, Hits That Stick Like Grits. In addition, their elegant and elaborate stage shows drew raves for being classy, yet also enticing. But their latest, Shindo, which was released in October, has given them the industry boost always vital for acts that are still building a base. It’s given them their first radio hit with “Last Night Was Good For My Soul,” an energetic, superbly sung party tune that reached the Top 10 on the Billboard Adult R&B airplay chart. It was also the first one where they got an assist from an outside partner, as the Nashville indie label Thirty Tigers helped propel the single forward.
Shindo is also a great spotlight for the group’s stylistic versatility. While their links to such vintage girl groups as The Supremes and The Pointer Sisters can clearly be heard, they’ve also got their own vibrant, engaging, and special sound.
For instance, the single “Up 2 You” demonstrates their ability to excel within a groove-dominated work, while “Kiss N’ Tell” has an edge in its discretion-demanding narrative, and “Juicy” has a sassy, naughty tone. The “Juicy” video also generated plenty of attention for its inclusion of Kasi Jones reading Angela Davis’ volume, Women, Race & Class.
Still, while they never expressly embrace the notion of a lead or front vocalist, at times, some songs do spotlight individual members talents. Jones’ facility with verbal improvisation emerges in “Last Night Was Good For My Soul” as one example. Yet, the notion of any one vocalist exiting the unit – in the manner that Diana Ross did the Supremes or like Bonnie Pointer departing her sisters – doesn’t seem on the horizon.
While Nashville has long had a reputation for not exactly welcoming artists of color that don’t fit into very specific genres or formats, the Shindellas are quick to praise Music City as being highly supportive of their music. “Nashville has welcomed us with open arms,” Johnson says. “We’ve never been treated with anything other than warmth and respect, and that’s whether we’re talking about the Opry, urban contemporary radio, fans, it’s just been wonderful.”
The trio has some ambitious plans and hopes for 2024 and beyond, our interview being completed just before the end of 2023. Most notably, they have some potential European and international tours upcoming. “I’d love to see us get some of our music into some films down the line,” Johnson continues. “We’d love to do more shows around Nashville,” chimes in Tamara. “Especially the Ryman, and we’re also thrilled to be appearing at the New Year’s Eve Party sponsored by 92Q!”
“We also are going to be doing more songwriting and collaborating [in 2024],” concluded Jones. “We really want to not only build a lasting legacy as performers, but also contribute as songwriters. We’ve all got backgrounds in other styles and we bring those influences into our performances. We’ve also got ideas for songs that we’ve been working on. I predict that people are really going to be pleased with what they hear from us, and we’re determined to make 2024 an even bigger year for the Shindellas.”
(Editor’s Note: Musician, forager, and ‘Can I Eat This?‘ host Sean Rowe recently chatted with singer-songwriter and instrumentalist Hannah Read for BGS about her new instrumental fiddle album, The Fungi Sessions, which was inspired by her mycologist father, who passed away in 2020. Their conversation has been lightly edited for flow and clarity.)
Sean Rowe: This is really cool for me, because obviously BGS had secret reasons for pairing us together and I think they made a good choice. I feel like we have some interesting things in common…
Let’s start with your origin. You were born in Scotland, correct? Whereabouts?
Hannah Read: Yep. I was born in Edinburgh. It’s a gorgeous city. I mean, it really is. I was born in Edinburgh, grew up there, and then I also lived on the Isle of Eigg, which is a wee island off the west coast of Scotland. When we lived there – I lived there with my mom and my sister – there were 60 people living on the island. Now it’s up to 120. It’s this incredible, incredible island, and that’s where I really got into music. We lived there full time when I was seven in a little house completely off the grid with no running water or electricity. Music just became my thing at that point.
That was kind of my Edinburgh – Edinburgh to Eigg and back. We were back and forth a lot until I was 18.
SR: I definitely want to talk about this new album, but before we get into that, can you tell me a little bit about the music you grew up with and also how it changed or evolved when you moved to the States?
HR: I grew up playing trad music. I’m heavily immersed in that scene. As I’m sure you’re well aware, the Scottish trad scene is thriving and has been thriving forever – at least in my lifetime. I was very involved in that. I was also very involved in the Scottish jazz scene. That was a big part of my upbringing.
My mum played music growing up. She played cello and we were around a lot of music. My dad was not a musician, but he listened. His record collection was absolutely bonkers and he had hitchhiked across America three or four times in the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, and was super into all the folk revival stuff. I was hearing a lot of that growing up, a lot of California folk stuff. It’s funny that I’m living here now, but a big part of my upbringing was listening to a lot of that stuff, alongside going and seeing any acts that were coming over from America, doing the circuit over there. [At] about 15 or 16 years old, I got super into jazz singing. And actually, I went to Paris and studied jazz vocals for a year when I was 18. I did like a one-year diploma there. Then I went over to Berklee College of Music, because my underlying thing, even when I was doing that, was that fiddle music was my true calling.
SR: And why the fiddle? What does it do for you?
Hannah Read: Oh, the fiddle. When I play the fiddle – I was actually playing yesterday and I had put it into a different tuning, it’s like F B, F B, this tuning that I’d just heard about a couple of nights ago. It doesn’t always do this, but the way it just kind of evokes so much, it’s such a deep resonance in my body, basically. I think I felt that my whole life when I’ve been playing the fiddle, being able to play with people, the community. The fiddle has opened up so many doors for me, it’s just become my whole community.
A couple of weeks ago, I was in Louisiana at Blackpot Festival. There’s this fiddle player called Rosie Newton who lives up in Ithaca and she was down there. She’s a great Cajun and old-time player and we hadn’t actually played tunes before, but we sat down and kind of like locked our knees [together] and played tunes. The way she plays, I was so interested to actually sit with her and play music. As you know, when you are playing just locked [in], there’s nothing in my mind as magical as when a fiddle on fiddle groove together.
SR: Aside from music, I’m also a forager. I have been for many years. I know that your father was a mycologist, how did you get into that world? What are some of your early memories around it? Your dad, I assume maybe he took you out on field trips, showing you things. Tell me about it.
HR: We were around it from when I was born, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, obviously. You know, things from the salt shaker and pepper shaker in our house [were decorated] with little mushrooms. There was mushroomy stuff all over the walls – not in like a, “Bleh, we’re surrounded by mushrooms!” way, it was subtle, but it was very much there.
Dad had a lab at Edinburgh University. So when we would spend our weekends going to dad’s house, we would spend our weekends running around the labs at Edinburgh University. [I remember] the distinct smell of being in the biology lab at the university and checking out the new microscopes.
SR: Did you think it was weird? Compared to what your friends were doing or was it strange to you?
HR: My dad was so passionate, he was contagious. I think his passion for mycology, mushrooms, and his work has been a massive influence on me and my work and the passion that I have towards music and what I do. I mean, it’s an obsession, he was obsessed. Completely obsessed. And I am pretty obsessed with what I do, as well.
I remember going down to Newcastle, dad had some colleagues down there, friends down there, that we would go on forages in the woods with. He would also come over to Eigg and we would go out and look at mushrooms. We were always going off and getting chanterelles and puffballs. It was just what we did. He was always pointing them out. However, I think because it was Dad’s thing, and it was [always] around us, I never took the time to go, “Hmm, I’m going to learn more about this myself,” because I was surrounded by it. When people would talk about being into foraging or mushrooms suddenly I’m like, “Oh yeah, me too!” But, until dad passed away – three and a half years ago, at the beginning of the pandemic – and suddenly mushrooms. It almost felt like dad died and suddenly all this whole world opened up for me, because everybody was stuck at home and able to delve into these curiosities like fungi and being out in nature more, it became this thing. I was like, “Oh, this actually is my thing.”
But I don’t know that much about it. That was a funny bit. You know, the Fantastic Fungi film coming out and all of the buzz around that, and I actually did not realize until the last couple of months that my dad was friends with all of these people and I had met them all. I had met Paul Stamets. Dad was the president of the Royal Mycological Society – also the British Mycological Society. He was president, so he actually organized the 2010 world meeting which happened in Edinburgh at Usher Hall. All of these people came and I met them all then.
I played at the opening and closing event and I was around all of these people, but I never put two and two together until a couple of years ago when these films were coming out and there was all the buzz and until the album was about to come out. I had one of Dad’s colleagues say, “I’ll send the album to Paul Stamets and Merlin Sheldrake” – and all these other people.
So, over this time it had crossed my mind, “I’d like to learn more about this stuff.” I didn’t have the knowledge and I can’t quite talk about mushrooms – because there’s so many people that know way more than me, I feel underqualified – but anytime it came up and someone was like, “I do a lot of foraging,” and I’d [respond], “Oh, you do? I don’t, but I did.”
In the spring, the day after the anniversary of my dad passing, I was contacted by a mycologist at Edinburgh University called Dr. Edward Wallace. The topic of the email just said “Fungi music?” I was like, “What?” It just said, “I would love to commission you to write an album of fungi-inspired music. What do you think?”
Right away I was like, “Yes, this sounds amazing.” Turns out he’s about my age, he is also a fiddle player, and had been to see me play and I’d announced, “I’m playing a tune called ‘Waltz to a Fun Guy,’ which was this tune I wrote for my dad” – which was just a simple little waltz that was on my old-time record.
[Wallace] heard that and he thought, “I would love to hear more of this stuff with more of a focus.” That’s really where it came from. There was a grant from, the Welcome Trust, which is a trust in London, and they funded a full album. They gave me the opportunity to do whatever I wanted. It’s been a really, really interesting process. It came out of nowhere and it actually came at a perfect time… I gave myself a week in May to write the whole thing, because I felt that it was really important for this album to feel organic and feel really grounded and capture a moment in time.
SR: Putting limitations on yourself can sometimes really boost creativity – and art itself, I think, by the limitations. I think that has a lot to do with the kind of thought that’s involved, the analytical side of things can wreak havoc when overdone. When I record, I will record in completely new environments with all new people that I haven’t met before. Could be a total disaster, but it’s the act of creating these limitations that I think make for a kind of danger, it’s a kind of unknown territory. But that can also open things up in a way. It also makes me think of foraging.
This is kind of funny, but I have this kind of superstition where I always joke to myself that if I prepare too much to go out foraging, I’m not going to find what I’m looking for. It’s those moments when I’m really not even looking for that thing, or I’m open to whatever happens, that I find something good – and then I might not even have anywhere to put the stuff to take it back home. There’s a sort of magic in that. The limitations, that’s a really interesting idea all around I think.
HR: I totally agree with that.
SR: When you were approached with this idea for this album, did you immediately think, “Oh yeah, instrumental”? Or did you have to work this out in your brain, whether or not you were going to write songs or do it instrumental?
HR: Great question. My initial reaction was [all over the place]. I just had so many ideas, off the bat. I remember calling my sister after getting that email being like, “I can do this– Oh, could be a children’s album–, Oh, it could be this– Oh, it should be accessible for this…” But it came together slowly more and more. I got a bit more anxious about it and I was like, “Actually, Let’s keep it simple.” Nobody’s asked me for anything. I can do whatever I want here. Nobody is asking me for songs. Nobody is asking me for tunes. Then I was like, “I don’t actually know enough to write songs that will feel authentic.” It feels almost icky to me, writing about something that’s a very precious thing that I actually don’t have the knowledge to back up.
So I thought, keep it simple. I’m going to write, I’m going to just capture each tune. I want to capture a feel of some sort of different species. I actually reached out to one of my dad’s colleagues, Pat Hickey, who he used to work with at Edinburgh. He’s a scientist still based in Edinburgh, but not at the university. He and my dad used to make all these beautiful videos of mycelium growing, time lapse videos of them growing under these incredible microscopes. I asked him if he could send me a bunch of stuff and I just started watching those and seeing what came up.
If it was going to be lyrics and if stuff was going to naturally come that way, great! But it wasn’t. It was just instrumentals. I thought, “Great. This is going to be an instrumental record.” Volume 2 might have lyrics, but it also might not. I might collaborate with a poet, somebody who does have more knowledge on this stuff.
I think it would have been a very interesting, different thing if I had gone down the lyric route – and that door is not closed. I’m super keen to, I think that would involve collaboration. I would love to work with someone who does actually know a lot about it.
SR: Before we go through a few of the tracks, the first thing I’m very curious to know is about the interludes, because the little bit I read about them was that they include dirt and bark decomposing. How were those sounds acquired? It’s very cool.
Hannah Read: My friend, Charlie Van Kirk, lives up in Round Pond, Maine. He and I have been collaborating for years, but I really wanted the album to have something else – rather than just instruments. I wanted the listener to be taken on a journey.
I feel like there’s millions of fiddle tune records out there, but I’m glad that you went for a walk and listened to it. For me, [the goal was] having tracks and links that pull you down to the underworld or the undergrowth, where your imagination can go wherever it wants to go. Like the sounds of leaves. I gave Charlie full creative control with this. He’s a percussionist as well. I just wanted him to just go for it and see where it took him and just break up the album [with] little breathers. I really trust him as a collaborator and his musical instincts. The next album, I think might have significantly more of those sounds, I think they’re a crucial part of the album.
SR: If it were a film, they would be like a sort of filter on a film. A certain color that sort of wraps all of the songs together.
Let’s go through the tracks. When “Silverphae” comes on I get this ominous sense from it, but not a sinister kind of ominous. It’s more like a mysterious kind of feeling, but also inviting, like there’s something to see here. “Panellus Dancer” is the next track, that’s the one that’s in waltz [time], so there’s obviously a connection with dance. Are you referring to the glowing mushroom in this?
HR: There’s this book, which was my dad’s, but there’s a whole section on bioluminescent mushrooms and there are videos that go with it. I’m actually going to share some of the videos online soon. They’re so beautiful, you’ll love them. They’re just amazing.
SR: Totally get that. It kind of reminds me of jellyfish actually, in a way – the grace of it all. And that was another feeling I got from it, there’s a mischievous that came up for me, a playfulness to it, and also joy. I love that one.
I thought “Stinkhorn” was funny, because I do have an experience with that mushroom and I think for most people, the smell comes to mind. But it’s such a celebratory song, I thought it was funny because what immediately came to my mind was kids smelling the stinkhorn and running to go get their friends. You know how kids do that? They love to have each other smell something that smells horrible. That was the image I was picturing, but why so happy about stinkhorn? Tell me about it.
HR: “Stinkhorn” is a bit of a curve ball in the record, because I know what a stinkhorn looks like. I know that they can be slightly repulsive. I just find them funny. They’re funny things. And I also just think the name “Stinkhorn” is a great old-time [tune] name. I was watching stinkhorn mycelium and it’s so beautiful, it’s absolutely stunning. These videos, it’s absolutely beautiful, it’s kind of the opposite of what the stinkhorn physical model looks like.
SR: I felt like it had to be some kind of comedy in there – and it is funny too. It makes me think of the phallic nature of a lot of mushrooms. It’s almost like nature is joking around, like it ran out of ideas to you know to for a unique design. So it’s like I’ll just use this. I got a kick out of that one.
The next song is definitely a departure from the last one, but I was curious about the title, “Celia.” Is that someone’s name or is that related to mushrooms somehow?
HR: That was related to mycelium!
SR: I wasn’t even paying attention to the title of the album when I was listening to it, but I wrote down a couple of things and one of them was “interconnectedness.” Also the mechanistic imagery of nature. In other words, these sort of woven tapestries – mycelium is like exactly what I’m describing here.
I remember I had a psilocybin experience a while back – I know a lot of people share this kind of thing too – where you’re seeing a lot of connectedness in things, like gears in nature. That’s what was going on in my head during “Celia.” So well done.
The next one, “Valley Fever,” from this I got a deep sense of solitude, almost like trying to shut out the noise of life and look closer. Which, is very much a common theme that comes over me in nature, but I felt like this one was powerful. It was like drawing me into a quiet that the other songs hadn’t necessarily done as much.
HR: That is very interesting. This one was written to create a lone feeling. It feels very Western. I was drawing from a few images that I’d been given that were quite orange and they felt like the desert. I was rolling with that. I was writing it [imagining] Utah, and a horse, like just a lone cowboy riding on a horse.
But the more I got into it, the more I was struggling with the name. Struggling, because that [western place] was where I’d been taken with it. I was like, “How does this link in? Is this random?” And then Edward [Wallace] was like, “There is a fungus that is only found in the desert, and it’s called Valley Fever.”
SR: That’s so cool.
HR: I feel like it does have a very lonely feeling and it feels sparse. And it feels sparse in the way we did it just fiddle and guitar and upright bass.
SR: I love that. This next song, “Nick’s,” is my favorite. I’m assuming that’s your father’s name? Nick? To me, this is the most melancholy song on the record. For me, melancholy is a different kind emotion than depression or sadness. It’s not those things. There’s a kind of sadness in it, but it’s almost like an acceptance at the same time. There’s a real beauty in that collective feeling, those things that work together to create that feeling of melancholy. It has a transient quality to it, too. It’s almost like a storm that comes in and is only there for a moment and then blows out, you know?
HR: God, well you nailed it on the head! That’s the one that I wrote the last day in the studio. I listened to everything else that we had done and I was like, “We’re missing this.” We need– I need this feeling. And that was the feeling. A feeling of a cathartic piece at the end of the album.
Because, it is a tribute for me. I wouldn’t have just made a mushroom-related album. I wouldn’t have come up with that if it hadn’t been for my dad. It wouldn’t be interesting. Why should I do that?
I didn’t know the rest of the order of the album at this point, but I knew I wanted to end the album with “Nick’s” and leave the listener with that [melancholy, cathartic] feeling. Because I feel like there’s also a hopefulness in that last track. It’s a very fragile piece for me.
The album came out 20th of October and on the 19th, the day before it released, I played the album at a launch show in Edinburgh. Played the whole thing top-to-bottom with the banjo player, Michael Starkey, who’s on the record, and Patrick Hickey, who I was talking about before, did a video for every track.
By the time it got to that last piece, it was so emotional. That piece is incredibly emotional to play, but it feels so important at that point, at the end of the whole suite. I was shocked and actually overwhelmed and very surprised to feel that way in the live performance. Suddenly, the emotions, I was trying to keep it together, but that’s what music is. That’s why I do this.
I’m really happy to hear that you enjoyed it, that’s a very special tune for me.
SR: I can imagine. I’m sure your father would be really proud of that – and of the whole record, but especially that one. Such a beautiful melody and you really captured the feeling.
Photo Credit: Sean Rowe by Joe Navas; Hannah Read by Samuel James Taylor.
Artist:Zach Russell Hometown: Caryville, Tennessee Latest Album:Where The Flowers Meet The Dew (out December 1)
Which artist has influenced you the most – and how?
I’ve always looked up to Willie Nelson. In my opinion, he is the top tier as far as “artists” go. He wrote many great songs, but wasn’t against recording others’ great songs. His work is of substance and quality, but catchy and with mass appeal. He ebbed and flowed with the styles of the times, but it never felt inauthentic. He had success in the pop realm, then went back to Texas and started the outlaw movement. He has released 100 studio albums. He is still touring at 90 years old. He has a massive marijuana company.
As he said at the very beginning of his Yesterday’s Wine album, “The voice of Imperfect Man must now be made manifest and I have been selected as the most likely candidate.” I mean, come on. That’s as cool as it gets.
What other art forms – literature, film, dance, painting, etc. – inform your music?
I am a big fan of literature, especially Appalachian authors like Lee Smith, Amy Greene, Silas House, and Wendell Berry, but my favorite being John Steinbeck, a California native. I believe reading good literature keeps my mind’s eye in good shape and subconsciously strengthens my sense for imagery.
A song can be seen like a book. Though, in a song you don’t get hundreds of pages to make your point. You get three and a half minutes, some 32ish lines, to get across a story or feeling. You can’t waste a single word. Each line needs to fracture out in a hundred different directions once it enters the listeners mind. I don’t think I ever would have gotten that had it not been for good literature.
How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?
Nothing against characters in songs, but I wouldn’t create one to hide behind. If I wanted to hide something I wouldn’t write a song about it. Art is largely about bravery.
If I cried and that is an important part of the story, I’ll say that I cried. Sometimes things aren’t meant to be taken literally, though. Sometimes they are meant to be seen mythically, meaning whether it’s true or not is not what is important. But no, never to hide.
What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?
Be kind and be a good hang. Being fun to be around and a nice person will get you gigs over more talented players. I didn’t understand that at first, but now that I hire musicians I get it. You spend a lot more time sharing space with people than you do playing together.
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?
I spend a good amount of time thinking about my local world: All the local trees and wildlife, the Clinch River and the waterways that feed it, when things bloom, what eats what, and the general way things tend to go. I think if you pay enough attention to the natural world you could accidentally learn all kinds of secret stuff. I believe I have. I’m not really sure what, but things are different now. And I don’t believe it’s any coincidence that it was only after I moved back home to the mountains of East Tennessee that people started paying attention to what I was doing. Maybe it makes it easier to know where things wanna go, or what comes next.
(Editor’s Note: This interview first appeared in full on Basic Folk. Listen on BGS or wherever you get podcasts. The following has been lightly edited for flow and clarity.)
Jobi Riccio has only begun to scratch the surface of what they have to offer on their debut album, Whiplash. The songwriting is centered around self discovery and mourning past lives, laid alongside super-smart country and pop melodies. Our hero grew up an outdoor kid amongst the woods of Red Rocks Parks Amphitheatre in Colorado.
A strong bluegrass community encircled her playing from a very young age in a way that encouraged her to pursue music as a career. She spent time in Boston attending Berklee College of Music, nestled in the folk community centered around the historic venue Club Passim. March 2020 hit. Jobi had to leave her newfound community and found herself back in her childhood bedroom.
While wrestling with all the complications of finding herself and her place in the world, they were letting go of their childhood and the sense of grounding that came with it. Eventually, they made their way to Asheville, North Carolina to work on Whiplash.
In the studio, she took her time making the album and discovered that indeed, she had a strong sense of vision for the music. The trust of her collaborators allowed her to trust in herself and create an album that is turning heads and making Jobi Riccio one of the most exciting young songwriters of 2023.
BGS: Thank you so much for being on Basic Folk.
Jobi Riccio: Thank you for having me.
Alright, let’s start. I wanted to talk about identity and give you the opportunity to talk about your identity, like how do you identify pronouns, orientation, any of that stuff that we want to address.
JR: Yeah, I use she/they pronouns. I identify as queer and identity has been something that feels like it’s been important and very complicated for me. It feels like something that I have spoken about and made a part of my career, and now I’m kind of feeling, a little bit, like it’s become too much of a focus in my career, actually.
It’s funny, because I was listening to your other podcast that [you do], I can’t remember–
Yes! I was like, you’ll know the person to plug – and I’m so sorry to Why We Write.
It’s based on actually something that Lizzie No was saying. I just really resonated with something that she said, which was it’s about who is asking those questions of me. It can feel like a fine line. It’s kind of “cool” right now to be a queer artist or a Black artist or an artist of color in the folk space.
When you’re with your community, that feels one way, or with people who are truly great. And then when you’re with people who it just seems like they need to check that box. It’s so obvious and it’s so painful and it feels like a betrayal of yourself. And [Lizzie] put it a lot more eloquently than all that, but if we’re really going down the discussion of identity, it’s important to me that I am open with my identity, but I also feel like there have been times where it’s been so hyper-focused on. In a way that it’s like, “Did you even listen to any of my songs or did you know what I mean?”
I really enjoyed that answer. Doing these interviews, sometimes I feel like I’m gonna ask and I think that the interview is gonna go one way or a question is gonna go one way and it goes the complete opposite way. I just get to enjoy the ride.
You are from Morrison, Colorado, which is outside of Denver – the same place as Red Rocks Parks and Amphitheatre. You were an outdoor kid. How do you think your early experience in nature has impacted the person you became?
I think that it’s something that I really value and need and it’s a processing tool for me, being out in nature. It’s almost equivalent to songwriting and writing in my journal. It’s honestly super hard here in Nashville, because I don’t feel like I can get that, in the way that I used to be able to walk to a hiking trail five minutes from my house. I was absolutely supremely spoiled with outdoor access as a kid. [I didn’t] know any better. Like, there’s going to come a time where you’re going to live somewhere the nearest mountains are two and a half hours away. That is rough. It’s something I have to really intentionally build into my life now.
I think that nature heavily informs me as a person. Musically, I feel like it shows up in my lyrics [and] images from home, talking about coyotes and cactus and etc. I feel like it’s so intrinsic to who I am as a person.
So nature ruined you.
For real. The nature ruined me. Colorado ruined me.
There has always been this strong draw to music for you – country radio, your parents and sister’s collection of music, and also making music on your own. Can you set the scene for what music looked like in your house? And when did you get a grasp on your own taste in music?
My parents definitely – we had like a home stereo and a big collection of CDs and I spent a lot of time just sort of putzing around my house as a little kid, opening cabinets, and looking at things and opening the encyclopedia and reading. I don’t know if anyone else feels like a really intrinsic part of childhood was just looking at things.
The CD collection in like, a big wicker basket was definitely a huge one for me. They felt like little gifts. I could open up the CD and then there was this extra thing I could pull out and there were liner notes and lyrics and I could read along. That was really big for me, because I was always really interested in lyrics.
My dad’s a huge Bruce Springsteen fan. We love the Boss and sometimes we can’t understand the Boss. And like, his lyrics are wonderful, too. I really feel like that was pretty formative to me, looking through my parents’ CDs and my sister’s CDs as well. My oldest sister had like a clear, hot pink, very early 2000s lockbox thing that she kept her CDs in. I very vividly remember going into her room and stealing CDs – The Killers, Coldplay, A Rush of Blood to the Head was a big one for me, Sheryl Crow, Tuesday Night Music Club, Yellow Ocean Avenue. Then like Emmylou Harris, Bruce Springsteen, Linda Ronstadt, the Eagles, James Taylor.
There is a strong bluegrass community where you’re from. You found it at an early age, playing mandolin when you were like eight or nine years old. Since then you’ve sought out musical community, so what did you learn from that first musical community?
The bluegrass community was a big part of feeling supported for me in music. I was always a kid who sang and was like, the girl with a good voice in like my elementary school class or whatever, but I didn’t see myself as a musician until I really started playing mandolin. I had a teacher and he was super supportive and was like, “You’re really great at instruments, too.”
I feel like the bluegrass community in my hometown took me seriously even though I was a little kid running around at RockyGrass – and by “a little kid” I mean 16. I didn’t go to my first bluegrass festival until I was a teenager. I would go and sit and jam with adults and be taken seriously. I really looked up to [those who were] offering their support to me, that was immeasurable to [growing] my own self confidence at that age.
I mean, I was so insecure at like 15, 16. The first year I ever went to RockyGrass, which sort of became my home festival, I didn’t even go out and play with anyone. I just sat in my camper with my mom, because I was so scared and so nervous and having trouble with confidence. The next year, I was out like playing every night ’til like 2 or 3 a.m.
That’s a huge shift!
Yeah. I feel like community and music– I mean, no musician is an island. We’re nothing without the musicians who came before us and those who’ve supported us. Sometimes I look back on that time and wonder if I hadn’t gotten that nod in that jam from that older kid who was really good, who I thought was awesome; or from that artist who I worshipped, who told me I had a beautiful voice; or I had shared one of my songs with them, and they were encouraging of me writing. I wonder if I would have taken it this far?
Then I got to be in a really beautiful community space working at Club Passim in college, too. That also further helped bolster my confidence, especially playing solo. Because – as you know, as also somebody who worked there in a much different capacity – it’s very much like a solo listening room, singer-songwriter space.
I play solo [a lot] now on tour, because I can’t afford to bring out a band. I feel like I really garnered some valuable skills watching other people like Mark Erelli and Lori McKenna play solo at Passim and also having to do that myself, learning how to speak about the songs I had written and not be painfully awkward, but doing that in the loving embrace of that room.
You’ve talked about Sheryl Crow and The Chicks as having a huge impact on you. You picked up the mandolin after you first heard Nickel Creek – can you talk more about the influence Chris Thile and Sara and Sean Watkins had on you?
So, I first heard Nickel Creek on the radio on KBCO, which is like the AAA station.
Hell yeah, that’s a huge station. That’s where AAA was born!
Where AAA was born, famously, yes! That was my local radio station that I listened to as a kid. And they would play “Smoothie Song” by Nickel Creek. This was around the same time that I heard the Home album by The Chicks. I was listening to Top 40 country music and also hearing mandolin here and there. It’s so strange, because I don’t play the mandolin anymore. It’s just something I’m not interested in now – it makes me almost kind of sad to think of how this was such a big part of my life.
Then I really pivoted – and it’s like, I’ll never say never, but yeah, I started playing mandolin when I was 15, I wanted to play mandolin when I was about eight or nine years old, because that was when we got Why Should the Fire Die on CD as a family. When I started opening up the CD and reading the booklet and listening – that album is so cool, because there’s a little bit of almost a pop-punk thing to some of the songs, like “Somebody More Like You.” That was so of-the-time and I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of that.
Being introduced to this new palette of instruments that I really hadn’t heard played in this way. I was familiar with bluegrass to some extent, but it like bluegrass for me and my like angsty little 12-year-old self. And, you know, everybody’s angsty selves at any age. That struck such a chord in me…
And Pavement’s super emo! “Spit On a Stranger,” right?
Yeah, that’s it.
I loved that album, too. They were all older than me, but I didn’t really know that either because, like, they’re pretty young on the CD case. They’re probably [around] my older sister’s age, who is now 28. They’re not that close in age to me, but I did feel a kindred-ness that I feel like a lot of roots artists talk about, hearing them and the Chicks and being like, “Oh, this is cool! This is of the moment.” They’re incorporating sounds that we like from other genres, which is really what I think I’m trying to get with the whole pop-punk thing, though I know that can be kind of a “dirty” word, like pop country. I don’t think it should be, I don’t think any genre word should be.
And I definitely had like a three month period where I was like, “I’m in love with Chris Thile. I’m going to marry him.” That was a little, you know, short lived, but it was strong. His high, angelic voice really spoke to my prepubescent soul.
That’s so sweet.
You’re like, “I don’t know what to say about that!”
Thank you for sharing. No, it turns out it was Sara Watkins the whole time!
Palmyra is one of those bands you discover and can’t help but continue to come back to. They are not easily forgotten. They write lyrics that are poetic while being relatable – a duality that is not easy to accomplish.
The musicality of these three highly skilled instrumentalists – Teddy, Manoa, and Sasha – is strong and their energy is quirky, fun, and engaging. Lately, they’ve been touring all over the East Coast, recording, working with artists like Liv Greene and Jobi Riccio, who was previously featured on our column. If you can’t tell yet, the queer music industry is incredibly small and interconnected!
Palmyra uses their innovative songwriting and performance skills to transform traditional folk instruments and three-part harmonies into something you’ve never heard before. We hope you enjoy our Out Now interview featuring Palmyra.
(Editor’s Notes: Interview answers supplied by Sasha Them)
Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?
Among my absolute favorite things about our touring over the last few years are the moments that we get to share stages with other queer artists. Liv Greene is a personal favorite mine; all of their songs exist in their own world of brilliance and masterful craft. Brittany Ann Tranbaugh has songs that absolutely wreck me. Another artist that’s constantly on repeat in the van for us is Brennan Wedl! Their song “Bag of Bones” is one of the most incredible songs I have ever heard and turns me into a pulp every single time I revisit it.
For anyone reading this who might not be out of the closet, were there any specific people, musicians, or resources that helped you find yourself as a queer individual?
Yes! I am an out-and-proud queer person now, but it took quite a while to settle into the person I am today. There are so many artists that helped move the needle for me; particularly the abundance of queer and trans folks I connected with online during the lockdown. Backxwash is top of the list for me; she’s a killin’ rapper and producer based out of Canada and her music helped me to understand that as artists we can channel complicated emotions and inner turmoil to create something empowering and badass and beautiful.
What are your release and touring plans for the next year?
Touring has been our full time job for two-and-a-half years now, and we plan on continuing to hit the road in full force in 2024. Our hope is to branch out to some new regions and cities, and I am sure we’ll be visiting all of our favorite places along the East Coast, from Maine to Georgia. Now that I say that, I’m realizing that, as a band, we kind of follow the Appalachian Trail in our tour routing…
We’ve got two more singles coming out this year, and are planning on putting out a few projects in 2024. I am so excited to share the music we’ve been working on.
This year, you’ve been sharing stages with bands like Watchhouse, playing festivals, and touring all over the East Coast of the U.S. What has that been like for you?
This year has definitely been our wildest one yet. Some of the experiences we’ve had, like opening for Watchhouse, have been so surreal to me. It feels like the work we’ve been putting in for so long has started to pay off in very real ways. Getting to play Newport Folk Festival is one of the highest honors any of us have ever had and it is beyond cool to get to connect with folks all over just by doing the thing we all love most – playing and writing songs.
What does your songwriting process look like? You have incredibly strong lyrics that are both relatable and poetic. Do you map out the structure and content of the song first? Do you think about song structure and tools like prosody, lyrical placement, and rhyme types? Do you spend a lot of time editing?
The songwriting process looks pretty different for all three of us, but each song typically starts with one writer and then is brought to the group to arrange and flesh out. There’s a very special (and sometimes uncomfortable) moment that has to happen when one of us brings a song to the group; you have to be able to release ownership of the thing you’ve created so that it can become a collective version that everybody has had their hands on.
For me, I usually start with one line that comes to me when I’m away from any instruments – typically when I’m out driving or walking! I am very particular about what words feel good coming out of my mouth and what feels the most authentic to my own personhood. Prosody and internal rhyme schemes are almost always on my mind, especially when I’m reworking a tune. I love getting into the nitty gritty parts of a song, and I love the moment I am able to zoom out when a song is finished and take care to make sure everything fits together.
Photo Credit: Joey Wharton
Out Now is a partnership of Queerfest and BGS authored by Queerfest founder and director Sara Gougeon.
Few bands have benefitted from the same type of steady, organic growth as the Hogslop String Band. Originally formed in 2009 as a pickup band for a square dance, the group played together for 10 years before releasing their first album. In that time, their camaraderie strengthened – as did their songwriting, performance style, and fanbase.
Following their 2019 self-titled album, the group – Gabriel Kelley, Daniel Binkley, Kevin Martin, Will Harrison, and Pickle – has been hard at work on their next record (expected spring 2024). Produced by Kelley at his own Mobile Traveler Studios in Bells Bend, 10 miles west of Nashville, the record illuminates the purely original sound that the Hogslop String Band has found over nearly 15 years of making music together.
BGS caught up with Gabriel Kelley and Daniel Binkley to talk about the new music, the formations of the band, and where it’s all headed.
You formed in 2009, but it was 10 more years before your first album came out. What has the journey been like, coming from such casual origins to debuting on the Opry in 2022 and looking ahead to releasing your sophomore record?
Gabriel Kelley: We sure did. We were, to be honest, just a rag-tag bunch of buddies. Most of us had grown up playing old-time music or found it in our early years. For a very long time, our motto was a little more on the punk rock side: “We are not a band” is what we said for the first 10 years of the band. It was just a way to get together and have a good time. It wasn’t until a few years ago that we started taking it more seriously. One thing that’s cool about our Opry debut – and Binkley can fill you in – is that his family has been a part of the Opry since the ’20s.
Daniel Binkley: My family has been in Nashville forever – my great-grandfather, Amos, he had a band called the Binkley Brothers’ Dixie Cloghoppers, and they were a part of the very first Opry cast in 1926. Backstage they have a placard for every member and I found my family back there. That was a very special moment for me. They mentioned it during the broadcast, and we actually ended up playing one of the Binkley Brothers’ songs on the Opry.
For a band with a foundation in traditional music, i.e, fiddle tunes, where do you find the balance between introducing your own original material and digging from the old-time repertoire?
DB: Old-time music is sort of the school that we come from. So when we write original stuff, it’s gonna come through that lens. Once you run it through the “hogslop filter,” it’s gonna sound like hogslop. There’s just something about that foundation, and our knowledge of each other as musicians, that makes it come together – whether it’s traditional tunes or original material.
GK: We absolutely don’t ever want to lose the component of old-time string music and we’re currently in a time where that music seems a lot more accessible and is getting thrown under the big umbrella that everyone is calling Americana. We don’t do a show without old-time tunes in there. A lot of the other music we take influence from – blues, rock and roll – they were actually getting inspiration from early country and old-time music. So for us, it all goes in the same bucket.
You’re definitely known for that high energy string band sound, but this new album has quite a range of pace. How do you stay true to that sound while incorporating softer material like “Mississippi Queen?”
GK: We’re very much a live band and in that setting it’s about that high energy, rowdy thing. We love that, but amongst us in the band, three to four of us are songwriters and have very different approaches to songwriting. We’re very lucky to have Daniel in the band, he’s one of my favorite songwriters and has an ability to write some of that intimate, close to the chest material, like “Mississippi Queen.” And you need that delicate stuff just as much as you need the fast, hard hitting, and fun stuff. We feel that it’s very important to show audiences (and ourselves) that we have those dynamics.
DB: A lot of our shows at festivals are late night, midnight shows and it’s almost more like a punk-rock show. But there are also theaters or other venues where you can really showcase more of that dynamic. Kevin Martin has a few tunes on the album and he writes totally different that I do. He’s more rock and roll and I guess I’m the softy. It’s nice to have a little variety – especially on a record.
What’s special to you about this upcoming album, compared to music you’ve released in the past?
GK: Personally, watching this band shift and develop over 15 years has been pretty wild. This is the first record of the band’s that I’ve produced, and what’s special to me is (and I’m not saying that we’re reinventing the wheel), I’ve never heard quite the blend of genres that we’ve thrown together. It’s cool that Hogslop is still shifting and mutating and we’re still discovering that. And that we’re embracing our songwriting – everything on this record is our own material, and I’m really proud of that.
DB: I agree with all of that! One thing I’ll add that was a major game changer – and this is thanks to Gabe – was the ability to take our time in the studio and not be under the time constraints that’d you’d be under paying for studio time somewhere.
What else is on the horizon with the release in 2024?
GK: We’ll be in the studio most of November, and then we’ve got the Ryman show [supporting the Mavericks] on December 1. As different as this new music is, we’re really woodshedding and figuring out our live show. It sounds like our ‘24 is gonna be busy – we’re mainly a festival band, so that’s where we’re headed.
Old Crow Medicine Show co-founder and frontman Ketch Secor is always busy. In September, Secor and flatpicking master Molly Tuttle co-hosted the Annual IBMA Bluegrass Music Awards, a brief respite from the ongoing national tour Secor and Old Crow are currently on. They hit the road earlier this year after releasing Jubilee, their latest record, celebrating 25 years as a band. With a few recent lineup changes, their energy is still fresh and exciting — and in this exclusive BGS interview, Secor explains that you really just have to see them live to fully understand and appreciate the bit.
This will be the second tour with the current lineup, right? What do you think will be different with touring Jubilee?
Ketch Secor: In typical Old Crow fashion, an 11th-hour lineup change occurred as we were putting the finishing touches on this album. We’ve hired two new players, and that’s Dante’ Pope on drums and piano, and PJ George as a utility player, so with these two additional players we have yet another iteration of Old Crow that has subtle differences from any other one we’ve had before. This kind of thing just makes it fun. That fluidity of the lineup has made it a lot more palatable — it’s still Flagstaff in the fall, but getting to see it with somebody who’s never been before, and getting to share the stage with people who bring out something new in you musically.
I feel like music for the old-time string band – and maybe this is the same for bluegrass – but music is really relational. It’s about who you’re with. I play different with different people. The pitcher isn’t gonna play differently because of who the shortstop is, but in a string band, the fiddler’s following a groove that the banjo sets, and if there’s a great mandolin player with chops then the fiddler is going to weave in and out of something differently.
How did you choose the guest appearances on this album, like Sierra Ferrell and Mavis Staples?
KS: That kind of thing just evolves. Making records in the 21st century, collaborations are what’s on the menu more so than when we were kids. We didn’t think about who was going to be the guests when we were kids. For Sierra, we thought that song needed something, and we realized it was a duet. I’d been sitting on that one for a couple years. I rewrote it as a duet, and we called the best woman to sing on a cock-fighting song — we called out to West Virginia.
Why are collaborations more necessary now?
KS: If I could be frank, it’s because labels are trying to do anything they can to sell albums. It adds to social media platforms. It increases the scope in ways that are much more specific to these times than just making great music. When Lita Ford came out with Ozzy Osbourne, that probably had a different purpose to it than it does today. Independent labels are taking a cue from hip-hop artists who experiment with this all the time. Bluegrass and old-time and traditional music tends to be 10 years behind those types of styles, so it makes sense that nowadays we’re all making collaborative contributions.
Were there any surprising or touching moments working with Willie Watson in the studio again? Was the chemistry there after 12 years?
KS: Yeah, I think that having Willie back is just important to the ethos of Old Crow Medicine Show, and celebrating its 25th anniversary. We’ve been working together since COVID on some things from live streams to concert appearances, and this was sort of the next frontier for Old Crow and Willie in burying the hatchet and making music together. When you’re in a 25-year-old band you get a lot of ex-boyfriends. Hindsight is 20/20, and I just know that nowadays it’s better to be back on stage together.
How has your fiddling changed over the years? What are some of the areas you focus on when you practice? Old-time is known for being scrubby, but there’s a lot more going on there.
KS: Well, it’s changed over the years as I’ve gotten to be a lot better and gutsier as a violin player. I play it harder and stronger and faster than I did when I was 18 when I learned. For 25 or some years it’s been my dance partner. At the quarter century mark as a violin player, I feel like I know my partner well. I know where to take it, where on the neck to go. I know how to get the sounds that I’m looking for.
But I’m not a player who practices. My practice is just playing 95 concerts a year for 25 years and making 15 records in that period of time and being a special guest on 50 other records. I’ve grown up like a plant in the window when it comes to my violin playing. I see where the light is and I’ve grown towards it, and it’s bushier and brighter than it used to be when I was just a little twig. It just keeps growing all the time, but it’s not because I’m changing anything. There’s no additive to the soil.
You play old-time, but do you ever try other genres?
KS: I’ve played a few jazz gigs, but it’s not what I do well. I listen to all manner of songs. As a fiddle player, I like to think about all of the music that I’m channeling into the way I play, and a lot of it is traditional fiddle music, but a lot of it’s not. I feel like there’s Public Enemy and Nirvana and Bosco and the Carter Family, and other things that are not fiddle playing in my playing. But mostly what there is in my fiddle playing is mileage. It’s experience. It’s rust. It’s calcified. That’s the case with people who’ve played music for a lifetime. They get better not because they’re doing something different, but because they’re doing the same thing again and again.
You mentioned that folk music should be topical — not kept in a museum case. Do you think that kind of folk has a special place in the world right now given the political and economic hard times we’ve been seeing?
KS: I think that anybody who’s making genuine art has a reflection of the world around in that work. We the artists are sort of like poetic mirrors of what we see. There’s lot of songs now that reflect the discord, either in a lamentation or in a protest or in just a pure reflection. My music tends to talk about the plight of the people who are most associated with this music, so that can be the people of the Southern Highlands. It can be the hardship of the African American co-inventors of this music. But I’m also a real vessel for global topics, and I say that because when I read the news it’s almost like it starts riding on my back. So I’m thinking about flood waters in Libya and earthquakes in Morocco and school shootings in Nashville. To me they’re all part of a human struggle to find peace in the world.
What change do you hope comes about from songs like “Allegheny Lullaby?” How do people take that sentiment and make it actionable?
KS: That’s a song about a limitation of choice. That’s a matter of equity or inequity. So the equitable solution is: More choice. It’s widening the spectrum of options for people who live in the coal district, and that’s a very doable action item. It’s just a hard thing to do and live the exact same way, without a change in economics, but that’s the story of the American people. We adapt. And so I think the natural adaptation cycle in the Southern Highlands is in flux right now because of some strident efforts to hold it back. The results of those actions are that you got an opioid epidemic, a fentanyl epidemic — so many dysfunctions. I’m looking forward to the people eventually standing up and getting what they need. I wouldn’t put it past the people to get that. They got it before. They unionized in those situations and fought for livable wages, and they can do it again.
You talk a lot about nature, like mountains and feral critters, in your music. Is that an intentional part of folk or where does that come from?
KS: When I think about what made [American music] so rich, I know it’s the land and the soil and the people and the stories. So to evoke the same is just a natural link in the chain forged anew. And that’s all I’m doing. I’m just singing about the rivers that mean something to me when I sing them. I don’t think you’re ever going to get tired of thinking about the Big Sandy River, no matter if it’s clean or dirty. It’s called the Big Sandy, doesn’t that sound like freedom?
What do you hope listeners will take away from this album?
KS: You know, we make music because we’re a live band. We make albums because we’re a live act. Come and see us. If you like this record, go buy a ticket. We’re coming to your town; we have for a quarter of a century. We loved you then, and we love you even more now. And if you hear something on this record you like, then that’s just one more reason to come buy that ticket and see us when we come to your community and make a unique and special community in yours for one night. This is an age-old P.T. Barnum routine. The hat is magic, the ring is heavenly. Once you gaze on what lies behind the curtain, you will be dazzled. That’s where the magic is. The album is a big arrow.
Deep in the throes of their multi-decade romantic and creative partnership, Buddy & Julie Miller continue to open their world to listeners with their fourth studio album, In the Throes. Entirely cooked within the walls of their home from song ideation to production, we get to hear their joyful admiration for each other alongside the frustrations of living, loving, and making music as a pair. There is still a youthful exuberance in the simplicity of the rhymes and meter that manages to capture subtle and profound aspects of life.
BGS caught up with the couple via phone at their home in Nashville to hear about the new album and their storied lives as co-creators.
What is the process of working together leading into production? How do you know when you have a Buddy & Julie Miller record?
Buddy Miller: Well, There have been records where we went into it thinking, let’s make a record. This one, we didn’t. We backed into it accidentally. We were wanting to do a gospel record with our friend Victoria Williams and our two friends Larry Campbell and Teresa Williams. Julie had written all these songs and then COVID hit. Victoria has M.S., and she lives in Joshua Tree. We realized, this isn’t worth killing Victoria for this record. We kind of put a hold on that and we had that song on the record called “We’re Leaving,” and it just kept going over and over in my head, and I loved it. Julie was just writing a ton of songs. I wanted to pilfer that song and use it as a cornerstone for this record. That’s the genesis of it.
Julie, I hear that these songs came from a profoundly creative writing time for you. What does your life look like when you are in the midst of a prolific creative output time?
Julie Miller: I don’t focus on it. It is more like, I’ll be going to the bathroom or walking to the kitchen or something, and I’m just humming something and it just kind of rumbles up in me. It comes out and my brain just says, “Oh, we are doing a record now, let’s think!” It turns on and starts thinking of subject matter. It is a real accidental sort of situation. I’m sure it is more purposeful than I realize. I am kind of closed off once it is hitting. I don’t talk to a lot of people for a while once I’m writing except for Buddy. I’ll get some musical thing in my mind and I can tell him how it goes, and he can play all the notes. He’s like my right-hand man.
Do you have a language that is only your own?
JM: Not exactly, not like that, but we understand each other. I understand him anyway. [Laughs]
Has that evolved a lot over time, how you communicate musically?
JM: Yeah, I’m more intuitive overall than he is. He is just really incredible. And I kind of prompt him on something I’m thinking, and he carries it away. I couldn’t imagine trying to work with anybody else. I just wouldn’t want to do it. He’s my team. We are really locked together on it.
In terms of the songs about relationships on this record, how autobiographical are they? You can feel the reverence and the frustration of being in a creative relationship.
BM: I was kind of a jerk to be in a band with, I think. I probably took things for granted. I would be insensitive enough on stage. I messed up our thing. She stopped playing. And then I took every gig that would come along, which was a lot. I didn’t expect it. At the time, I was playing with Emmylou, but then I got a lot of other production and tour offers. I left Julie at home for years. And that made her relationship with music and me something that needed to be repaired. So we started repairing it with the record before this.
And we spent a lot of time hanging out together and enjoying making the music together. By the time we were working on this, she was on a roll writing songs, and I just loved capturing them.
That’s really inspiring. Let’s be honest, when people hit walls in relationships or creatively, sometimes they quit. But pushing through it and finding healing through music, it’s awesome.
BM: Yes, and it happened through the music and spending time together. And me not taking any more outside work.
You can feel that. How autobiographical is this record?
JM: Well I guess every record is somewhat biographical. But there are certain songs that are pretty autobiographical, just emotions that I’ve been through that I turn into a song. I mean, “You’re My Thrill,” I was feeling it. I was feeling it about Buddy. And “In the Throes,” too. But “Don’t Make Her Cry,” now that was Bob Dylan. I can’t take credit for that line.
That’s a fun co-write!
JM: Oh yeah! I didn’t think I’d live that long. He and Regina [McCrary] are friends and they had this half a song sitting and he said, “Give it to Buddy.” And Buddy didn’t know what to do with it. But I knew what to do with it! I knew just what to do. I’m amazed now, when I look back, that I had the gall to do it. I had no fear or hesitation at all, just like it was anybody else. When I think about it now, I think, “What was I thinking!?”
This album feels like it was cut live, like I’m in the room with you when I’m listening. It seems rare these days that producers let the whole room into the record. I was wondering if you could talk about where you cut it and what the process was like for this one?
BM: The process was a little different, but we’ve made all our records at home. Back in our teeny weeny apartment in LA, Julie had a deal early on where they didn’t quite get the music and it wasn’t a good fit, but the person who signed her took her in the studio and quickly realized that they liked our home demos better. But we just had a little porta-studio. He gave what was left in the budget to buy a tape machine and a couple of mic pre-[amps] so we could do it ourselves. It was very kind of him, and it started us on our way of working together. We started on a four-track cassette, and then we graduated to a little reel-to-reel that had eight-tracks. But we have always made our records at home. Julie has always been super involved in every aspect, just the two of us.
Julie, what is recording like for you? Do you like the process?
JM: I do with Buddy. I don’t without Buddy. With Buddy I can yell. We have a studio downstairs, and we have one directly upstairs. There are pocket doors that open into the studio upstairs and so I sit on the bed and he sits in the actual producer’s chair with all the instruments around and we just play. I’ll have an idea to have him play and then he’ll play something and I’ll go, “Wait! Listen to that! Play that again!” We just play off of each other a lot. He lets me have as much leeway on the songs as I want, but then where I leave off, he is more than there to take it up. He blows my mind. I just can’t believe how fortunate I am to have someone like that to work with. But it is a joy. I don’t really like recording singing that much. It is tedious. It used to be easier. It is harder singing now.
Can I ask you what is harder about it?
JM: Well, I just don’t do it as much. I have this condition called fibromyalgia. It is a pain condition that affects your muscles. It goes into my jaw and under my tongue, and if I use it very much, it gets stiff and paralyzed. It is a good thing we do it at home. I have this concoction made out of tomato soup and hot sauce. Emmylou would have lemon and Altoids, and I have hot sauce and tomatoes.
Well, for what it is worth, one of the notes I made about this record was how exuberant and youthful your voice sounds.
JM: Thank you! I’ll chalk it up to immaturity.
Photo Credit: Jeff Fasano
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