Tag: jazz

12 Mandolinists We Know You’ll Love

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

The mandolin’s role in music has changed a lot over time and with its steady pace of change comes a constant flow of new players. Nobody plays or interprets music in the same way as anyone else, bringing plenty of new ideas and explorations.

There have been many different eras of mandolin playing in bluegrass. Ranging from the classic Bill Monroe style to David Grisman to Chris Thile – and, lately, a more string band sound is being popularized by players like Andrew Marlin. And of course, there are countless other mandolin eras beyond and in between.

The mandolin has also been used in many other genres besides bluegrass; it lends itself to genres such as Choro, jazz, classical, and pop. The mandolin even fills major arenas. There have been a lot of folks making incredible music on the instrument and though this is just a starting point, here are 12 mandolinists who you might not be familiar with, but we know you’ll love!

Jean-Baptiste “JB” Cardineau

Franco-American mandolin virtuoso Jean-Baptiste “JB” Cardineau is currently Boston-based, having graduated from Berklee College of Music. JB’s mandolin playing delves into many genres such as bluegrass, classical, old-time, and some traditional French music, too. His style is quite adventurous; he dives deep into the old-school Monroe ways, looking towards Frank Wakefield for much inspiration. JB has spent a lot of time touring with different bands, such as the Ruta Beggars, as well as his own project, JB and Cardineau Sin. As well as being an incredible instrumentalist, JB is also a gifted songwriter. Above is one of JB’s original tunes, “Si Tu Vois Ma Mandoline.” This tune blends the more traditional French style with bluegrass influences.

Ian Coury

Raised in Brazil’s capital, Brasília, Ian Coury is a masterful, well-respected 10-string mandolinist currently based in Boston. Growing up playing Choro, Ian pushes the boundaries of the genre, writing original music that has won him “Best Instrumentalist” awards from the National FM Radio Festival (2020) and second place in Brazil’s eFestival (2021). He has shared the stage with renowned musicians such as Hamilton de Holanda and Armandinho. In 2019, Coury enrolled at Berklee College of Music and later earned his master’s degree from the program. Here is Ian playing an original composition entitled “Solando no Limbo” for Mandolin Mondays.

Maddie Witler

Originally from and based in California, Maddie Witler is a phenomenal musician. Primarily known for her mandolin playing, Maddie is also an incredible guitarist and banjoist. Having also attended Berklee College of Music, Maddie was a founding member of the Boston-based bluegrass group the Lonely Heartstring Band. Maddie also used to tour with powerhouse GRAMMY-nominated band Della Mae. In 2022, Maddie released her debut solo album, Astronaut, a truly incredible compilation of all original songs and tunes from Maddie. In this video, Maddie is joined by Jacob Jolliff at Mandolin Camp North shredding on a classic bluegrass tune by Frank Wakefield, “New Camptown Races.”

Jesse Appelman

Jesse Appelman is both a gifted mandolinist and tune writer. Based in California, Jesse frequently tours with the Sam Grisman Project, as well as his own group, Jesse Appelman’s West Coast Stringband Project. His debut album, Where We Go, which was released in February, is a collection of original tunes and select cover songs and was produced by John Mailander. His tunes are mellow yet groovy, capturing anyone listening. This clip is Jesse’s rendition of “The Hills of Isle Au Haut” joined by Eli West and Patrick M’Gonigle.

Ethan Setiawan

An Indiana native who now makes his home in Maine, Ethan Setiawan is an incredible mandolinist and tunesmith. Ethan was the 2014 National Mandolin Champion, and in 2017 was the first place winner of the Rockygrass mandolin contest. He is also a graduate from Berklee College of Music, and has also done some teaching there, too. Ethan has toured with bands like the Acoustic Nomads, Corner House, and currently tours with both his duo Hildaland and his own group, Ethan Setiawan and Fine Ground. He has released a few albums of his instrumental music, Flux (2018), Gambit (2023), and Encyclopedia Mandolinnica (2025). Bringing in elements of bluegrass, classical, jazz, and Scottish music, Ethan makes his own sound and brings his listeners along for the story. Enjoy a recording of Ethan playing his original tune, “Uncrossed.”

Korey Brodsky

Originally from Connecticut and now based in Asheville, North Carolina, Korey Brodsky is both a talented mandolinist and guitarist. Yet another of our mandolinist picks who studied at Berklee College of Music, Korey has toured all over. In 2021, he joined Boston bluegrass band Mile 12 and he’s traveled and recorded with artists such as Jody Stecher, the Tray Wellington Band, Nefesh Mountain, the April Verch Band, and more. Above, Korey plays a beautiful take of a Karl Suessdorf and John Blackburn tune, “Moonlight in Vermont.”

Megan Cody

Originally from Colorado and now living in New York City, Megan Cody is a killer mandolinist as well as an incredible guitarist and singer. Fronting the band the Cody Sisters alongside her younger sister Maddie, Megan’s mandolin approach is playful and thoughtful. Megan tours year round with the Cody Sisters and frequently plays all over New York City. Here is a recording of the Cody Sisters playing a medley of a few songs and tunes.

Casey Campbell

A rare Nashville native, Casey Campbell is a fourth-generation bluegrass musician. An extraordinary mandolinist, Casey has performed with musicians like Bryan Sutton, Chris Stapleton, Vickie Vaughn, Becky Buller – and the list goes on! Casey was the 2017 winner of the IBMA’s Momentum Award for Instrumentalist of the Year. He has a duo mandolin album that was released back in 2017, Mandolin Duets: Volume One, which features Casey playing with various masters of the mandolin. In the video above, Casey is joined by Sam Bush as the two play a Jethro Burns tune in honor of Sam called “Sam’s Bush.”

Michael Prewitt

Originally from Kentucky, Michael Prewitt spent many years touring with the iconic bluegrass band Special Consensus. In 2024, he released his debut album, The Peerless Mountain Sessions, and then followed that up later that year with an incredible album of all original music, Something He Can Handle. Michael currently tours around the country with his own band, Michael Prewitt & CrunchGrass Supreme. The video above features one of Michael’s original songs, “Winnipeg” played by Prewitt with CrunchGrass Supreme.

Thomas Cassell

From Southwest Virginia, Thomas Cassell now resides in Nashville. A a founding member of the band Circus No. 9, he currently tours with the Wood Box Heroes and performs as a sideman with many other groups. Thomas has won many awards – he was the 2021 National Mandolin Champion and in 2020 he won the IBMA’s Momentum Instrumentalist of the Year Award. Thomas fronts his own band as well and has a few of his own albums out, Voyager (2018), What You Need to Prove (2022), The Never-Ending Years (2024), and he has a forthcoming album soon to be released! The video above is of Thomas’ new single, “Ramblin’ Heart,” featuring Tim Stafford. This is the first single off his upcoming album, so stay tuned.

Lauren Price Napier

Based out of Owensboro, Kentucky, Lauren Price Napier is a talented mandolinist and singer who digs deep into Monroe-style mandolin playing. Fronting the traditional bluegrass band the Price Sisters with her twin sister Leanna, Lauren has been nominated for multiple awards from the IBMA, such as Momentum Vocalist and Momentum Instrumentalist of the Year in 2019 and 2020, respectively. Lauren brings her own spin to playing traditional Monroe-style mandolin while also sticking to the roots of the genre. Above is a video of Lauren playing one of her original tunes entitled, “Tuel’s Landing.”

Tristan Scroggins

Tristan Scroggins is a GRAMMY-nominated mandolinist who also won the IBMA’s Momentum Instrumentalist Award in 2017. He spent years touring with his dad’s band, Jeff Scroggins and Colorado, but he also has a duo with violinist Alisa Rose called Scroggins & Rose and recently toured full time with Missy Raines & Allegheny. In 2019, he released an all-instrumental EP featuring his style of mandolin crosspicking called Fancy Boy. Tristan also has an ongoing, multi-volume project with fiddler George Jackson recording 100 of the most popular old-time tunes called Old Time 100. Tristan currently tours with Bronwyn Keith-Hynes. Here, Tristan is joined by fiddler Ellie Hakanson playing a bluegrass tune, “Ashland Breakdown.”

Photo Credit: Lead image (L to R), Jesse Appelman by Giant Eye Photography; Lauren Napier Price by Jay Strausser; Thomas Cassell by Scott Simontacchi.

Survival of the Heart and Survival in Alaska

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

During the Klondike Gold Rush, the Red Onion Saloon in Skagway, Alaska, operated as a thriving brothel and a rare (sometimes) source of autonomy for the women who worked there. More than a century later, Juneau-based singer-songwriter Taylor Dallas Vidic found empowerment at the old bordello too, by offering feminist tours in character as Madam Anya Johnson. Innuendos loosened up tour groups, forging a connection that made them receptive to some serious history lessons – alongside dick jokes.

“What working at the Red Onion did for me was make me feel really comfortable about being a human in front of other humans, and to talk about things that often feel taboo or uncomfortable, and to normalize them,” Vidic says. “It’s translating from making sex jokes to feeling comfortable standing in front of a lot of people and saying, ‘Hey, here’s what it felt like when I broke my heart or when someone else broke my heart.’”

Vidic’s songwriting is warm and vulnerable. She’s equally capable of belting above sultry and coy jazzy tracks, carrying intricate, stripped-down folksongs on her magnanimous voice alone, and building grand theatrical numbers, as well. She does all of it on her debut album, Cat & Mouse, a collection of 13 (mostly) love songs that deliver an expansive, playful representation of what is perhaps humanity’s most perplexing and intoxicating experience. And it’s all rooted in the same multifaceted understanding of shared humanity that Vidic used to bond with strangers on those summer stints in Skagway.

Beyond an exceptional, arresting voice and range, Vidic’s songwriting conveys an acuity of emotion which pushes what is superficially an album of love songs well beyond predictable tropes. “They tell you it takes time, you’ll see/ To remember who you use to be/ Remember how to sit in the quiet/ On your own,” she sings on the album’s opening track, “Falling Out of Love,” which lays out in minute, closely felt detail the experience of returning to self after a breakup:

I’ve learned to fill the space that
I’d kept for only you, dear
I smile at all the faces
Walk past all the places
We used to go
Each breath a little deeper
Each song a little sweeter
Now that the scent of you doesn’t linger on my pillow
Anymore

Heartbreak might be age-old song fodder, but Vidic extends it far beyond breakups to many kinds of aches (loss, longing, unbearable certainty) with an alluring immediacy. In her hands, the simple mechanics of falling in and out of love – or wishing to fall in love, even if just for the evening – become a comforting exercise in self-discovery and relatable human experience.

There’s “In a Song,” about a crush that’s missed its moment. “High,” which yearns for the good parts of a past entanglement. And “In Your Arms,” a cinematic, self-aware disquisition on a relationship’s irreconcilable differences: “I said it’s a big ole world/ The place we could go, the people we’ll see/ Just imagine the strangers we could meet,” Vidic sings, adding: “He said/ My corner’s just fine with me.” By song’s end, Vidic is off on the grand adventures she dreamed for them both, solo.

Part of Vidic’s remarkably evolved approach to love songs derives from practical necessity. Juneau, Alaska – population 32,000 – is small and isolated both from the rest of the country and even the state, by geography; with no roads out of town and flanked by impenetrable mountains, ice fields, and the Gastineau channel, it’s accessible only by boat or plane. Living within those few square miles, it’s impossible to avoid running into an ex regularly. In the same way that Vidic’s ethos accepts humanity’s many facets, so too she’s maintained love and respect for her exes. Indeed, most of them were invited to – and attended – her album release show.

“Finding ways to actively reframe relationships when they have run their course is a matter of survival of the heart. And it would be such a loss to not get to continue to care for the people that I have loved, that have loved me,” Vidic says. “I don’t know if I’m just lucky in that I’ve found people that are willing to do that – even though it is messy and hard at times and a little confusing at times, too, and uncomfortable; we spend so much time with people that we choose to love and we share so much…I really like holding onto those moments.”

Juneau’s geographical limitations and eccentricities crop up on the album in other ways, as well. “I let those mystery boys get me every time/ When the stakes are low I’m better at not losing my mind/ An hour is too far when an airplane is in play,” Vidic sings on “Muse.” Nothing quite as bittersweet as unrequited love, specifically one that’s unwanted.

“Twice a Day,” the album’s opening foray into its folk/Americana B-side, is the only song that doesn’t overtly take place in Alaska, written during a few months in New York City. On it, Vidic, a consummate observer of the world around her, contemplates the near-infinite possibility for human interaction in a big city surrounded by so many more souls than in her hometown: “Maybe I would make you laugh each day/ Maybe when it ended I’d be begging you to stay/ Maybe we’d grow old and see, we’re as happy as we’d ought to be/ But we’re always a platform away.”

First albums are always special. Often, they represent the culmination of years’ worth of a musician’s best and hardest fought work – John Prine’s eponymous debut, Emmylou Harris’ Pieces of the Sky, Guy Clark’s Old No. 1 – and Cat & Mouse is no exception. Written over more than a decade (Vidic penned its oldest song, “Muse,” at 21), the album is, for Vidic, a scrapbook of her life and formative early adulthood.

“I think most people can agree that songs take us back to moments in our lives, be it a playlist that was on the radio a lot when we were in middle school, or that particular song that helped you get over a breakup or a song that makes you think about your parent,” she says. “And these songs do that for me, but they are snapshots of my existence and of the people that I’ve come across.”

From her delivery on stage to the studio production of Cat & Mouse, Vidic also brings the banter and cheek of her madam tour guide gig, as well as the showmanship she’s cultivated as part of burlesque troupe, The Nude & Rude Revue, and through many community arts events she’s helped organize. Leaning into her life’s dualities, Vidic made the album with two distinct sides; Cat, the album’s A-side, is jazzy with a big band sound; Mouse is a stripped-down, folksy, and sparsely-instrumented B-side. It’s a concept that easily could have been sonically incongruous, but both sides flow together through the power of Vidic’s voice, aided by the album’s title track, which she rendered in both styles and delivered at the end of each side, respectively.

Juneau’s geographic isolation can be a mighty impediment for musicians, but it’s also a blessing that breeds collaboration and allows musicians a certain freedom to grow and flourish without the pressures of bigger music cities in the U.S., says Juneau-based musician Andrew Heist. Heist has played in a myriad of bluegrass bands in Alaska over the last 20 years, and lends his scintillating mandolin to “Falling Out of Love.” He also shares stages with Vidic as part of their songwriting group, the Muskeg Collective.

“Without the pressure to get a product out there to build her name in a competitive scene, there’s this community familiarity that is so rare and amazing in Juneau,” Heist says. “It’s sort of like the old soul version of hearing somebody sing, there’s a depth to the way that she brings her music forward.”

Most of Vidic’s songs are exceedingly personal, yet she manages to spin the exquisite pain of heartbreak into something universally relatable, and she’s equally vivid when singing about someone else. Vidic wrote “Wet Tennis Shoes” in part thinking about a friend whose father left when she was too young to remember him. The song effuses not just ache, but a crushing loss of innocence, as well: “Boats made of paper float on the pond/ A little girl playing wonders where you have gone/ You took all the sunshine and made her skies grey.” And though the paper boats do not actually dissolve, the song’s omnipresent drizzle – “Rain on her window/ Rain on her head/ Rain on the rooftop as she lies in bed” – evokes the dissolution even more effectively.

After spending most of the album exploring feelings’ small intricacies, Vidic’s final track before the “Cat & Mouse” reprise is “Stockades,” a showy, declarative pop number about the enormity of falling head over heels. “The Stockades fell/ When he touched my hips/ And he kissed my lips in ways they’ve never been kissed,” she cries before continuing: “Lord knows it took one night to tear this empire down/ The walls we built, they’re falling faster than Jericho to the ground.” Still, kingdoms fall and so do powerful loves; and again by the end of the song, Vidic is reminding herself how to get back up and stand on her own two feet. Now, and always, too.

The strength of Alaskan songwriters’ connections extends beyond helping each other and into the community at large as well. As part of her album crowdfunding (Cat & Mouse was also partially funded by a prestigious local grant), Vidic asked for funds to bring music into the state’s network of nursing homes, a goal inspired by visiting her mother in a long-term care facility and a few concerts she’s already given.

Memorably, Vidic recalls how at a Christmastime performance she stepped offstage to sing among the audience to bring herself into focus for them. Next to a man she’d noticed never uttered a word on previous visits, Vidic sang “Silver Bells.” Part way in, the man joined her, singing along with words he’d learned long ago.

Nursing homes are often undesirable performance locations; they’re sterile, poorly lit, and underfunded, their residents not the most attentive or engaging audience members – yet, Vidic observes, those people deserve live music, joy, and respect, as much as anyone. She plans to rework her stage performance into a version with which to bring music to those spaces where it’s rarely heard, and sorely needed.

“That again brings me back to my time at the Red Onion and finding that shared humanity with strangers, and just feeling like we’re all just human beings doing our best, sharing spaces and trying to find joy and make moments worth living,” Vidic says. “What’s the point without it?”

Photo Credit: Sydney Akagi

Tedeschi Trucks Band Have Done It Again

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

When it comes to entirely enjoyable, technically exquisite modern blues, Southern rock, and jam-band soul albums, Tedeschi Trucks Band have a statistically impossible batting average. Their new LP, Future Soul (released March 20 via Fantasy Records), is yet another “no skips” collection from the megalithic 12-person Americana group fronted by husband-and-wife guitarist Derek Trucks and guitarist-vocalist Susan Tedeschi.

On that strength of their catalog – and their ensemble – TTB have amassed hundreds of millions of streams, won eight Blues Music Awards and one GRAMMY, and a handful of their songs have become regarded as modern standards in the Americana and American roots music songbook.

Future Soul simultaneously feels like a surprising departure and familiar, essential territory for the band. With Mike Elizondo producing and songs and creative input sourced from across the group’s lineup, the set ends up sounding and feeling more acoustic than “usual,” while still reaching roaring crescendos and building it all on dank, wide open grooves. Perhaps those acoustic moments are a substantial contributing factor as well, but the cozy, plush pocket of the album is what gives it a laid-back, relaxed, and floating vibe no matter the track’s genre construction.

Screaming slide, no-holds-barred vocals, and wall-of-sound climaxes can all be found herein, as well. But the collection never thrashes or flails, it’s precise and exacting – as Tedeschi and Trucks are both known to be on their instruments, whether guitar or voice – but it’s certainly not sterile or gated or homogenized, either. It’s another remarkable feat for a group so large that you would almost have to assume, live or in studio, musical mud would be an inevitable byproduct.

But no, TTB seem to have no misses, at least not on Future Soul. It’s clear this group works together in harmony not just because of the down-to-earth and collaborative leadership of Tedeschi and Trucks, but because the artistic and musical responsibilities and ownership – of the songs themselves, of the album, of the makings of each, of “success” for the band – are decentralized and distributed throughout the group. The band has a sound, an art, that is consistently collective in the way it’s received by audiences and listeners because, forgive the obviousness, Tedeschi Trucks Band always work as a collective.

In our BGS conversation with Derek Trucks, the magic and unlikelihood of this creative dynamic and the processes by which the band continues to rack up success after success were on full display. We spoke about how they put together Future Soul as a group effort, the many inputs that went into Trucks fashioning his lyrical guitar style, and what bluegrass means to him personally, to Tedeschi, and the band as a whole. It was a joy-filled, passion-led conversation that again reinforced how this wailin’, rockin’, rollin’ band continues to flout and subvert expectations – and thereby has become so beloved.

Something that jumped out at me from the bio about the new album is that you say, “There’s just not a weak spot on this record.” I have to say, I totally agree. I think it’s remarkable that with a 12-person band and such a diverse catalog of recordings and releases, it really doesn’t seem like there’s any “fat” to trim or any duds to cull.

I have to ask, does it feel as magical on the inside of that process as it seems from the outside? It seems unlikely that y’all would work so well together towards a common goal, artistically, and be able to deliver again and again and again. And I don’t just mean commercially, awards-wise, or for audiences alone. Clearly you’re delivering artistically for yourselves and by your own standards, as well. So, does it feel as unlikely on the inside of that process as it maybe does to us on the outside looking in? [Both laugh]

Derek Trucks: That’s awesome. But it does, man! I mean, not every record you do feels the same way. They’re all their own beasts. For I Am The Moon, it was in a time of great uncertainty. We did four records and it was just kind of a heavy, heavy time – and that record feels like that.

This one felt completely different. The band felt much more confident [and] had been touring for two years straight. We had been playing so much together that when we finally got the core of the group up to our farm in Georgia to do some writing, there were a few songs right out of the gate. Like “Future Soul” and “Who Am I,” where immediately, Sue started singing, Gabe [Dixon] started singing these melodies. I got chills and I was like, “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

You’re always kind of worried about running out of ideas, or running out of runway – like a thing in the back of your head. But I feel like we’re incredibly fortunate where, when we’re together, everyone puts everything they have into it. Then, when we’re not on the road together, everyone’s all doing their own things musically. So, when we come back together, there’s a lot to talk about and a lot of music to remember together.

I think it keeps it really fresh and it keeps it moving forward. I feel like everyone’s out honing their craft when they’re away from this. When they come back, there’s a lot of new ground to cover. So far, we’ve been really, really lucky that way. And there’s a handful of just incredible songwriters in the band, so everybody comes in with two or three ideas. You’ve got a pretty strong record right out of the gate. That’s been something that I think me and Sue are just realizing – we’ve known how amazing that is but, you know, Gabe and Mike [Mattison], they show up with some serious ideas.

Then having Mike [Elizondo, the album’s producer] down, just some outside ears – I think that was really important. Sonically, he was trying some different things that I think inspired the band and made everybody play a little differently. That was exciting.

I was struck by the range of styles and the different genre infusions that y’all have put into this collection. What really stuck out to me, listening down to the project in one fell swoop, is there are still those really big energetic moments – and there are still those “wall of sound” moments that y’all are really known for. But I felt like this album is chill and laid-back in a way; it feels deep in the pocket. Can you talk about capturing those seemingly disconnected energies together?

I think one of the things is that with a band or an artist, I think if you’re maturing properly – we learn sometimes slowly – that you don’t have to force the issue all the time. You can trust things around you a little bit more, and sometimes the groove is enough. Sometimes the chord changes are enough, sometimes the melodies are enough. It doesn’t have to be these epic moments at all times. So when they do come, you’re excited about it and wrings you out. Then you lay them back down, and then you go on another little trip.

I think the band, having played together so much, we’re in a different place that way, where we realize that you don’t have to force the issue on every song. You can go to different spaces, different places. And then, again, having some outside ears – Elizondo really helps with that, too. He helps guide you to places that maybe you wouldn’t have gone naturally, so that’s a fun thing. Then you learn things about yourself musically in the band that you didn’t know before. That’s always a good place to be.

One thing that I’ve been obsessed with about your playing, specifically, ever since I discovered you as a teenager, is how lyrical of a guitar player you are. It jumped out at me from the bio, as well, when you’re talking about “I Got You” and how you’re doing a guitar-voice dialogue instead of guitar-guitar. I think of you as one of the most lyrical guitarists out there. You’re so present and so grounded. So I’ve always wanted to ask you how you’ve cultivated that style – as well as being able to have those moments of pure shreddy, lick-y wailing.

Then hearing that you really wanted to make that connection between voice and guitar on this album made so much sense to me, because I’m always thinking about how you’re a lyrical player. And Susan is, too, and you both dialogue with your instruments, and her voice, often.

Pretty early on I had a few musical epiphanies. One was Allen Woody, who played with Gov’t Mule and the Allman Brothers. When we toured with my solo band, opening for a Gov’t Mule in the early days, he would always turn me on to records. He gave me this CD by this guy named Aubrey Ghent, who was a gospel [steel] player. I put on “Amazing Grace” and I was like, “Wow, what an amazing voice.” And then I heard the pick and I realized that it was this guy playing lap steel! But it sounded like a woman singing. I got chills [over] my whole body, and I was like, “That’s it, that’s the thing.”

I had been listening to a lot of Indian classical music – a lot of vocalists and sarod players. Me and our old [Derek Trucks Band] bass player, Todd Smallie, went to Ali Akbar College of Music in San Rafael, [California] and they would let us sit in on classes. I realized he [Ali Akbar Khan] made all the instrumentalists take vocal classes, because his whole thing was that you should be singing through your instrument. So that made it just really obvious.

Those were a few of the things, and then there was a long time where I just stopped listening to any guitar player. It was only singers and horn players. That was kind of the idea [that] musical ideas can come from anywhere, but you really should be singing the thing. There’s time for all of it, but the stuff that moves me the most is, you know – even hearing Duane Allman on “Blue Sky” or something. It sounds like somebody’s singing, like somebody is walking down the road whistling. I think those are probably the touchstones for me.

Maybe I am projecting a little bit, because I’ve been a bluegrass banjo player my whole life – I started playing when I was seven. But when I think of guitarists, especially who end up reaching the pinnacle – whatever that is – or especially in flatpicking and in bluegrass, there tends to be this homogeneity of style. The people who get to the “very top” end up all sounding like each other. Then you have those folks that really stand out, and it tends to be because they’re using space and using air as much as they’re using 16th notes and 32nd notes. I think, being used to really shreddy flatpicking, that hearing steel or slide or blues guitar or jazz or acoustic jazz, anything plays with sustain and plays with space, I just drink it up.

Beautiful, man. I remember the first time I heard the Stanley Brothers, or Ralph Stanley, and I just remember it hit me in that place where those early blues guys hit me. There was just something about it. That kind of cracked that whole world open for me. I mean, I was always a Tony Rice fan. We have the same birthday, so I thought that was cool.

No way, I didn’t know that.

And I remember being at a MerleFest years ago, I think it was one of the last ones that Doc played. I remember seeing this old Oldsmobile or Cadillac – I don’t know, it seemed like an 1980s or ‘90s car – it pulled up to the stage and I see Tony Rice get out, just dressed to the nines. He pops the trunk, gets his guitar, hits the stage, and then right when that set was over, he was back in that car! I was over there thinking, “What a boss.” It was incredible, man. He went up and just annihilated everybody and got back in his car and drove his ass home. Pretty incredible.

So funny.

The last time we talked to you for the site, you were Artist of the Month in 2019 and you talked about Del McCoury and Jerry Douglas. I know you’ve played DelFest a bunch, you’ve collaborated with Billy Strings – oh, and I was super excited to see Molly Tuttle supporting on a couple dates of your TTB tour in April, too.

Yeah, we’re excited for that. That’s gonna be great.

What does bluegrass mean to you? Obviously, there’s Ralph Stanley, Tony Rice – there are pickers and makers in bluegrass that are infused into what you do, but what does the genre mean to you more broadly? And who in the space right now inspires you, or your musical vocabulary, or what you guys are doing in the band?

When I think of American music, I think of blues, I think of bluegrass, and I think of jazz. I think [those are] the things that we’ve really contributed to the world. To me, those are the cornerstones of it.

We’ve become good friends with Sturgill [Simpson] over the years, and he’s dipped into that [bluegrass] place. When I hear him sing it I’m like, “Oh yep, that’s because he’s from there.” He’s from the heart of it, and it makes me feel the way Ralph Stanley does at times. Even guys like Tyler Childers – and Sue’s a big Sierra Ferrell fan. She loves all those records.

That music, even the current guys, it’s always playing around here. I don’t know, it just feels inspiring to hear. People just get on an acoustic instrument and rip one. You’re like, “Oh yeah! There’s still people that know how to do things!” [Laughs]

That’s the big inspiration I take from it. Because [in the music industry] there’s a lot of cutting corners, and that’s a music that there’s no cutting corners. You gotta put your time in and take your licks or you’re just not gonna get on stage. I appreciate not just the dexterity, but the vocabulary and the heart that goes into it.

And there’s just something about seeing a group around one microphone just doing the dance that I think is always inspiring. We’ve done some shows recently with Sam Grisman, we did a benefit [for Camp Winnarainbow] out in San Francisco. Peter Rowan was on it, and me and Sue, and it was all acoustics. I had an old National, and just getting to play with that group – just the way that group felt. Sitting on a stool with a Dobro, and they were coming and going around the microphone. And then, getting to hang after the show with Peter Rowan and him telling these stories, man. It was just incredibly inspiring. Some of the songs that we got to play with them – that dude [David “Dawg” Grisman] has written some incredible music. That was one of the highlights of last year. It was pretty damn incredible.

There’s a lot of acoustics on this new album, too. I did find myself wondering, and maybe I’m biased, but does the world need a 12-piece bluegrass band? It might! It might! [Laughs]

Man, that sounds pretty fun to me. I mean, it would be a lot less gear to carry on the road! Which would make it more plausible.[Laughs]

If you wanted to speedrun pissing off a fan base, this might be the way to do it.

[Laughs] Yes, alright, we will be thinking about this! I’m gonna go talk to Sue.

This next one is kind of for me, so I thank you in advance for humoring me. But I wanted to talk to you about Jack Pearson. When I first moved to town, I just met this guy out jamming on mandolin at these bluegrass jams. I’d be like, “Man, this guy’s so nice.” He’s a great picker. He’s a great singer. I got a lot of practice playing swing with him at jams in town. Then folks started being like, “Hey, do you know who that is?” Oh my god, I did not know who it was. He was just my bluegrass jam pal. Then I worked at the Station Inn for a few years and I got to work a bunch of his trio shows. I’d die for the solo acoustic sets he’d do on the set break.

Incredible.

If I were to list maybe my top 5 favorite guitarists of all time, I feel like you and Jack would both be on that list. So I wanted to have a little nerdy moment to talk about Jack. [Laughs] Can you talk about his playing and your guys’ friendship? Of course, I see so many connections between your musical vocabularies and that lyrical style we were talking about.

Yeah, man I need to check up on him. It’s been a minute. I need to check in on old Jackie P.

He’s a monster, man. He’s one of the few people that can actually go play in a straight-ahead jazz band, in a bluegrass band, and then the Allman Brothers. I mean, maybe the only person that can actually do it.

I totally agree.

I mean, he played with Jimmy Smith. This dude is like, he’s an absolute monster. And a sweet fella! You can’t say enough good things. When I joined the Allman Brothers, Jack was just leaving. So all the tapes I got, like learning the new versions of the tunes, were Jack Pearson tapes. At the time, Bud Snyder was the sound man. He would mix these tapes for me with Jack really boosted in the mix. I could hear exactly what he was doing to learn these things. I got an intimate take on the way Jack was approaching these Allman tunes. It was so unique.

There’s no one [that] plays like him, and [his playing is] about as smooth as it gets. Sometimes, you watch him play – and I know he plays really light strings and he plays low action – and the way his hands move, I’ve never seen anyone play quite like that. Then he busts out a slide and you’re like, “Holy shit! This dude can do anything!” [Laughs]

I know!

He’s one of the unsung heroes. There’s no doubt about it.

He does this thing – and you do this as well – where you’re able to leverage that really gritty, aggressive, absolutely on-the-razor’s-edge style that comes with blues and Southern rock and Americana. Then at the same time, like you’re saying, with light strings and low action, still has such a deft touch. Yet he has such great attack and precision and cleanliness. He is a great lesson in taste. His taste is impeccable.

Yeah, I think that’s exactly it. I think we forget a lot of the time that most of what we love about music is the musician’s taste. I mean, you got to put in the work – and Jack has obviously done that, that dude is a master. But his taste is really as good as anybody.

I think he’s probably a bigger influence on me than I even realized. Probably because of that early Allman Brothers time for me. I was jumping in at 20 years old, 21 years old. And all of a sudden it’s, “Here’s 60 songs to learn, and rehearsal/tryout is in a few weeks. I was like, “Well, give me those dates.”

I’m stressed just hearing about that.

I mean, luckily most of that music I had listened to my whole life, but I had never bothered to learn any of them. I mean, I knew “One Way Out” and “Statesboro [Blues],” that doesn’t take long. It was all the other shit!

Photo Credit: Chapman Baehler

10 Fiddlers We Know You’ll Love

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

When it comes to fiddlers, we all know that more is more is more.

Lonesome fiddle? Great. Twin fiddle? Even better. Triple fiddle? (Who called Bob Wills?)

But with all this great fiddling, it’s hard to keep up with who is who. We are here to help. It turns out that for all the fiddlers that you may know and love, there are probably 10 more that you haven’t heard of – even if you’ve heard their playing!

Here are some fiddlers making big waves and sawin’ big figure eights who may be flying under your fiddle radar.

Ellie Hakanson

Originally from Portland, Oregon, Ellie Hakanson grew up playing music in her family band. Bluegrass fans will have heard her blazing solos as part of Jeff Scroggins & Colorado, with whom she toured and recorded for five years. She now lives in Nashville, where she plays with Missy Raines & Allegheny and Kristy Cox among many other artists.

Ellie’s fiddling is defined by its traditional bluegrass sound and deep study of the genre. The International Bluegrass Music Association agrees, as Ellie has been nominated for several IBMA Momentum Awards – in 2017 for Instrumentalist of the Year, in 2018 for Vocalist of the Year, and in 2019 for both Vocalist and Instrumentalist of the Year.

Here, she plays “Sally Goodin” with the incredible Michael Cleveland during a workshop at Cowichan Valley Bluegrass Festival in Lake Cowichan, British Columbia, in 2024.

Evan Snoey

Multi-instrumentalist Evan Snoey approaches music with a wide lens. Equally comfortable playing old-time fiddle and jazz saxophone, Snoey’s breadth of musical knowledge finds him playing with everyone from young shredders (like the Litch Brothers) to country artists (like Dylan Gossett). Originally from Seattle, Snoey’s stylistic interests include old-time, bluegrass, Scandinavian, Scottish, swing, jazz, and contemporary improvisational music.

In this video, he performs a medley of tunes – “Busta,” “Sjøvald,” and “Primrose Lass” – with Alex Wilder on piano for the Nashville Contra Dance.

Omar Ruiz-Lopez

Chapel Hill, North Carolina-based fiddler and multi-instrumentalist Omar Ruiz-Lopez may be best known for his work with folk duo Violet Bell. Ruiz-Lopez is currently making a name for himself as a sideman (playing cello, guitar, and fiddle) with artists such as the War and Treaty, Franklin Jonas, Lizzie No, and Langhorne Slim. And he has just announced a crowdfunding campaign for his first record of original music. Born in Panama and raised in Puerto Rico and Florida, Ruiz-Lopez is a bilingual singer-songwriter who brings a cross-cultural perspective to his music.

In the above video clip, Ruiz-Lopez performs “Panavueiro da Rabeca” and “Panariqueño,” an original fiddle tune, accompanied by Jamey Haddad and Clay Ross at Casey Driessen’s Blue Ridge Fiddle Camp in 2025.

Josie Toney

Soon after moving to Nashville, Josie Toney hit the road as part of Sierra Ferrell’s band, which went from a DIY van tour to a bus operation during her tenure. In 2022 she released her solo album, Extra, featuring her songwriting and guitar playing as well as extraordinary fiddle work. Originally from Olympia, Washington, Toney studied at Berklee College of Music before moving to Music City. She now tours with country star Hailey Whitters and appears often around Nashville fronting her own band and picking with others.

In 2022, she was a guest on Cameron DeWhitt’s podcast, Get Up in the Cool, performing a version of “Smith’s Reel” that perfectly shows her style.

Libby Weitnauer

Libby Weitnauer grew up in the shadows of the Great Smoky Mountains and studied classical violin in Chicago before returning to her roots in Tennessee to play old-time and country fiddle. An endlessly curious and evolving musician, she has played for Margo Price and Kelsey Waldon and has performed on Broadway in New York City, as well as founding indie band Dallas Ugly and fronting her own songwriting projects. A solo album is rumored to be on the way.

In this video, she performs “Swannanoa Waltz” for the YouTube channel The Old-Time Fiddler.

Amy Alvey

Old-time expert Amy Alvey is a fiddler from California who focuses on building community wherever she goes. In addition to recording and touring with her duo, Golden Shoals, and her indie solo project Mild Windago, she fronts the string band Hometeam Advantage, hosts a radio show on Middle Tennessee’s WMOT, and has cultivated a weekly old-time jam in Nashville. Amy is an encyclopedia of old-time tunes and sources with a wide range of stylistic ability.

Here, Hometeam Advantage includes George Guthrie (banjo), Charlie Fuertsch (guitar), and Ethan Hawkins (bass) performing “Tanner’s Farm.”

Jamie Fox

Montana-based fiddler (and pilot and aircraft mechanic) Jamie Fox grew up on the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation and is part of the Agniih and Nakoda tribes. Jamie, along with her brothers, learned Métis fiddle styles from traditional players on the reservation such as Old Fatty Morin, as well as Métis fiddlers like Jimmie LaRocque, Mike Page, and Johnny Arcand. She currently tours with her band The Fox Family Fiddlers, and as a solo performer.

This video, uploaded in 2019, showcases three reels in the Métis style performed in Denmark with Malene D. Beck accompanying on piano.

Katie McNally

Scottish fiddler Katie McNally grew up in the Boston area and was mentored by the legendary Hanneke Cassel. Her style is fierce and energetic, drawing inspiration from traditional Scottish and Cape Breton styles – as well as Scottish-American players. Katie records and tours her own music and is also a member of The Pine Tree Flyers with Emily Troll (accordion), Benjamin Foss (guitar), and Neil Pearlman (piano).

In 2024, the Pine Tree Flyers performed “Vidita” together for Seirm during Celtic Connections 2024, taped for BBC Alba. Watch above.

Austin Derryberry

As deeply rooted as they get, old-time fiddler and luthier Austin Derryberry plays with the groove of generations. Originally from Unionville, Tennessee, Derryberry’s duo album with Trenton “Tater” Caruthers focuses on the less well-known fiddling of the Middle Tennessee area. He apprenticed with legendary fiddle maker Jean Horner and now makes and plays fiddle in the region.

In this video, Derryberry is joined by his wife Courtney Derryberry and Greg Reish to perform an Ed Haley version of “Chinese Breakdown” in Ireland for the Westport Folk & Bluegrass Festival in 2023.

Connor Murray

Originally from the Chicago area, Connor Murray Ostrow polished his bluegrass chops studying with Michael Cleveland and he can currently be found gigging all over Nashville and around the country. Connor’s playing is clean and focused, with bluegrass drive and country sensibilities.

A graduate of Belmont University, for his senior recital in 2022 he performed a hot club jazz rendition of a Kenny Baker tune, “Bluegrass in the Backwoods,” illustrating the way his approach to the instrument has cross-pollinated with many styles.

Photo Credits: Lead image (L to R): Ellie Hakanson by Nico Humby; Josie Toney by Natia Cinco; Omar Ruiz-Lopez by Phyllis B Dooney, PHOTOFARM. Alternate image: Ellie Hakanson by Nico Humby.

Bill Frisell Invites All of Us Inside His Guitar Dreams

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

The first time Bill Frisell played guitar in front of an audience was typical for the time. It was the summer of 1965 and he was 14. He’d saved up money from a paper route in his Denver-area neighborhood so he could buy his first electric.

“Oh man, I can still just…” He pauses, lost in nostalgic reverie, on a Zoom chat from his now-home in Brooklyn.

“I opened the case and I can just smell it,” he says. “It’s amazing.”

His face bears a beatific smile, his voice a genial, gentle tone – things that he’s known for nearly as much as his astonishing musical talents.

“I got a Fender Mustang and a Fender Deluxe amp,” he continues. “And then my other friend, he got an electric guitar and this other guy across the street played drums. We learned like three songs. And then within a couple of weeks we were playing for a party in somebody’s basement.”

He’s not sure what they played – “probably ‘Louie Louie’ and I don’t know what else.” But the feeling?

“I guess in a way, that’s kind of what I kept on doing,” he says. “Get with my friends, learn a couple of songs and then go play for people. And that’s all I’ve done ever since.”

It’s exactly what he did on a recent Wednesday at the new Blue Note jazz club in Hollywood at the start of a several-week “75th Birthday Celebration” tour, that milestone coming on March 18. The friends joining this night were bassist Luke Bergman and drummer Tim Angulo.

The set was more than three songs, of course, played, as is his frequent style, in a continuous, hour-long stream, moving through originals, jazz standards, and movie score themes, as well as an ethereal “Moon River,” a tremolo-inflected “Shenandoah” and, closing, Burt Bacharach’s ever-timely “What the World Needs Now Is Love.” Wrapping it up was a somber yet hopeful encore of “We Shall Overcome.” Throughout the show, he and his trio-mates play with remarkably fluid connections. The approach could be delicate or heavy, buoyant or somber – or somehow all at once.

And with each note, even amid immeasurable harmonic complexities, melodic sophistication, and the nimble skills he’s gained through the decades, there was that kid from 1965, his beaming smile and twinkling eyes revealing his utter, still-fresh delight.

Frisell approached every measure as fresh territory, ripe for discovery, for exploration, curious where an old melody might reveal something new, reveling in its beauty or finding richness in dissonance he adds. Sometimes he’d play around with a short, simple phrase for a bit, like a new toy. Occasionally he’d fiddle with effects to enhance his pointillistic Telecaster touch (he moved on from the Mustang years ago). He throws in a cluster of sonic fireflies here, some “backwards” sounds there. He even giggled a little once when he hit a bad note.

“It’s weird,” he says in conversation a few days before the concert. “I still feel like I’m just beginning. And I’m not kidding. I mean, I know I’ve been playing for a while, but it’s still that feeling [that] never goes away. I’d be fooling myself if I thought … “

He paused again, looking for the right words.

“You just can’t feel as it you finished anything.”

This all comes through profoundly on his new album, In My Dreams, his 45th (plus many dozens of collaborations, group, film and TV scores and sideman projects), released on February 27. It also features a trio (longtime collaborators Thomas Morgan on bass and Rudy Royston on drums joining him) plus a string trio (violinist Jenny Scheinman, violist Eyvind Kang and cellist Hank Roberts), as well.

The title references an actual dream he had years ago in which a group of mysterious, cloaked figures allowed him to experience things beyond our normal perception. First they showed him colors – intense and beautiful – and then music in which all the things he’s loved, from Nino Rota to Hank Williams to Jimi Hendrix to Thelonious Monk, lived together as one glorious sound.

The album, mostly recorded live in three concerts last summer, shows him pursuing that sound himself, with approaches that might be termed jazz, classical, and folk-Americana braided through originals sometimes tender, sometimes dark and intense. Also included are interpretations of the Duke Ellington/Billy Strayhorn classic “Isfahan,” Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times” and, to close, “Home on the Range.” The latter is previewed earlier in the album with his own fantasia on themes from the song that he calls “Give Me a Home.” And for the title song, fittingly, he created an anxious soundscape inspired in part by Bernard Herrmann’s Alfred Hitchcock scores.

Still, the dream remains a dream for him, something ever out of reach, but ever-alluring.

“I don’t even know when it was, 30 years ago when I had it or more,” he says. “And music in general is always something that you can’t quite…. “

He stops to choose his words again.

“It’s always a little bit past what you can get to,” he says. “But the dream was like that. It’s like, I don’t know if I’ll ever get there, but just keep trying.”

In My Dreams is a hearty grab at that ring, though that very elusiveness is a key part of his art.

“With these people, we’ve been playing together so long,” he says, noting that Royston and the string players all were together on his 2013 album Big Sur. “There’s this thing that started happening quite a while back where, for me, I just love the line between arranging and orchestration and composing. The lines get all sort of blurred. We’re all seeing the same information, like what I write could look like a piano score or something. And we figure out some stuff, but basically everyone is free. The cello doesn’t always play what’s on the bottom and the violin doesn’t always play what’s on the top. And there’s a thing that happens spontaneously amongst them, amongst all of us, dropping out or coming in or switching parts that’s really the exciting part of it for me.

“So it’s like you’re improvising with the whole texture of everything. It’s not like they’re playing some part and then I’m playing a solo on top of it. Ideally it’s like an ongoing conversation amongst all of us. I never want it to be predictable. Hopefully it’s always in a state of uncertainty. I mean, I want it to be strong, but at the same time I want everyone to feel safe that they can fall off the edge, and then we’ll come back and pick it up, because that’s where the good stuff happens.”

That, of course, goes back to the avant-garde settings in the New York downtown scene of the 1980s and ‘90s, where he made a name as part of boundary-pushing sax player John Zorn’s unpredictable jazz-metal ensemble, Naked City. But the sensibility remains core to him even in his frequent trips into folk, Americana, movie scores, and unabashedly romantic pop-rooted material. His 1992 album, Have a Little Faith, a musical portrait of America spanning from Foster and Sousa to Ives and Copland, from Muddy Waters and Sonny Rollins to John Hiatt and Bob Dylan to Madonna, remains a landmark in his vast catalog. And he’s recorded and performed with many Americana singer-songwriters including Paul Simon, Lucinda Williams, Joe Henry, Bonnie Raitt, Buddy Miller, and Shawn Colvin. He simply loves a good song with a good melody.

“I can’t help it,” he says. “I was born in 1951 and I grew up in Colorado, just as television and rock ‘n’ roll were all happening. It’s not a conscious thing. [But] at a certain point, I realized, ‘Wait a minute, I gotta not be afraid to show that that’s where I come from.’ I think when I was younger I was more worried about, ‘Oh, are people going to think this is not cool?’ But then after a point it’s like, well, wait a minute. This is what I am. This is where I came from. And if I’m really honest, I do like that melody. I like when Burt Bacharach wrote a really beautiful song and it’s not corny if you look at it a certain way.

“I think I learned that from the people I thought were the coolest, like Sonny Rollins. He would play songs that he heard when he was a kid, or that he saw in a Broadway show or whatever. And I realized he’s doing that because that’s his experience and his life. So it’s okay for me to play a Beach Boys song or a Beatles song, because that’s what I heard when I was growing up. And ‘Home on the Range,’ I mean, [I] probably heard it when I was in my mother’s womb or something, you know?”

Arguably, the latter is the emotional keystone of In My Dreams, particularly in tandem with his “Give Me a Home” musings on its melodic theme earlier on the album, the strings following him as he steps through and around the familiar melodies, clearly with Copland hovering over.

“I was messing around with ‘Home on the Range,’ I wrote all these different versions and then that particular one, it’s just a phrase from the song, doesn’t even get through the whole song. And then the title.” He laughs.

“When you think of what’s going on in [the world]. I mean, we play ‘Hard Times’ on there, too. It’s like, folks without a home. Where are we now? What is going on around here?”

Those questions come to the fore again on the full “Home on the Range” later. The song starts relatively straightforwardly, but after a couple of minutes it goes into a dark, abstract zone. That is how the album ends.

“I didn’t have that planned out,” he says. “The stuff just happens organically and then we piece it together, and that’s what it is. But then you see how the music reflects the place we’re at. I didn’t have a preconceived idea. It’s always easier after the fact to make a story out of it somehow.”

The story of Bill Frisell, inevitably, touches on his generous, easygoing manner. It seems to be mentioned every time someone talks or writes about him. Does he ever get tired of people saying how nice he is?

He hesitates.

“No,” he says, sheepishly. “I don’t know if I’m really that nice. I try to be a good person, but I don’t know. I mean, there’s a lot going on underneath the surface.”

He laughs, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

“I get upset,” he says. “I have to wake up and look at the news every day and that doesn’t help, you know?”

He pauses one more time.

“But I guess that’s all the more reason for us to try to be good to each other.”

Photo Credit: Marko Mijailovic

Buck Meek’s Musical Worlds Collide

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Buck Meek doesn’t give the whole game away. It’s not guaranteed he’ll tell you exactly what his songs are about. However, he will expound, in detail no less, on how he gets himself in alignment to write them and what the mechanics of his songwriting process look and feel like. After six albums with Big Thief and four solo albums, most recently The Mirror, he has more than earned the right to hold back in some ways while sharing deeply in others.

Born and raised in Wimberley, Texas, Meek grew up playing guitar, singing, and writing songs surrounded by a community of old-guard outlaw songwriters, western swing players, and barrelhouse blues musicians who took him under their wing at a young age, taught him how to play it how he felt it, and gave him his first gigs around the Texas Hill Country. At the same time, annual trips to the nearby Kerrville Folk Festival introduced him to the rich traditions of Texan folk music.

As the grandson of scholars who studied the two Williams – Shakespeare and Faulkner – and the son of a child psychologist and a glass sculptor, it’s easy to surmise he was never short on literature and art. His depth of influence and fluency come through in how he speaks about his musical practice and his commitment to it.

When he was 17, Meek left Texas for Boston, where he studied jazz at Berklee College of Music before finding community with a generation of young musicians who wanted to write their own songs and play sweaty rock shows in basements. Later, he moved to New York, where he began performing with Adrianne Lenker. The two musicians lived in a van, singing their songs across the country before forming Big Thief. Fourteen years later, the East Coast’s long-standing punk and rock traditions are as much a part of his musical DNA as the Americana, country, folk, and blues he was raised on. The eureka moment came when he let his two worlds collide musically.

Produced by Big Thief drummer James Krivchenia, The Mirror features a stunning cast of family and friends turned collaborators, including his brother Dylan, Lenker, the hauntological harpist Mary Lattimore, Adam Brisbane, Germaine Dunes, Staci Foster, and the Avant-Americana icon and former BGS advice columnist Jolie Holland.

Opening with the range-roving rhythms and bittersweetly sung melodies of “Gasoline,” Meek digs into the intricacies of relationships and communication throughout the album, rendering them in a traditionalist alt-country and western style, underpinned by modular synthesis and subtle electronic textures from Krivchenia and engineer Adrian Olsen.

On “Can I Mend It,” he describes a deeply regrettable moment where raw emotions crystallize, before shattering into a million potentially irreparable fragments. As he laments on the chorus, “Can I mend it?/ Can I make it whole?/ Now that you’ve seen into the dark side of my soul.” Later, when Meek looks in the mirror on “Demon,” Olsen’s modular synthesis briefly overpowers the band with a not-so-subtle squelch. As with all parts of the album, there’s a reason for this.

By the time The Mirror closes with the summery, sunset shuffle of “Outta Body,” we’ve lived with Meek for a spell. Although, as he argues in this interview, we never really fully know anyone else, or even ourselves for that matter. Sometimes, when you look at someone from that right angle, or let our communication move beyond words, we achieve brief but precious moments of understanding.

On a Wednesday morning in early March, Meek spoke with Good Country by video call about all of the above and more.

How are you doing? What do your days look like at the moment?

Buck Meek: I just moved to Los Angeles. I got this big old yard, but the fence is kind of patchy. My little dog keeps running away. I’ve just been chasing my dog around every day. She keeps escaping and there are peacocks everywhere in my neighborhood. So my dog is just chasing peacocks all day long. I’ve also been trying to learn how to garden a little bit, planting some plants, and doing lots of interviews.

It’s one thing to be in a band that succeeds, but it’s a whole other thing to be able to have a solo career as well. What’s the difference between how things have played out for you and the future you imagined when you were younger?

I grew up playing blues, ragtime, and jazz manouche with some local cats, Django Porter and Brandon Gist, and playing in icehouses around the Texas Hill Country. I felt really happy when I played the guitar, and that was enough. I didn’t really have any idea what it even meant to be a musician in the world. When you’re a kid, you don’t know how any of that works. Of course, I idolized Jimmy Page and the like, but that felt completely out of reach.

Do you think what you’re describing was a common experience for musicians your age growing up in Texas?

I think the bar bands of the world are the modern folk musicians. Really, the people who are keeping the songs alive are the ones who have never made an album, or nobody’s ever heard of. The people who play in bars around the world in small towns. They’re the ones who keep the spirit of music alive. There is this incredible relationship between the elders at the bars and the little kids coming up as guitar students. Inevitably, the star kid, the kid who works the hardest, gets taken under the wing by the old-timer as their protege. There are these beautiful relationships that pass down knowledge. I think you find that pretty much everywhere.

I’ve gone on to have bands with names and travel around the world, but when I’m on stage playing guitar, it still feels the same as it did back then. It’s just me and my guitar. It’s a very simple form of happiness. It’s very fulfilling, whether people show up or not. There’s a life cycle to attention, but as long as I have my guitar, I don’t care.

At the heart of it, it’s about your relationship with your instruments and the musicians you play with, right?

Totally. In the words of Tom Sachs, the reward for good work is more work. As long as I get to do it again the next day, I’m good.

When you think about your career in Big Thief and as a solo artist, do you feel like you’ve mostly been able to do it on your own terms?

Yes, for the most part, but we’ve done it collectively. Everyone in Big Thief is very uncompromising in our own ways, but we all have blind spots. Because we’re a group of people, we’re able to call each other out on our blind spots, maintain our collective lack of compromise, and never sell out, never sell our souls. I’ve been lucky to be surrounded by people who have a perspective on that. We’ve done it on our own terms. I’ve definitely learned the power of that over the years.

Do you ever feel like you were born in the wrong era?

No, I don’t feel that way. I’m stoked.

What do you think the era you emerged within has afforded you that a previous era might not have?

Of course, it’s a two-headed monster, but access to communication, for example, how we’re talking now, helps so much. Not being beholden to a record label giving you a budget, and being able to record your own music at home is huge as well. Now, people are able to hear that music on Bandcamp or the like, which allows you to go and play shows around the world. That’s a very new phenomenon. It’s been a huge part of building my career.

When we started booking tours, we recorded our first album at our friend’s house. We were burning copies to CD-R, putting them in brown paper bags, and passing them out to anyone we could think of. We basically asked all our friends in Brooklyn if they had friends in other towns and got their email addresses. We’d email them our record and ask if we could play a show in the town where they lived. We just kind of pieced this tour together around the country.

We used the internet as a tool to get started, but we’d drive to these towns, meet these people, shake their hands, and become friends. Eventually, we moved out of our apartments, bought a crappy van, hit the road, and played a lot of shows: parties, basements, whatever. Getting in a room with people was essential.

How do you feel about going on the road by yourself?

Lately, I really enjoy traveling with a band. I’ve had some really good solo tours, especially down in the desert and around the Southwest. My friend Tony Presley, who runs the label Keeled Scales, released my first two solo records. He’s an Austin kid. He’s a booking agent as well, but he primarily books small towns and DIY venues. He booked a few tours for me around the Southwest. Taos in New Mexico, out in the desert, El Paso and Santa Fe. Little towns in Arizona, and out in the Hill Country of Texas, stuff like that. That’s always a lot of fun.

How much impact do you think the people you meet through these experiences have had on your music?

I think they’ve made me who I am, which has a big impact on my music. I mostly think of songwriting as the time I spend away from my guitar and my songs. I really try to put it down and just go out into the world and live my life. That’s the real work, living your life as a person in the world.

How close do you think we can get to truly knowing another person?

We never fully get there. I think the closest we can often get is by looking at them sideways or trying to find oblique solutions to communication. I think language is really powerful, but it’s limited. The space between words and conversations, and unspoken communication, often adds up to more of an understanding. The truth is, we never fully know ourselves either. So how can we know someone else? Often, I feel like it’s easier to understand someone else than to understand yourself. I think it’s just shifting constantly. There are moments of understanding, but there’s never any kind of permanence.

Tell me about the conditions under which your new album came together.

I spent a couple of years just living my life. I was living in a log cabin in Topanga and booked a recording date with my band about six months in advance. I sat on the porch every day for eight hours and wrote these songs. I’m blessed to have the resources to do that thanks to my label, 4AD. I put in the time to write the tunes, and then I brought the band together in the cabin.

We set up the big living room with the drums. I stood on the front porch and recorded the vocals outside with a big window into the living room. So there was enough isolation for the drums. Our producer, James Krivchenia, had this setup of electronic instruments and modular synths in the control room with our engineer, Adrian Olsen. They were using the live band as triggers for modular synths and some electronic synthesis feedback in the mix. The album was made live with my band. We moved pretty quickly. There was about a week and a half of tracking.

The other thing I’m the proudest of is how much fun we had making it. It was a great group of people. We had a blast cooking good meals, playing cards, and running around the woods. The music was just a small part of it. I’m glad I can share it as an artifact, but the experience was really the best part.

I thought it was interesting how subtle the use of modular synthesis was.

The entry point for the idea was to be pretty bold, but in practice, the band held a lot of space for the songs. James wanted to focus on the songs as the primary force. There were certain moments where the modular synth took the lead. At one point in the song “Demon,” it kind of takes over and swallows the band for a second. There’s this battle between the two worlds.

For the most part, it’s pretty subtle. For me, it represents the subconscious. The band is the conscious world – a structured, acoustic-instrument world. The electronic elements represent the subconscious. I speak about this in the lyrics of these songs, this kind of play between the conscious and subconscious, intention and intuition, and all these things. It’s subtle, but if you were to remove the electronics, the impact would be great.

It’s like Ernest Hemingway’s iceberg theory. You only ever see the 20% of the iceberg that floats above the surface.

I think having a nod to this limitless space, this ambient world where there’s no grid, no structure, not as much transient energy, this textural, abstract, liquid aspect of the album, opens up the subconscious a little bit in the listening experience.

While listening to The Mirror, I thought about how no one has a monopoly on interiority. Just because someone doesn’t say much in a conversation doesn’t mean they don’t have a lot going on upstairs.

I like playing with that in songwriting. I feel this pressure to be precise and create a very clear map and logic for people to follow. My ideas have to be very concrete, but that’s a rule I’ve imposed on myself. It’s exciting to be able to, to some degree, reveal an abstract inner world amid structure and logic.

I know that pressure is self-imposed or has been projected onto me by society at large. It’s something I try to push back against, while still honoring the medium. There’s a reason that people want some form of relativity or underlying structure. There is always a need for a starting point in communication, but I think we must know when to depart from that structure to express the full spectrum of our ideas and truth. There’s a balance. It’s important to honor it, because otherwise you’re just isolating yourself.

When did you start thinking about songwriting in the sort of terms you’ve just articulated?

I started writing songs in high school as a confession to my high school crush. I just wrote a love song for love’s sake. It was no more complicated than that. I think that’s really the heart of a song. Ideally, for me, a song has a reason to be. It comes from some form of compulsion, or a need to articulate something or to create an artifact, to be able to pull something out of your body and observe it as some form of catharsis. To me, those are the best songs, but there are no rules for the context.

How did you develop your approach to it all?

As I started writing, my self-education was mining the world for songs that, for lack of a better term, felt good. I was trying to find songs that really moved me. Intuitively, I started trying to understand why a song makes me feel something. I’d unpack every word and learn the song and the melody while trying to understand the relationship between them. I wanted to understand how the melody sanctified the lyric and what the rhythm had to do with it.

Let’s talk about taste. There’s a constructed taste you can use as a tool to help people understand where you are. Then, there are those songs that you might not even think you like, but they make the hairs stand up on your neck.

The older I get, the more willing I am to accept those things for myself and really listen to that intuition. As a young kid, I was obsessed with pop country. In my teenage years, I rejected it. When I listen now, it still hits me in the same way it did when I was six. I’ve learned to embrace that. Sometimes, you’ve got to be able to come home. I think with this album, I was thinking about moments when my body wanted to say something, but my mind would kick in and say, “Oh, the critics won’t think that is cool, hip, or smart enough.” I had to lean into those lines and say them twice, say them louder. If you can do that, no one can touch you.

Have you ever thought about how lakes and streams were the original mirrors?

Yeah, ponds and lakes and puddles and things. Good point. They’re still enough to provide a reflection, but also fluid enough that you can throw a rock in and diffuse them. There’s still a relativity to it, which is more true to what a reflection really is. There’s some form of objectivity, but to some degree, it’s just a construct.

Photo Credit: Germaine van der Sanden

Paul Burch’s Songs for Absence and Guarding Space

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

The songs for my album Cry Love came like automatic writing, as if exhaled after too long at a high altitude. And they were recorded as if my band, the WPA Ballclub, had known them for a long time.

A common theme thematically and lyrically is absence. Absence can be volatile. The songs that inspired Cry Love have much in common, particularly a sense of space. Bedrock instruments such as bass or drums are absent or played as loops. Sometimes there’s hardly instruments at all.

Our decade since 2020 has been a slow developing picture of things absent or out of focus. First place. Then time. Then people. Then, this year, the absence for me and my family became the loss of a person. Earth, air, sky, salty sea, and sand were thrown amuck. Cry Love and these songs guard that space – that absence – with music. – Paul Burch

 

A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure’s been turned over to you!

I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.

So…it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.

– A. Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

 

“Paris” – Moondog

The Viking of 6th Avenue, who lost his sight as a boy, spent most of his life performing on the corners between 52nd and 55th street. His compositions and collages made him friends like Charlie Parker, Benny Goodman, and Arturo Toscanini, who testified in court on Moondog’s behalf in his suit against DJ Alan Freed for co-opting “Moondog” for his radio show in Cleveland. Freed lost and apologized on air. This is Moondog’s late in life collaboration with the London Saxophonic. Beautiful.

“If I Lived in a Picture” – The Green Pajamas

The Green Pajamas are from Seattle and, like me, have never been on a major label. But that’s never stopped them from making gorgeous tunes like this one that upon first listen instantly vaulted them to one of my favorites ever.

“Telephone Blues” – Snoozer Quinn

My dear friend, supersonic guitarist and producer Richard Bennett, turned me on to Snoozer Quinn, the lost jazz pioneer who in the ’20s and ’30s scared the wits out of contemporaries Lonnie Johnson and Eddie Lang with his out of this world sound. There are stories of musicians filling hotel rooms and hallways to gander at a Snoozer jam session. Louis Armstrong was a great fan, as well.

Snoozer left the cutthroat NYC scene and went home to Louisiana where he died young from tuberculosis – but not before a musician pal captured him literally in his deathbed. The best part of this story is I turned Tim O’Brien onto Snoozer and Tim turned on his ole pal Bill Frisell. My good deed.

“How Much I Owe” – The Radio Four

All of the Nashboro gospel recordings are beautiful, but I’m especially drawn to the urgency of the Radio Four. Thanks to Jonathan Marx of Lambchop for the introduction. Featuring the great country bassist Lightning Chance, whose credits include Hank Williams and the Everly Brothers – and suggesting the Jordanaires’ “number system” for vocal parts be applied to Nashville sessions.

“Poinciana” – Ahmad Jamal Trio

Recorded live at the Pershing Hotel in Chicago. I especially love “Poinciana” for drummer Vernel Fournier, who reminds me of Nashville great and WPA batteur Justin Amaral. Bassist Israel played on Charlie Christian’s “Profoundly Blue.” Recorded by Chess Records engineer Malcolm Chisholm, who probably cut a session for Muddy Waters the next day.

“Sun Rays,” “Last of My Kind” – Pony Hunt

Jessie Antonick, who performs as Pony Hunt, is a musical gem. I love this live performance of “Sun Rays.” The finger snaps just send me.

I also dig their lovely version of my tune, “Last of My Kind,” which sounds like an alternative version of the WPA Ballclub.

“So Sweet You Are” – Dog On Fleas

I’m sure these lyrics got into my head for songs like “I Won’t Miss My Baby Anymore” and “Braggin'” which share the Willie Dixon “left is right, I may I might” school of playful revelation.

“Ready to Leave” – Emahoy Tsege Mariam Gebru

For me, all of Ethiopian composer and pianist Emahoy Tsege Mariam Gebru’s works are enchanting. But I especially love the album Souvenirs, her first vocal collection. Mississippi Records describes it as “songs of wisdom, loss, mourning, and exile sung directly into a boombox,” which aptly describes my feelings writing Cry Love.

“The Whale Has Swallowed Me” – J.B. Lenoir

Both John Lee Hooker and Mr. Lenoir excelled at sparse blues storying around a hypnotic, looping beat. And a whale of a story it is. The great Fred Below, on drums, powered hundreds of classics at Chess.

(Watch a great live video of J.B. Lenoir performing the song on YouTube.)

“Misery” – Barrett Strong

A hypnotic, menacing tune in which melancholy carries a blade and a broken bottle. Sung from the heart of misery itself by Motown’s first hit artist (“Money”). I love the looping carousel bass line. Los Lobos did a beautiful version, too.

“I Need Somebody to Lean On” – Elvis Presley

Elvis was having a hard time musically and spiritually in the early ’60s but still made some beautiful records. By Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman (“Save the Last Dance for Me”). Elvis sounds inspired and committed with phrasing that evokes a bit of Chet Baker.

”

“Complex” – Tristen

I’ve been crazy for Tristen’s music since I first heard her perform with a trio in front of Whole Foods (of all places) over a dozen years ago. That was the old Nashville. We both play Epiphone Casinos, which makes us siblings of sorts – members of an exclusive club. I’d like to think so, anyway. “You can have your way until you get in my way.”

“Blow Wind Blow” – Muddy Waters

A great era for Muddy on stage with fiercely driving rhythm courtesy three guitarists and Pinetop Perkins.

Photo Credit: Jim Herrington. Pictured: Paul Burch (L) and Fats Kaplin (R). 

Sabine McCalla Makes a New Orleans Album Out of Global Traditions

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

In 1853, a 29-year-old Parisian photographer, Adolphe-Alexandre Martin, delivered a paper to the French Academy of Sciences. In his text, he proposed a process for creating a photographic image on thin, chemically coated metal sheets: the tintype. Between the late 19th and early 20th centuries, his invention became the portrait medium of choice, especially across North America, eventually falling out of fashion in the 1930s. Strikingly evocative, tintypes imbue subjects with a surreal, dreamlike quality, offering an emotional portal into the past.

Over a century and a half later, the New Orleans-based Haitian American singer-songwriter Sabine McCalla, younger sister of the influential classical and folk musician Leyla McCalla, asked the tintype revival photographer Meg Turner to take her portrait. For an artist who draws from the past while seeking pathways forward, using an old medium to capture something new was an instinctive choice. Turner’s image became the cover art and a lodestar for the central feelings underpinning McCalla’s debut album, Don’t Call Me Baby, released through Kurt DeLashmet and Nick Shoulders’s Gar Hole Records label.

As we discuss later in this interview, the inspiration for Don’t Call Me Baby wasn’t born from a happy moment. Rather than sinking into sadness, McCalla juxtaposes joy and heartbreak, using narrative storytelling as a vehicle for catharsis across nine haunting, surreal songs. On “Sunshine Kisses” she recalls being lost in liminality after a breakup before letting loose on the classic rock and roll slanted singalong “Louisiana Hound Dog” (a co-write with Dan Auerbach from The Black Keys and Pat McLaughlin). By the time “Two of Hearts” arrives, our protagonist is singing about three different suitors.

Amid the paradisiac instrumentation surrounding her soothing voice, McCalla and her producers, Sam Doores (of The Deslondes) and Ajaï Combelic, collaborate with a cast of more than a dozen musicians from her musical community in New Orleans. Together, they blend rhythm & blues, country, folk, jazz, Tropicália, quiet storm soul, and doo-wop into hypnotic roots music. Song by song, the results reflect a lifetime spent studying traditions from across the Americas, Europe, the Caribbean, and Africa. Equal parts comforting, adventurous, and spicy, she serves up an Americana hotpot that speaks to the world while being informed by it.

Last month, McCalla joined BGS on a video call. Sitting on a yellow couch surrounded by rosebud-hued walls and framed art, she spent just under an hour with us. In a discursive conversation, we explored the influence of life in Louisiana, her passion for musical history, and, given her background, the inevitability of her worldly confluence of sensibilities. A thoughtful speaker, McCalla isn’t the type to rush her answers. She’s also happy to keep a point simple or, when needed, throw in some extended anecdotes. Sometimes it’s not that deep; other times, it really is.

How important is a sense of place and location to your music?

Sabine McCalla: I don’t know. I mean, it is important. Louisiana and New Orleans have been characters in, or influenced my music a lot. But I’ve certainly written songs outside of New Orleans and Louisiana. I think any land we connect with is important when we’re writing songs.

From the outside looking in, it’s easy to surmise that there is a quality to New Orleans and the musical community that lives there that unlocked something in your artistry.

Yeah, it’s definitely been very inspiring. New Orleans is a very musical city. Nearly everyone you meet is a musician or plays more than one instrument. It’s incredibly culturally rich here. Learning to play music in this environment, you learn certain styles, or you learn with a focus on dancing. There’s a lot of rhythm & blues, soul, and second-line music, and people dancing in the street. I think dancing is something I was thinking of when I thought about how I want these songs to be listened to. Like I’m thinking of a honky-tonk dive bar, hot and steamy, lots of close dancing.

Who says you can’t dance to misery, right?

You certainly can. In fact, you’re probably a better dancer.

There’s something about the juxtaposition between a sad sentiment and a happy rhythm or melody that can be so moving.

I think innately we all want to experience pleasure, and we all have our pains that go with it. I think that’s what people are connecting with.

Unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, what is pleasure without pain?

Just a high.

New Orleans looms large in my mind as one of those places where traditions have been kept alive that don’t still exist elsewhere.

Yeah, for sure. There’s a tradition of passing down songs. There’s also so much space to create music here.

Don’t Call Me Baby is an ambitious album, but you succeed in your ambitions. You’ve braided a lot of threads together: different places, genres, periods of time. Was there a specific time in your life when you became interested in musical history, or looking to the past to find new ways to go forward?

I grew up playing classical music. Then I studied some old-time music from Appalachia. I’m interested in learning lots of old songs. I like listening to Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music. I feel like I’ve dug into a lot of pre-war recordings throughout the South and been inspired by ballad singing.

Like many people, I learned about the Anthology of American Folk Music through Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. There’s something about songwriters who go back and listen to their influences’ influences.

Totally. Shape-note singing is coming back into fashion now. I keep hearing about shape-note festivals around the country. My drummer, Howe Pearson, who also plays in The Deslondes, has been hosting a shape-note singing workshop every Monday.

What was it about the Anthology of American Folk Music that excited you?

They were songs I’d never heard before. I liked the quality of the voices on tape. So emotive and raw. And not just the Harry Smith anthology, Alan Lomax recordings too. I’ve always been interested in ethnomusicology. When I was younger, my sister and I had a mentor who played a lot of blues and jazz. I remember thinking he wrote these songs, until I realized, no, this white man from New Jersey did not write these songs. There’s this beautiful history of Black people in America who sang the blues and jazz and wrote so many songs that have been passed down.

Sometimes I wonder about the impact recorded music had on community singing. I’ve read that after phonograph records turned up, people became more self-conscious about singing at home. They’d hear these great singers and a shyness would set in.

People were keeping the songs they heard alive. They lived when there was no radio, so they were better keepers of songs than we are today. Now everything is so fast. There’s so much music, AI music, the industry pushing constant output, and not reviving songs. But I think a new resurgence of song revivals is happening.

You grew up in a Haitian family in New Jersey. Were your parents encouraging about music?

Yes and no. My sister’s also a musician. My mom was like, “Leyla’s the musician. You need to figure out your own path.” I was like, “No, I think I want to do this.” Both of my parents always encouraged choosing your own path and focusing on it.

It’s not always immediately obvious, but there’s a strong Haitian influence in American music.

Yeah, the Fugees! Lauryn Hill went to my high school. Her album The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill is like a bible to me. It’s a perfect album – the intros, outtakes, transitions. Lyrically empowering. I grew up on her songs. I’m grateful for my high school. We had amazing music teachers.

I graduated with SZA and Dave Authors, and a few others who’ve done great things. My sister Leyla McCalla went there, too. New Jersey is incredibly diverse. A lot of people immigrate to New York and then move into the suburbs, which my family did as well.

Did you grow up on a bit of everything musically?

Classical music. School trips to the opera. My parents played the Haitian groups Boukman Eksperyans and RAM. We listened to The Beatles, Bob Marley, and Rod Stewart.

When I think about Americana, I think about this confluence of cultures and musical traditions that came together in the South. When did it become attractive to you?

It all came together naturally. I was focused on pre-war songs, then going through decades of music. When I moved here, I got interested in The Boswell Sisters and songs collected in New Orleans in the early 1900s. Then I learned about Lonnie Johnson, the godfather of rock ’n’ roll. Through studying songs, I realized that it’s all Americana music. It influenced how I sang and created songs.

In a sense, there’s an inevitability to where you arrived.

I originally wrote and sang songs a cappella. That became my EP, Folk. My friends Leonie Evans and Steph Green helped with backup vocals. There wasn’t much thought about creating a larger sound until I met Eli “Paperboy” Reed. I’d already been listening to New Orleans R&B and soul, and when he put chords to my songs, I was like, “Oh, this is the sound I’ve been looking for.” That changed how I thought about songs. I also grew up listening to [the Tropicália singer-songwriter] Caetano Veloso. I’ve been trying to read his book Tropicalism, but there are so many references to Brazilian artists. It’s going to take forever.

After growing up in New Jersey, you moved to New Orleans, where this was all even more concentrated. There was a weekly jam session you’d go to called the All-Star Covered Dish Country Jamboree.

Yes. The first time I went was in 2014, probably in February. Joy Patterson came up to me – she runs it – and said, “I know who you are.” I was like, “Oh no, this lady…” But I loved it. My sister had been living here, so people were like, “Oh, you’re Leyla’s sister.” I think I saw Sam Doores’ doo-wop group with Casey Jane, Camille Weatherford, Emma Eisenhower, Jon Hatchett, and Max Bien Kahn; they did a little doo-wop show. I thought it was so cute. I wanted to know these people. And I’ve ended up working with all of them.

From there, it became a weekly ritual in your life, right?

Yeah, it was like a church. Going to this country night where I could talk about songs with people and hear a lot of old songs: classic country, classic R&B and soul. Those things lit my soul up.

After all these experiences, what’s your understanding of country music and where you could fit into it in 2025?

I don’t know. Maybe giving voice to other women of color who are interested in country music, not just hip-hop or R&B, but a diversity of sounds. I also lived in Ghana growing up, and lots of people listen to country music in Africa. What surprised me was going to Ghana and someone saying, “Where’s your cowboy hat?” I was like, “I’m from New Jersey, not Texas!”

I get the sense that a lot of your music is therapeutic storytelling.

Yeah, it is. It comes from the heart.

What sort of stories do people tell you about their experiences with your music?

The best one was in London. Someone said their friend’s father passed away and left her a boat. She went sailing for three months. They didn’t listen to music for most of it, then one day she put on my record and that’s all they listened to. That made my heart swell. It’s making me tear up now. Another woman told me she’d separated from her husband and, after hearing my music, reached out to him, saying she was ready to compromise. I was like, damn… Hopefully, this music lets people feel they’re not alone in their feelings.

How much has loneliness driven your music?

It’s been a huge component. I value my alone time, but sometimes it’s a detriment when I’m alone too long or ruminating too long.

You need something to break the feedback loop. Tell me about the backdrop to this album?

I was playing with a lot of ideas. Not everything made it onto the record. A friend visited – she’s an amazing stylist – and I wanted to get a tintype photo done by Meg Turner. We did makeup, hair, clothes, jewelry, so much dazzling stuff, so I’d be shiny in the sun. It was hot in New Orleans. Right before taking the photo, I got a text from someone I was dating, and that’s the true look of shock on my face. After I saw the picture, I was like, “Everything needs to be based around this photo.”

It’s an amazing photo.

Right after that, I wrote “Sunshine Kisses” and then I thought, “What else goes with this?”

What sort of ideas did you have about the threads you wanted to bring together in the music?

I was like: What are all my breakup songs? I wanted it to be haunting, but warm. Some songs I wrote during the pandemic felt too cold for this album. I originally wanted to name it Sudden Blue because I was thinking of a colder feeling. But something transpired while making it; the songs were given a new breath by the people I was working with: Sam Doores, Gina Leslie, Roy Brenc, Howe Pearson, and Ajaï Combelic. It was a warm feeling in the room, lots of laughter. And we were doing it during Mardi Gras, during carnival season, which was wild, because we’d play shows at night and then go into the studio in the morning.

It’s amazing how much other people can make a difference to a creative process.

Yeah. We fed off each other. If there’s negativity or self-consciousness, it’s felt in the music. We were all happy to work out ideas and nerd out about music.

Did you have a heartbreak record, not necessarily one you idolized, but a north star to look towards?

A few albums inspired me. Lauryn Hill’s The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Fiona Apple’s When the Pawn… There were also songs: Irma Thomas’s hits, and “Andromeda” by Weyes Blood. It’s such a powerful song about all the emotions we face. Feeling lonely, then liking the loneliness, then changing your mind five times a day.

Photo Credits: Lead image by Camille Lenain; album cover tintype by Meg Turner.

BGS 5+5: Liam Kazar

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Artist: Liam Kazar
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Latest Album: Pilot Light (out November 7, 2025)

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Recently I was on the Outlaw Country Tour with Waxahatchee. Sheryl Crow had invited us all to join her on stage for the last night. Her production folks started passing out little percussion instruments, I think I traded the tambourine with Spencer (drummer) for something reasonable I could play. We all stepped up on the drum riser, me with a drumstick and a cowbell. Then Sheryl turned around and took her guitar off in one smooth motion. She passed it to me and whispered, “D.” Once I made it through the first chorus and got the nod from her guitar player that I was hearing the right chords, I knew this would be the peak of my entire life.

What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?

The next one. Not to be cliché, but it’s true. I’m constantly in fear of having written my last song. I always start from a place of “how the hell do you do this?” I’m on tour right now and I’ve been working on a song whenever I have a guitar in my hands. I oscillate between knowing exactly what I think should happen next and feeling like starting over. Both can be the right answer and that’s pretty par for the course. But every once in a while they fall out of you like a dime from your pocket. Wish I knew how to make that happen every time.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

Flaubert said, “Madame Bovary, c’est moi.”

It’s all me and none of it’s true. I don’t think I could avoid myself if I tried, but I also pull little visions and observations from the people around me all the time. I think you have to be curious about people to be a good writer.

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

I would say 50% of the music I listen to is instrumental. Jazz from the ’40s and ’50s in particular. Hard bop and big band music is a constant. Duke Ellington is my favorite American artist. Endlessly inspiring and a huge influence on my melodic sensibility.

Although, recently I have been listening to a lot of Romantic symphonies. Beautiful and mind-altering!

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

I think Woody Guthrie might have said it better than I ever could: take it easy, but take it.

Photo Credit: Alexa Viscius

Guitarist Ben Garnett’s New Album Transcends the Instrument

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

My conversation with Ben Garnett finds him at about a decade in Music City and in the swing of an album cycle for Kite’s Keep, the guitarist-composer’s second full-length solo record. Our discussion centers around the ethos of modern string band music, what the guitar has to say about it, and the potential for folk music’s inherent narrative quality to uplift and move past tradition itself.

Garnett’s perspective on these topics is one that is quite underrepresented: A graduate of the University of North Texas’s famously rigorous jazz guitar program, he spent his early years in Texas developing the skills needed as a pop-oriented sideman and session player, while making ripples in the experimentally disposed Denton, Texas, before heading east. As we’ll find out, he has made disparate musical worlds come together, informing each other along the singular path he leads.

Upon arriving in Nashville, Garnett was quickly recruited as trailblazer Missy Raines’ go-to guitarist, while contributing his compositions and musicianship to progressive acoustic ensemble Circus No. 9. Though his path wasn’t entirely certain at first, his dedicated, open-minded approach to musicianship quickly yielded success both creatively and professionally. Now touring his original music while balancing responsibilities as a band member, the new album Kite’s Keep was made in collaboration with today’s top-of-the-heap acoustic guard: Darol Anger, Chris Eldridge, Brittany Haas, Ethan Jodziewicz, Paul Kowert and experimental pianist-composer Matt Glassmeyer.

I was surprised to hear Ben describe this project as a “guitar” record; being a guitarist myself, and with kindred reference points, I am conditioned to hear six string-born music through the instrument’s highly subjective – yet unendingly capable – lens, though Ben manages to disrupt this. His distinct transcendence of the instrument comes from embracing its format and stepping past folks’ conception of it, while explosively celebrating the guitar as a compositional tool.

Garnett’s ability to write for the room, so to speak, enables him to accommodate many players’ perspectives while balancing high precision with casualness. This is a blend of skill sets and priorities that are rare in ecosystems historically dominated by performative virtuosity. At every turn, Ben Garnett is courteous and grateful, crediting his achievements to friends, linchpins, and heroes within his scene – ones that he now orates his compelling tale alongside.

Is it safe to say that your new record, Kite’s Keep, portrays a narrative? Was that built into your approach as you wrote and recorded it?

Ben Garnett: Absolutely. Poetically speaking, the album title Kite’s Keep loosely refers to this idea of a child’s inner world – a dreamscape where each song represents a different vignette of imagination. The broader narrative has to do with using the acoustic guitar as a world-building tool. This idea that guitar records can be more expansive than just, “here’s my solo arrangement of such and such a tune.”

My goal was to make a record that celebrates the power of what an acoustic guitar can do as an ensemble instrument – like bringing out what other instruments are capable of. The guitar can act as this stage, or world, that other instruments can then inhabit.

So, in that way, would you say that this is a guitar record?

Definitely.

Interesting, because when I listen to it, it doesn’t necessarily feel that way, which is an aspect I’m quite partial to.

I’m curious why this feels like a guitar record to you. I know you’re facilitating these exchanges and you’re world-building with them, you’re obviously pushing past what the guitar is conceived of, but it sounds like you’re not trying to push past the guitar itself.

I guess the idea is that, in addition to world-building, a lot of the compositional material was guitar-born. I’m thinking of the fiddle and bass as extensions of what I would otherwise play. They’re bringing guitar-born ideas into this other register, carrying them to places where the guitar can only point.

Do you have a compositional process? Would you consider it more passive, or do you sit down to compose in a more dutiful way?

Sometimes it’s dutiful, but a lot of the time it’s passive, like when I’m at the airport. Thoughts come to me and I’ll write them down in my notes app. From there, it’s more like script or scene writing. For instance, I’ll want the tunes to arrive at a certain point and I’ll figure out how to get there in reverse. When I’m being more dutiful, I’ll realize a piece in a program like Ableton or Finale, or just by recording myself.

I wrote one tune in a weird way: I improvised freely for 15 minutes, mostly with long tones. The only directive was to play a note and whatever note I heard after that, I would immediately try to play. I chased my tail for 15 minutes and recorded myself. Then I sped up the recording by 400%. I chopped up the transients, warped it, and put the transients on different parts of the metric grid. I had a groove in mind – a half-time, kind of bluegrass-funky tempo. Since it was my melodic sensibility and the way I heard the notes flowing into each other, there was a certain intention and trajectory there.

So, you were kind of sampling yourself – that must get you out of your own head and off the instrument.

Yes. It gave me rhythms and phrasing that I never would have come across otherwise.

And then you learn it from yourself.

Exactly. … It’s the second track, with Darol Anger, “Tell Me About You.”

For something like that, which is more thoroughly composed, how do you make it sound so fluid in the studio while recording?

The process for that tune involved getting the basic elements assembled in Ableton, but then there was the process of arranging the material. Then after arranging, came “breaking in” the tune, so to speak.

Once I had a basic arrangement, I brought it to Darol. We probably got together four or so times. I remember asking him what would make it more idiosyncratic to his instrument and playing. He’d suggest adding a double stop somewhere or doing something rhythmically a little differently. Basically, it was all about massaging it so it didn’t feel clunky. It had to pass all these “tests” before we even got into the studio.

What are these tests that it must pass?

They have to do with the flow. Even if the compositional material comes from using a computer or another unusual place, the music still has to have this casualness. String band music tends to sound its strongest when the parts rely on each other in a certain way. I generally will “test” my music by playing it with as many people as I can, to make sure it has an inherent interpretive quality. Making sure the ideas are robust enough to hold water no matter who’s playing them.

For people who don’t know, you come from Dallas, you went through UNT’s jazz guitar program, and then you moved to Nashville. I’m curious how you found Nashville with your sensibilities, growing of musical age in an environment that is uniquely experimental, yet highly rigorous. Did you come here with the aspirations of doing the things that you’re doing now?

Not at all. At the time, it was much more open-ended than that. I was mostly driven by wanting to get out of Texas. But I had also just gone to the Acoustic Music Seminar with Mike Marshall, Julian Lage, Bryan Sutton, and Aoife O’Donovan, which was a hugely formative experience. I think it was Sutton who offhandedly mentioned, “You should think about moving to Nashville.” I knew there were acoustic musicians here I looked up to – the whole Sam Bush and Jerry Douglas generation of players and I knew Critter [Chris Eldridge] and Sutton were here, too.

At that time, I was also in a phase of wanting to be an electric guitar player. The idea of being a session musician or side-person appealed to me. I had an electric background playing all kinds of music back in Texas – jazz, rock, country, pop, etc. I remember my cousin and my first guitar hero, Andy Timmons, telling me, “Nashville is definitely where I would be if I were your age.” It just seemed like the most open-ended place for the variety of interests I had.

Did you feel like you could do what you wanted to do at first?

It took a while to figure that out. I got a job with bluegrass bassist Missy Raines two weeks after arriving, which was a great first touring experience. I had the idea of making a solo record in my head for a long time, but I always thought I’d wait until I was 30 or so to make it. However, at one point, I distinctly remember Missy telling me, “You definitely need to make a record before you’re 30,” which was amazing advice.

I also got a job with progressive bluegrass band Circus No. 9, a year or so after moving, and was expected to bring in original music to build out our repertoire. The more engrossed I got in the progressive bluegrass world, the more I realized how rare my perspective on it was. It felt isolating at first, but being on the road with Missy and Circus was like being in a second family where I got to realize my position and perspective.

Fast forward a few years, and my hero Chris Eldridge agreed to produce my first solo record, Imitation Fields.

I’m always fascinated by the Dennis Hopper quote where he says one day an actor wakes up and they decide they’re a producer. I’m wondering if you feel similarly in regard to pursuing your voice as a bandleader, composer, artist. I feel like in the current state of the music industry, with how comically hard it is to do anything, it’s almost like a fatalistic, “Why not?”

I’m curious if you could speak to the process of finding yourself in a record of your own stuff and what advice you might give to somebody trying to figure it out.

It goes back to the validation thing. I probably wouldn’t have made a record without all the help and encouragement from those around me. I hate to even frame it this way, but I just have to count my blessings. In some ways, I feel like I walked into something that was waiting for me.

You could have stayed in Texas and made records, but you wouldn’t have made the records you’re making here in town.

Absolutely. Who knows what those Texas records would’ve sounded like.

Going back to your question on what advice I’d give to somebody figuring it out. If you’re an aspiring musician who wants to make your own music, I’d advise not to be too career-oriented at first. Obviously, you need to do what it takes to pay the bills. But there’s a lot of music out there that, to me, sounds born from a certain careerist mentality, which I frankly find to be taking up space.

All the stuff I’m doing now – booking my own tours, stocking merchandise, making promo graphics, being my own publicist (essentially being a small-business owner) – is all really new to me. I moved to Nashville just to see what would happen. I had no real objective. Even if it at times felt meandering or directionless, I’m grateful for the space I inadvertently gave myself to try things. You find yourself in that process, and I think your art becomes more meaningful as a result.

Another factor worth considering in finding myself was the impact of COVID. Critter and I were in the middle of editing Imitation Fields during this time and I think if it weren’t for COVID, it could have easily been, “Okay, we’ve recorded now – let’s edit, mix, master, then done.” All the sudden, it became a whole process of, “What if we tried this? What if we did that?”

It’s like being in a block of molasses. You’re not thinking, “I have three days in the studio, and we have to figure it out.”

Exactly. We had all this time. No corners were cut. … It was kind of insane. I didn’t quite realize it at the time. I’m just really grateful, even if it ultimately drove me a little crazy.

As someone who puts a lot of meticulous work into the visuals which accompany your music, how do you feel that film informs music and vice versa?

First and foremost, the two seem inseparable. For those of us who can see and hear, we’re always looking at something while we’re listening and we’re always listening while we’re looking. That connection is inherent, so my argument is, why not have a say in both realms of sensory experience?

On top of that, I think there’s something cinematically interesting with the traditions of jazz and folk music. A lot of folk music tends to have this quality of wanting to tell a story, albeit in a fairly literal way. Listening to a song, there can be this mini-movie playing in the listener’s mind. Maybe they’re imagining a character, or their own life experiences – whatever the case may be, it largely seems to be about evoking imagery on some level.

In contrast, that kind of storytelling seems less of an objective in jazz. Jazz tends to revolve around this more abstract, spontaneous kind of communication. Which feels equally as cinematic, but the goal of that storytelling feels distinctly different than with folk music.

Of course these are generalizations and I don’t mean to be reductive with either music. This is all to say – the way these traditions interact with our “cinematic” experience of music is something I find deeply fascinating and is a huge source of inspiration for my writing and playing.

It’s the same phenomenon with a song like “Nine Pound Hammer” that has lyrics and semantic content, but is also a vehicle for instrumental virtuosity. I feel like you’re meeting in the middle there.

Absolutely. This is where bluegrass, in some ways, has the best of both worlds.

What I think initially drew me to folk music, in general, was the cinematic quality I didn’t get playing jazz standards. Obviously, there’s the storytelling you get listening to the great singer-songwriters, but there’s also listening to bands like Strength in Numbers. It feels like cinematic stories are being told in those compositions.

Do you feel like a more approachable rhythmic foundation provides a shoo-in for listeners to more quickly imagine a world?

It certainly can. But I also think it’s this general narrative quality in folk music that provides this. For instance, when I play a tune with Brittany [Haas], there’s almost this unspoken objective between us to build the tune in a certain way. In a way that’s very different from playing a jazz tune.

As an aside, I think that’s why people sometimes misunderstand jazz or say they can’t connect with it. Most of the time, jazz isn’t trying to do what most pop or folk music is doing. It’s not trying to conjure a story in this literal way. What makes jazz work is how it centers around this more abstract, colloquial communication.

Perhaps in that way, music school’s training isn’t always “backwards compatible.” Is that fair to say?

I grew up being taught a certain set of rules about how to make good music from going to jazz school. Then, when I moved to Nashville and started working with string band musicians, I realized what I was working with was quite different from the rules they had grown up with.

I think this intersection is what makes someone like Edgar Meyer a powerful force. In some ways, he’s able to pull out all these things in people like Jerry Douglas, Russ Barenberg, Béla Fleck, Mike Marshall, and Sam Bush by bringing in this other perspective from his classical background.

He also realized that the same rules did not apply.

Exactly. He’s able to take what those musicians are giving him, see what they’re good at, harness it, and arrive at a perspective that none of them would have had otherwise.

Photo Credit: Natia Cinco