Tag: jazz

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

Ethan Setiawan’s Personal Encyclopedia Mandolinnica

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

A short history of the mandolin in America: The mandolin is essentially a small lute which has been around since the 1300s. Italian immigrants brought bowl-back mandolins to the States in the 1800s. Mandolin orchestras were big in the 19th and 20th centuries, believe it or not. In fact, a whole mandolin family exists with mandolas, mandocellos, and mandobasses out there.

Around the turn of the 20th century, Orville Gibson started to develop flat-backed mandolins constructed more similarly to guitars. Finally, in the 1920s, Lloyd Loar created the F5 mandolin, with its longer neck and F holes. These new instruments were built to project and fill a concert hall, though they were ill-timed – the mandolin orchestra craze was fading and not ’til Bill Monroe picked up one of those instruments from a barbershop in Florida in the ’30s did they come back into their own. Since then, bluegrass mandolinists the world over have played these instruments or copies thereof. I play an instrument by John Monteleone, who started innovating on Lloyd Loar’s design in the 1980s – and so the tradition continues.

My new album, Encyclopedia Mandolinnica, turned into a survey of Western and Northern mandolin styles quite quickly. It’s very much been shaped by these inspiring musicians who were very kindly up for playing a duet with me. We go on a real journey through bluegrass both progressive and traditional, old-time, jazz, classical, and Scottish trad. The chance to get to work with these heroes of mine has been such a pleasure and invoked several “pinch me” moments. One of the most beautiful things was getting to see how everyone approached our little 8-stringed instrument so uniquely. I learned something from playing with and working alongside each of the mandolinists that agreed to be a part of the project!

In putting together this playlist I thought about my personal inspirations as well as the mandolin’s place in musical cultures across the world. It ranges from hardcore bluegrass, to Brazilian choro, over to Scottish trad – with lots of things in the middle. It mostly features folks you can hear on Encyclopedia Mandolinnica. I hope you enjoy my guided tour of the mandolin! – Ethan Setiawan

“Victoria” – Ethan Setiawan & Mike Marshall

Mike is a legend of the mandolin. He was an early member of the David Grisman Quintet and went on to collaborate with Darol Anger, among others. He helped write the book on progressive acoustic music and mandolin styles therein. This tune of mine falls within that realm and Mike was the perfect person to play it with.

“Shoulda Seen It Comin’” – Mike Marshall & Chris Thile

Mike also duetted with this young guy Chris Thile, whom you may have heard of. The live record that this cut is from is one of my very favorite recorded mandolin performances. Both mandolinists are at the top of their game. This tune was in my ear quite a bit when writing the previous tune, which maybe you can hear?

“There Will Never Be Another You” – Don Stiernberg

Don is one of the world’s foremost practitioners of jazz mandolin – a combination of words you might have never thought you’d hear. He studied with the great Jethro Burns of Homer & Jethro before forging his own path forward into a style where few mandolinists have ventured. Don was a teacher of mine during high school and it was great fun to get to be in the studio together for Encyclopedia Mandolinnica.

“Jiguaraña” – Ethan Setiawan & Maurizio Fiore Salas

Venezuela has a rich and beautiful mandolin tradition that not many folks are aware of. This tune is a co-write between myself and Maurizio. We took a jig (a Celtic form in 6/8) that I came up with and Maurizio had the bright idea of putting it over a Venezuelan rhythm called guarana (also in 6/8). It’s always a joy to play with Maurizio, he challenges me in the right ways.

“Wonderful” – Kinnaris Q (Laura-Beth Salter)

Laura-Beth is at the forefront of the Scottish trad revolution in Glasgow, Scotland. This track by her band Kinnaris Q puts the mandolin front and center – when she takes the tune at 1:52 check out the facile right hand triplets! We co-direct the Glasgow Mandolin Retreat as well and it’s always great to get a tune with LB.

“Blue Grass Stomp” – Bill Monroe

This is where it all started for a lot of us. Bill Monroe, along with Earl Scruggs and Lester Flatt, in the ’40s had something electric and powerful, so much so that in large part bluegrass has been unchanged since then.

“New Cimarron” – Matt Flinner

Matt Flinner is one of my favorite mandolinists out there. One of the many things that strikes me about his playing is how good it feels. Everything is placed so precisely and beautifully. He also writes great tunes that beautifully synthesize lots of things we love about bluegrass, old-time, and jazz. This is one of my favorite tunes of his.

“Golden” – Ethan Setiawan

In a similar tradition to the last tune, this is my take on a progressive “new acoustic” tune. Darol Anger on the fiddle here, he produced this album and it was such a joy to work with him on it.

“O Voo Da Mosca” – Jacob Do Bandolim

While bluegrass was developing up north, another mandolinist was fusing styles down south. Way down south. In short, choro is a fusion of classical forms with jazz harmony and Afro-Brazilian rhythms – similar on the page to ragtime. Jacob Do Bandolim (which translates to Jacob the mandolin, amazing) wrote many tunes that became staples of the style and was a virtuosic mandolinist to boot.

“Saint Cecilia Caprice” – Hamilton De Holanda

Hamilton De Holanda is the Chris Thile of Brazil. Amazing technically and a great musical mind. He wrote a double album of caprices and made the music public on his website, as well. Every mandolinist reading this: go download them, now!

“Salt Spring” – John Reischman

The greatest modern jam standard of our time! John is another great tune writer. He also gets the most beautiful sound out of the mandolin.

“Shetland Jigs” – Hildaland (Ethan Setiawan)

My own contribution to the Scottish trad lexicon from my duo with fiddler Louise Bichan, Hildaland. These are a couple nice jigs from Shetland. I’m playing mandola here, but I’ve tuned the highest string down a step and put on a capo so that the strings are tuned DAEA. This is inspired by the fiddle, which is crosstuned – common in old-time but not so common in Great Britain. We thought it was a cool connection to draw for our duo which goes between those styles at will.

“Canon at the Twelfth in Counterpoint at the Fifth” – Caterina Lichtenberg & Mike Marshall

Caterina is one of the greatest classical mandolinists to ever live. There have been vital classical mandolin traditions going on this whole time in Italy and Germany, which is so cool to see. Classical music is being made on the mandolin at very high levels and being taught as well.

“Queen of the Earth, Child of the Stars” – Sharon Gilchrist & John Reischman

A beautiful old-time tune, played so beautifully by Sharon on mandolin, John on mandola, and backed up by Scott Nygaard on guitar. I first heard this tune played late at night by Darol Anger and Bruce Molsky at Freshgrass a bunch of years ago now and it’s stuck with me ever since.

“Big Hill” – Ethan Setiawan & Andrew Marlin

Andrew has taken the mandolin scene by storm over the past several years with beautiful tunes and great trad bluegrass playing. Part of the thing that developed with this project was to write something that I thought might work well for each guest – not to explicitly write something that sounded like theirs, but to draw a little inspiration. I think this tune captured something there and I love the way Andrew accompanies the tune.

Photo Credit: Louise Bichan

You Gotta Hear This: New Music From Katie Boeck, Ben Garnett, and More

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

You’ve reached the end of the week and, for your reward, we’ve collected a superlative handful of brand new videos, visualizers, and songs from roots music spheres.

Kicking us off, actor and indie-folk singer-songwriter Katie Boeck puts yearning “almost-love” in the spotlight with “Dust.” It’s a lovely, contemplative track that showcases that Boeck is equally at home in indie-tinged Americana as she is on a Broadway stage. Continuing in a similar context, with tender harmonies and fingerpicking as a sound bed Canadian folk duo Ocie Elliott also consider the messy, uncertain, shifting sands of loving someone and the circular nature of giving of yourself to another in that most intimate way.

Guitarist and composer Ben Garnett announced his upcoming sophomore album earlier this week. Kite’s Keep arrives in October, heralded here with the first single, “Look Again,” and a live performance video of the bustling, prismatic track featuring Brittany Haas on fiddle and Ethan Jodziewicz on bass. It demonstrates the consistently thoughtful and outside-the-box approach Garnett takes in crafting solo acoustic guitar music that bridges jazz, bluegrass, new acoustic, and more.

The Far West, Los Angeles-based country strutters, tapped Dave Alvin as a guest for their brand new track, “Hope I Don’t Bleed.” Dropping next week on August 22, you can get a sneak preview of the vibing, psychedelic LA-canyons-via-swampy-bottoms tune below. And, wrapping us up, singer-songwriter Jon LaDeau draws inspiration from a long New York City to Bristol, Tennessee, drive with “East Tennessee Wrecker.” He’s joined by Emily Jackson on the new single and performance video, which features a lovely stripped down version of the track, unadorned and shining.

Whatever your favorite flavor of country, folk, and roots music, there’s something for you to enjoy herein. You Gotta Hear This!

Katie Boeck, “Dust”

Artist: Katie Boeck
Hometown: San Luis Obispo, California
Song: “Dust”
Release Date: August 15, 2025

In Their Words: “‘Dust’ came out of the ache of almost-love – the kind where someone lingers near your heart, but never fully arrives. I was thinking of the tortoise and the hare, but as a metaphor for emotional pacing between two people. It began as an ultimatum, but ended as an acceptance of what is – without clinging to what could’ve been. I recorded it with Shane Leonard (Anna Tivel, Humbird), a producer I’ve long admired, at his studio in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, live to tape, which was my first experience in that setting. Creatively, it was also an exercise in letting something be what it was in that moment, without all the modern temptations and expectations of perfection.” – Katie Boeck

Track Credits:
Katie Boeck – Vocals, guitars, songwriter
Joe Westerlund – Drums
Pat Keen – Bass
Paul Brandt – Keys
Shane Leonard – Drums, producer, mixing, mastering

Video Credit: Bella Mazzola, Twin Lantern Productions

Ocie Elliott, “By The Way”

Artist: Ocie Elliott
Hometown: Victoria, British Columbia, Canada
Song: “By The Way”
Album: Bungalow
Release Date: August 15, 2025 (single); October 24, 2025 (album)
Label: Nettwerk Music Group

In Their Words: “‘By The Way’ is a song about the beautiful mess of loving someone – choosing love not just in spite of challenging dynamics, but because of them. It’s a recognition that no matter how fleeting and uncertain the unfolding of a story may be, love is the constant that it always circles back to. The song was written after many months away on tour and it was one of the first melodies and chord progressions that came to me once I delved back into writing. Sometimes songs take a while to come into being, but this was one of those tunes that arrived almost fully formed.” – Jon Middleton

The Far West, “Hope I Don’t Bleed”

Artist: The Far West
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Song: “Hope I Don’t Bleed” featuring Dave Alvin
Album: Everything We Thought We Wanted
Release Date: August 22, 2025 (single); September 26, 2025 (album)
Label: Blackbird Record Label

In Their Words: “I’d been kicking this one around for years, but could never find the arrangement I wanted to suit the lyrics. Aaron, Robert, and Brian really found the swampy vibe I couldn’t seem to. The bass puts this right in the pocket it needed to be, and having Dave Alvin tear a white-hot solo through it made it complete.

“Dave played this solo though my amp, which is a special little factoid for me. The amp is now blessed. My little Fender only has a volume and tone knob, and I used to tape the volume knob down at shows because the vibration of the amp would cause it to turn itself up as it rattled. I took the tape off in the studio. Dave likes things loud and either the amp turned itself up to 10 or he did, either way each take got louder.

“You can hear the amp being pressed to its absolute limit. I know he’s blown some bigger amps on stage, I was surprised my little amp survived. A few months after he laid down this solo, I saw him at the Astro Diner and mentioned we were listening back and ‘we think the amp turned itself up on you during the session’… he just looked at me and said, ‘No it didn’t.’ Anyway, this one is simply about being afraid of experiencing pain at death.” – Lee Briante

Ben Garnett, “Look Again”

Artist: Ben Garnett
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “Look Again”
Album: Kite’s Keep
Release Date: August 12, 2025 (single); October 10, 2025 (album)
Label: Padiddle Records

In Their Words: “‘Look Again’ is the first track on my sophomore studio album, Kite’s Keep. The album title loosely refers to this idea of a child’s inner world – a dreamscape where each song represents a different vignette of imagination.

“With ‘Look Again,’ I wanted the music to feel prismatic. As if to suggest an imaginative universe emerging from an ordinary one. I was interested in exploring, in musical terms, the idea that perception is never fixed. Like the old saying goes, ‘You never step in the same river twice’ – one also never sees the same thing twice. Any time we return to anything, it’s always different, with all things constantly in motion.

“On top of this, I had the immense joy of working with two musicians I deeply adore: Brittany Haas on fiddle and Ethan Jodziewicz on bass. Their performances brought the track to life in ways I couldn’t have imagined.” – Ben Garnett

Track Credits:
Ben Garnett – Guitar
Brittany Haas – Fiddle
Ethan Jodziewicz – Bass

Video Credits: Tessa Cokkinias – Cinematography
Ben Garnett – Video

Jon LaDeau, “East Tennessee Wrecker”

Artist: Jon LaDeau
Hometown: Brooklyn, New York
Song: “East Tennessee Wrecker” featuring Emily Jackson
Album: Chateau LaDeau
Release Date: August 22, 2025
Label: Adhyâropa Records

In Their Words: “‘East Tennessee Wrecker’ is a song that has been picking at me for a long time. Several years ago, I was traveling with my band from Brooklyn, NY to Bristol, TN to play at the Bristol Rhythm and Roots Reunion. It’s about a 10-hour drive and for some reason our navigation system was counting down the hours until we arrived at East Tennessee Wrecker. We didn’t know what that was, but discovered upon arriving in the area that it was a towing service that I believe has since changed names. For some reason that title got imprinted in my mind and as time went by the structure of a song began to reveal itself.

“I recorded the guitars, bass, and drums in my studio in Brooklyn and when the music felt right, I was lucky to have Emily Jackson come by and sing a duet with me to tie it all together. We sang together live into one mic and that’s what you hear on the album. I brought this version of the song to David Butler and he fleshed out the arrangement by adding a second drum set, a drum machine, and some sparse keyboard stuff. I’m really happy with how this one came out and I feel lucky that D. James Goodwin was available to really bring the performances we captured to their full sonic potential by mixing and mastering.

“At the heart of the song it’s really just acoustic guitar and vocals, so I wanted to capture a stripped down version as well. Aaron Cassara filmed Emily and I singing it at The Scratcher here in the East Village, NYC. I’ve been very fortunate to work out a lot of my songs here over the years during their Sunday night music series so it felt natural to capture a version of the song in the same way you would hear it live in a room that means so much to me. This song seems to reinforce the feelings of connection I have to my community. I hope that it lifts up anyone who gives it a listen.” – Jon LaDeau

Photo Credit: Katie Boeck by New Norm Studios; Ben Garnett by Natia Cinco.

The Wood Brothers Appreciate Their “Slow Rise to the Middle”

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Raised by a creative writing teacher and a music-playing biology professor who occasionally picked with Joan Baez, Oliver and Chris Wood were both destined for careers making music. Following time apart in the ‘90s – Oliver in Atlanta playing with King Johnson and Chris in New England staying busy with Medeski Martin & Wood – the Wood Brothers came together in the early 2000s during a co-bill between their bands in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

And they haven’t looked back.

In 2004 the Wood Brothers – their trio rounded out by multi-instrumentalist Jano Rix – officially arrived. Two years later came their debut record, Ways Not To Lose, and with it signature hits like “Luckiest Man” that over two decades later continue to stand the test of time, even as the trio’s sound shapeshifts. That sonic evolution is front and center throughout the band’s latest effort, Puff of Smoke, which features everything from boisterous horns to slippery synths and a bevy of world influences stretching across multiple continents.

Wrapped up in the 11 songs’ American-rooted and globally influenced aesthetic is a feeling of mindfulness that ranges from serious (“The Trick”) to comedic (“Pray God Listens”) and borderline cynical (“Money Song”). A prime example also lies within “Slow Rise (To The Middle),” an autobiographical ballad about the band’s methodical rise to making and maintaining a stable living from their music – as opposed to an overnight rise to stardom that oftentimes fizzles out in the most dramatic fashion.

“The lyrics are pretty abstract, but they’re pretty specifically about all the people who had the meteoric rise and died because of a plane or motorcycle crash or even an assassination – as was the case with John Lennon,” explains Oliver. “We were thinking of very specific people in rock ‘n’ roll who burned out and died young when they were at the top of their game. With that in mind, it’s almost a song of real gratitude that that didn’t happen to us.”

Ahead of the release of Puff of Smoke Chris and Oliver caught up with BGS to discuss the band’s roots, trajectory, experimental nature, mindfulness, and more.

(Writer’s Note: The following includes two separate conversations combined into one and edited for clarity and brevity.)

What was it that brought [Oliver and Chris] back together after over a decade apart to first form the Wood Brothers?

Oliver Wood: Having lived apart so long and played in different musical circles we were somewhat disconnected – both musically and and just as brothers – but we did stay in touch. In Medeski Martin & Wood’s early days they used to come to Atlanta and sleep on my floor before they blew up. I was always interested in the music [Chris] was making and he was interested in music I was making, but we just weren’t close.

At one point, it just happened that we played a show together where my band, King Johnson, opened for them – I believe it was at a place called Ziggy’s in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. We ended up having the best time and then they asked me to sit in with them on guitar on a few songs. [Medeski Martin & Wood] didn’t have a guitar player and I wound up fitting right in with what was going on [that] night. During it we stood next to each other and felt like we could just read each other’s minds, like we had this uncanny psychic (and obviously genetic) connection, musically.

In spite of the differences in the music that we were playing there was a lot of overlap. Both bands were really into traditional American music like blues and funk and jazz. It was like a musical conversation that went really well, so from then on Chris and I made efforts to play and write music together when we visited our family or had gatherings purely out of joy.

We had this thing in common, were all grown up, and had shed some of that brotherly baggage that family bands who’ve been playing together since they were kids sometimes have a harder time shaking, because they don’t never get a chance to form their own identities and feel like they’re their own person. It made it especially exciting to join forces and see what kind of recipe we could come up with everything we’ve learned over the years.

Chris Wood: One thing that’s not obvious looking from the outside in is how much overlap there was with [Medeski Martin & Wood] and what [Oliver] was doing with King Johnson. MMW formed in New York City in the early ‘90s in a very particular music scene where we were always trying new things and mashing together genres and finding new ways to play instruments. We operated with a fringe set of influences that included field recordings from West Africa and all kinds of other weird things that were out there compared to contemporary classical music, but when King Johnson opened for us in the early 2000s and Oliver sat in with us there was an immediate connection. In a way, it almost felt like I was watching myself playing because I could relate so well to his musical choices and approach to playing. He was a natural fit, leading to a moment that sparked the thought about doing something together that has lasted for over 20 years now.

It sounds like the time you guys spent apart has been critical to the bond you have, both as brothers and as bandmates, now over 20 years into the band’s life.

OW: Exactly! And I would say it also contributed to the unique sound that we were able to create because we were bringing some pretty different things to the table. I was really into blues and roots music and Chris went more of the jazz route, but he always said, “Well, what if you mixed Charles Mingus with Robert Johnson or Willie Nelson?” So the idea was to fuse together some things that you haven’t heard yet.

I feel like Puff of Smoke, with its barrage of horns and synth-heavy moments, is a prime example of that fusing together you speak of. What led you to incorporating more of those sounds on this album?

OW: Well, I think that’s always our goal, trying things we haven’t done yet. And a lot of times the metaphor for me is that we’re just trying different recipes. I’m still going to play guitar, Chris is still going to play bass, Jano is still going to play drums and keyboards. There’s going to be singing, there’s going to be familiar sounds, but we think of all these ingredients. There’s Calypso and African music and Chicago blues and gospel and a bunch of other things. These ingredients aren’t uncommon, so what makes artists unique is what they come up with from those sounds.

Oftentimes when we go in to make a record, it’s not conscious like, “Oh, we’re gonna make this kind of record.” We just know that we’re not going to do what we did last time or what somebody else is already doing, if we can help it. We’re trying to find something new that excites us and what that looks like is sometimes having a song written and ready to play, but going into the studio and saying, “I’m going to use this weird guitar that kind of sucks and see what it does.”

There’s an infinite number of combinations and ideas you can apply in the early stages of recording that really influence how different it ends up being. Our philosophy is to create a new recipe each time, which is why it’s so hard to pigeonhole us. That’s not good for business sometimes, but at the same time that’s what we’re going for because we’re trying not to fit in.

CW: We never know what we’re gonna do. What we end up doing is always based on what we’ve done in the past, which is wanting to push boundaries by continuing to evolve and try things we haven’t done before. Over the years we’ve surrendered to the fact that good things happen with the music when we’re not in control and we’re just paying attention to what’s happening and following each other’s lead instead of having a hardened idea of what things should look like. Usually that’s what kills the creative spirit, so relinquishing that control has always been a big theme for us.

We all have a lot of respect for each other and our opinions. Creating artistic things can be a rabbit hole that you get lost in quickly, so being around people you trust can prevent you from doing that in favor of encouraging you when something is really working that you couldn’t even see yourself. When we bring a song we’ve written into the studio, we have absolutely no idea how it’s going to turn out because even though there’s lyrics (and maybe even a key) we make a lot of very spontaneous decisions about what kind of guitar to use or which drum set should there be. Every little decision like that leads to a new spontaneous reaction to how that instrument is sounding. That in turn makes us play a certain way, then by the time the songs are on tape we’re all blown away at how differently it turned out than we would have ever thought.

A big theme throughout these new songs is mindfulness. Can you tell me about how y’all practice that, both in your daily lives and your musical pursuits?

OW: For any artist, whatever’s going on in your life or the world around you makes appearances when you’re writing music – it just seeps in there and gets baked in you. Over the years, all of us in the band have been trying to live a certain way by learning methods and tricks to finding peace and fighting depression and the scary changes going on in the world while continuing to stay connected with people. I’ve always written like a cheerleader for myself, like “The trick is not to give a damn,” but by no means am I a master of any of that stuff. It’s a reminder to myself and others to always keep that on your radar. But on “The Trick” I follow that line with “Good luck,” so there’s a little bit of cynicism there too. Another song, “Pray God Listens,” is meant to be a little humorous and a little cynical of God, but also hopeful. It’s also about wanting to believe that God is listening and that I’m skeptical, but haven’t given up.

CW: [Mindfulness is] a constant recurring theme for us, even going back to [2023’s Heart Is A Hero] and the idea of remembering to remember. I think the hardest thing about presence and mindfulness and being an agent of your own emotions is just remembering it’s even an option. We get so carried away by the constant churning of our minds that you forget it’s even an option to not take that stuff seriously. There’s lots of references in our music about that – this weird storytelling device that we have between our ears that never shuts up and how to live with it – and the idea of control and surrendering to the fact that the only thing we can control is to be present. A lot of our anxiety stems from not knowing what to do, but if you just pay attention to your environment it tells you what to do.

This becomes really useful for us when we’re on stage in front of a bunch of people and the part of your mind that takes credit for and wants to be good doesn’t want a slow rise to the middle but instead wants a meteoric rise to the top and will start fixating on how to be great at something to the detriment of not paying attention to what’s happening around you. For me to play a good bass line I don’t need to listen to myself, I listen to the drums and guitar and those tell me how to play. That’s what presence is for us – it’s allowing our environment to tell us what to do, not trying to figure it out alone.

Another way of describing the themes on this record is impermanence. Things happen and then they’re gone. We have very little control over most aspects of what happens in the universe, so really all you can do is just sort of pay attention, trust that you’re going to know how to react to all that craziness and surrender to the moment.

What about this record stands out to y’all from the rest of your catalog?

OW: For me personally, I feel like there’s more and more freedom to just do whatever the hell I want. We have our own label, so we’re doing things quite independently without the structure of a label or A&R or anything like that and we’ve been doing that for a long time. We’ve always joked that the band’s career trajectory has been a slow rise to the middle as opposed to a meteoric rise to the top. There’s a song by that name on the record that’s a bit tongue-in-cheek as we make fun of ourselves and how it took us years to land at a sweet spot in our careers where we play to around 1,000 people a night – which isn’t a lot compared to Phish or Springsteen – but enough to feel like we can make a living and be a little weird in what we do rather than always taking the conventional route. We can be a little more subtle and aren’t beholden to any one thing, freeing us up to experiment without the worry of needing to write another hit.

As far as this album goes … we really tried to combine our creative visions to see what we could make and we’re all really proud of the result. It was a very organic thing that took over 20 years of experience to make happen.

CW: Between the three of us, we have a lot of influences. When you first begin as a band you’re trying to find out who you are and what your sound is. With both the Wood Brothers and Medeski Martin & Wood we waited to introduce electric bass to the mix even though I play both because the electric bass signifies certain sounds.

For instance, with MMW in the early ‘90s having electric bass with instrumental music that was danceable made you think of jazz fusion, which wasn’t a category we wanted our music to fall into even though it was instrumental music that was sometimes danceable. Once we established our voice as a band we began to branch out, which is the same thing happening with the Wood Brothers.

We have so many influences that don’t fit into the genre boxes that a lot of people put us in in our early days, which was Americana and roots music. We have influences from all over the world, especially on this record. On this record we explored more of the Caribbean, Cuban, and Latin influences we have. Oliver and I are also into these great African guitar players that there’s a lot of overlap with in his fingerpickin’ blues. Throughout we try to find different ways to introduce those influences to the Great American Songbook-like material on this record. Jano is a very good salsa dancer and obsessed with Latin music of all kinds, and I’ve always been into that music as well. One of my favorite bass players is Cachao, who is like the Duke Ellington of Cuba and invented “the mambo.”

There’s things like that that you’re sometimes hesitant to put into the music you’re putting out, but over time as you establish your voice it’s like “why not?” Let’s have fun using those influences even if it’s not “American,” per se. This is the melting pot – we’re supposed to be able to use it all here.

What’s your biggest joy of getting to make music together?

OW: Both Chris and Jano are like titans of music. They’re both virtuoso musicians who are not only monster players, but very creative too. Medeski Martin & Wood was a very experimental band that made great efforts to do what we’ve been talking about, which is to not sound like anything else and really be themselves and allow their musical identities to come through without trying to. Sometimes in instrumental music and in the jazz world, it’s about technique and technical prowess and those guys were just pure artists. They were really trying to make beautiful sounds and odd sounds and dissonance. Sometimes you could dance to it and sometimes you just had to take it in because it was real trippy. And so Chris brings that spirit of virtuosity and creativity, as well as Jano. We first hired him as a drummer because he was such an amazing drummer and percussionist and had no idea he could play keyboards just as well. He’s like two guys at once.

No matter what I throw at them, they can throw something cool back at me, enhance it and make it better. We’ve been talking about the sort of mindfulness theme in some of the music, and it really is a way that we try to operate as a band and as players. It’s about staying connected with yourself and with other people. If we have a musical disconnect it’s because we’re not listening to each other. Music is always a conversation where you listen and you respond or you hear something and you react to it, so if you’re only listening to yourself you’re missing the point. It’s detrimental to the music, so we make sure that we’re listening to each other, and in doing so, we get into this mindful, sort of meditative trance where we’re just listening and having a conversation and not trying to fill all the spaces. It makes us a very cohesive unit and able to be ourselves.

CW: Learning how to be present – as cliché as it sounds – that’s where the joy is. The joy is finally learning that it’s not me, it’s everything else that tells me what to do. Every time we play music it’s amazing, even a song that we play night after night with that approach feels like it might as well be the first time. The hardest part about this idea is remembering to remember, so my way of practicing that is trying to remember throughout the day to ask myself a simple question.

It’s like a challenge – can you enjoy yourself right now? And sometimes it’s easy, because things are fine and you’re not in pain or there’s no drama going on, but it’s the most fruitful moments when there’s something difficult or boring like doing the dishes and I ask if I can enjoy myself? Do I have the ability? What does it even mean to enjoy myself right now? And the practice is that if I can do it enough in those times, then I should be able to remember to remember to do that on stage too. From that point on everything is obvious – I’m able to relax and listen to the drums play me. All the pressure just goes away because you realize you trust yourself to react to the environment, and that never gets old. It’s useful for both your daily life as well as on stage or in the studio or any time we’re creating music together. We’re always trying to make every experience joyful, which isn’t always easy but can be done with practice. It’s like a game, it’s playful – even if you don’t always have a smile on your face.

Photo Credit: Laura E. Partain

Jackson and the Janks Celebrate “Garage Gospel Jank”

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Jackson and the Janks, we started in a living room in New Orleans. Piano and guitar playing old gospel songs and trying to make a dance band. First there were two, then a third came in to use the bathroom – he was living in his van out front at the time. He sat down and played along after nature’s call. Over a year it grew from there, adding bass, saxophone, and steel guitar. We started playing shows in New Orleans, sweaty dance shows, and we didn’t have a name other than “the garage gospel band” (officially, Sam Doores’ Garage Gospel Band). We’ve branched out now and adopted New York janks into the family.

The Janks as a name came up, describing all things Janky. An old time, do-it-yourself way of playing, inspired by New Orleans R&B, rock and roll, honky tonk, and of course the sacred songs.

This playlist is a mix of sounds that influence the sentiments of Jackson and the Janks. Rollicking dance music, garage band approach, songs of love and lost love, sweet and sour, irreverent. – Jackson Lynch, Jackson and the Janks

“My Journey To The Sky” – Sister Rosetta Tharpe

There’s something wrong if Sister Rosetta is not in the conversation. True muse and queen progenitor of rock and roll, she kills me with her gospel.

“Rockin’ Bicycle” – Fats Domino

The great Fats Domino. I picked this because it inspires an approach to songwriting that gets overlooked. Have fun with the lyrical content and make fun music.

“Unchained Melody” – The Fleetwoods

I don’t take baths, but listening to this tempts me to try it out. The harmonies do it to me. My favorite version of this song.

“No More Tear Stained Makeup” – Martha & the Vandellas

This one has that lyricism and rhyme that I love. Taking a simple theme and so cleverly making it heartbreaking, don’t see it coming. Smokey Robinson at his best.

“Young Boy Blues” – Snooks Eaglin

New Orleans for real songster Snooks Eaglin played everything. Country blues, jazz, and pop songs of his day. That’s the job: play what people want to hear, do it good, and make it your own.

“Let’s Leave Here” – Jackson and the Janks

It’s about trying to not be the last one at a party that’s going under. Nothing’s happening, but you gotta leave before something does. “Gates are dropped, the service stopped, at the shop on the corner…”

“I Got Loaded” – Keith Frank & the Soileau Zydeco Band

This is a great zydeco version of a swamp-pop party song. Keith Frank (son of the famed Preston Frank) and his whole family make some of the best music I’ve ever had the privilege to dance to.

“Sweet Nothin’s” – Brenda Lee

Sugar, spice, everything nice.

“Sitting on my front porch, well do I love you? Of course,” Brenda growls and tucks me in.

“Who Will The Next Fool Be” – Charlie Rich

This speaks for itself. Just listen to how Charlie Rich sings the word “Who.”

“Life Is Too Short” – Benny Spellman

A great ballad deep cut from the man who gave us that deep voice on “Mother In Law.” Operatic. ”

We do big things in a hurry/ Let’s do what’s right to live…”

“Immigration Blues” – Duke Ellington

This secular hymn is my favorite shit. Early Duke’s orchestrated pieces like this make me regret and hope, sad and happy.

Photos courtesy of Jalopy Records.

John C. Reilly Is Mister Romantic

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

As John C. Reilly cavorts around a converted Brooklyn warehouse, his wiry hair branching heavenward, he looks a bit like a heavily rouged version of his eccentric Dr. Steve Brule. But Dr. Brule isn’t here, and neither is Reilly, in a sense. A fellow named Mister Romantic holds court instead, serenading and chatting up audience members in an effort to win their hearts. He swoons and croons, he has a microphone that looks like a rose, and he really, really wants to be loved forever, lest he be doomed to an eternity in a steamer trunk.

Reilly is the rare sort of actor whose talents span cutting dramas and gut-busting comedy antics, and underneath all of it, he’s maintained a soft spot for musical theater. Audiences have gotten a peek at that in Reilly’s Oscar-nominated embodiment of Chicago’s “Mister Cellophane,” and while he’s hammed it up as Dewey Cox in Walk Hard. He’s long nurtured his musicianship, too, with a handful of bands in his youth, a blues outfit, and his more recent cadre of bluegrass friends.

After finishing his duties as Jerry Buss in Winning Time: The Rise of the Lakers Dynasty, Reilly fixed his energy on finding some sort of remedy to the discord that he felt dominating everyday life. Mister Cellophane only got the one song, as Reilly has noted, so he drew upon more than twenty years of his own tune-collecting to develop a repertoire that felt suited to his mission and was close to his own heart. He’s pulled most of his material from the early 20th century body of the American Songbook, which Reilly expands to include a handful of Tom Waits numbers. Though Mister Romantic works a special kind of magic in person, he issued a baker’s dozen of recordings on his album What’s Not to Love? in mid-June, a more permanent evidence of his visitation.

He credits Los Angeles’ famed venue Largo with being the nexus of countless creative relationships – including Mister Romantic compatriots like David Garza, fiddler Gabe Witcher, and Sebastian Steinberg, who joins the ensemble on their recordings. The crew keep remarkably stony faces as Reilly improvises his appeals to the crowd, part of the story built around Mister Romantic’s cosmic arc: “He’s been traveling in this box for thousands of years trying to find love, and he just fails over and over. He doesn’t have a memory of the past, but the band does, and they’re stuck in this purgatory cycle with him,” Reilly says.

In chatting up different audience members between selections (“I’m not gay or straight, I’m desperate,” he offers), Reilly hopes to get everybody in the room feeling like they can open up a little bit. The songs, for Reilly, facilitate that softening in a sort of bucket-brigade through time. “‘What’ll I Do?’ could’ve been forgotten by the 1930s, but people loved that song and kept passing it along, and here I am, doing it again,” he says. “I think that’s the way to pay things forward, to pass along what you think is good.”

Now with an album release and several more Mister Romantic shows in his rearview mirror, Reilly is impassioned and reflective as he considers the value of vulnerability in a prickly modern world. His fervent belief in the fundamental goodness of human nature spills over as he shares his efforts to bring a little more love into people’s lives.

You made a point to tell your first audience participant that you weren’t bringing her up there to shame her or embarrass her, which got me thinking about how you’re watching people react to your character in real time. What has that been like for you with these performances?

John C. Reilly: It’s been a really special part of the show. I don’t know what I expected it to be when I started doing this, just kind of improvising my way through, but it’s been amazingly consistent. I say that stuff about “I’m not going to embarrass you or do anything weird” because people just don’t know what the hell the show is about, what the boundaries are. I really want to make people feel like I’m going to take care of them up there. The joke is not going to be on them.

With the audience, I’ve noticed if you really see people and the best in them, or you look for qualities that you find attractive, and you talk about them – it’s amazing the way people let down their guard and open up. It makes the whole audience feel like I’m talking directly to each one of them, even though I only get to four or five people during each show.

Have you had any reactions that have caught you off guard?

Sometimes I ask pretty heavy questions, like, “Have you ever been in love? How long did it last?” People generally want to play along, there’s no one that has ruined the interaction. People always ask me, “Are those people plants?” They’re never plants. The second thing they ask is, “Does anyone ever not cooperate?” I have to say, it’s like, 100% cooperation so far. I think part of it comes from the loving approach and the fact that I say at the beginning what the mission of the night is going to be.

It’s a really encouraging part of the show for me personally, because you really do want to believe that, in their heart of hearts, people are good. When I do this show, that is what I think when I go through the audience. I try to look at every single person directly at some point. The whole point of the show is connection – to the music, the world, to each other – and creating a live unique moment with a group of people. Whatever’s happening outside in the world is one thing, but in here, we’re all going to be connected by the end of the night.

There was a moment where you kind of scolded someone for having their phone out, but you somehow did it in the nicest way possible, where you brought it back to maintaining a connection in the moment.

I try not to even engage with what phones even are. We try to make it clear that you’re not supposed to use your phone during the show. I called that guy out just because I was surprised to see it in his hand. My point was not to say, “You broke the rules!” or get mad at him. There have been other times when people have their phones out. The point of those interactions is always to point out what’s special about this moment without a phone. When I said that, the audience almost started cheering [note: this is true]. Everyone is getting to this place where they’re starting to realize the cost of using a phone, and the separation that it creates between you and a performance or an experience.

How did Largo get to be such a major fixture in your life?

Largo has been a big part of my life since it opened in the early ’90s. It’s been a big part of my development as a singer and as a musician. I had my bluegrass band there for a long time. Mark Flanagan, who owns the place, creates such a special vibe in there, and does not allow cell phones during the shows. The audience ends up being focused in this way that’s different than other places I’ve been.

It’s kind of this temple of quality and entertainment, especially music. When I first started going to Largo, it was Jon Brion and all these different musicians moving through there – a lot of my friends who I play with now, who I played with in the past in other bands. Walk Hard, the songwriters from there – all those guys were all part of the Largo scene in one way or another. It really feels like home when I’m there, and it has its priorities right. It’s not just a place that’s about profit and selling beers, slamming them in and slamming them out. There’s a real soul to the place. I shudder to think what LA would be without Largo.

Is your bluegrass band something you think you’ll return to?

The blues, bluegrass, and this kind of show-tune world are all different aspects of me. I had a blues band before I had a bluegrass band. But I love bluegrass music, for the same reason I love all these American Songbook standards that I’m doing. That’s part of the conversation about the show that I think is really important, that Americana doesn’t just mean white Southern folk music from the 1930s.

People talk about, “What kind of category does [Mister Romantic] fit in?” To me, it’s Americana. A lot of these songs were written by Americans, and they’re not classical music. I think bluegrass definitely falls under the Americana banner, but I think songs in the American Songbook also fall under the Americana banner. Blues music falls under the banner. Why is blues music separated as African-American music? It’s part of America’s history. We should all embrace under the same umbrella.

You’ve talked about using Mister Romantic as a vehicle for getting people to open up a bit more to love and empathy. I think of romance as only one slice of the pie when it comes to loving or forms of love – why go with “romantic” as your channel into exploring empathy?

To me, romance is appreciating a beautiful sunset, or the way a flower looks or smells. Appreciating some weird little detail about a person that makes them unique, that makes you cherish them. It’s not just a Valentine’s Day card. Think about the reason that you got crushes on different people in the past. Sometimes it’s about the physical looks, but oftentimes it’s like, “Man, I just love the way that person does their art.” You crush out on people because of why they’re special. That, to me, is romantic.

On the surface of it, this guy Mister Romantic is trying to fall in love, but he doesn’t even really know what that is. He has so little experience. All he knows is, it’s a deep connection with someone else that will then stay with you forever. I’m not trying to get anyone to be anything. To me, the show is an opportunity to come together. If you’re craving connection, then you should come. I’m not trying to lecture people. I’m just pointing out the inherent truth about human beings, that we do love each other, that the secret to civilization and the reason that human beings are still around on earth is because of love.

I was seeing a lack of empathy – a coarseness to our dialogue, or a viciousness to our debate, and I thought, “Well, that’s distressing. What could I do that might lessen that?” And I decided I’ll do a show about love, and I’ll invite people to come see it, and maybe they’ll feel what I’m feeling. [Mister Romantic] is more about reminding people of what is true about us. On a good day, I think, everyone feels that people are ultimately good when the chips are down.

There’s a line from bell hooks’ All About Love about how “cynicism is the great mask of the disappointed and betrayed heart,” and when I re-read that recently, it resonated with how the crowd felt at the end of the show—like this cynical layer that a lot of us have was dissolved for a bit while we were laughing and having a good time together.

Yeah! It’s not just about me and what I’m saying. It’s also the music. The music has an alchemical effect on people that does put air in their balloons. I didn’t know that quote, but I agree with it. I say misanthropes are actually the most romantic people of all. They’re the most sensitive. They’re so sensitive that when they experience disappointment, they retreat into this place of, “Well, if it can’t be perfect, then everything is terrible.” But if you’re really truthful about the way life is, there are all these gray areas. Everyone is not an asshole. That’s a generalization. To be a true misanthrope, you’re generalizing, and not seeing what’s really there.

You have to be open to someone being a good person. I think that’s just the truth of the way things are. I do think if you’re worried and you want things to be better in the world and in your own personal life, you have to be willing to be vulnerable, and willing to reflect a world that you want to see. These things sound so rudimentary, or maybe cliché, but that’s where we’re at. We’re having to fight for empathy, to say, “Human beings have value across the board.” Human rights are at stake right now in the world. So it’s not a cliché. It’s not a thing that’s assumed to be true by everyone. These things have to be regenerated, generation after generation.

What’s something you’ve learned about yourself in the process of bringing Mister Romantic to life?

I’ve learned a lot about the courage it takes to invite people to a place and say, “I’m going to sing for you.” I had to learn what my voice is when I’m not impersonating other people. How do I sing? How do I convey my spirit through my voice? Those are big things, and making this album was a huge step. The personal journey to get yourself to believe that it’s good enough to share –that’s a big struggle for everyone, especially the first time they do it. Mister Romantic was a big step in that direction for me saying, “Whatever, I may not be the most perfect singer, but the reason that I’m singing is a good reason, and I’m going to keep doing it.”

You have to kind of have this blind faith in the mission, because there’s all kinds of slings and arrows that you can generate for yourself. But then you remember the core of it – these experiences that you have during the show, that I have from the show – and that tells you what you should be doing with yourself, what is important. If touching people the way this show touches people isn’t important, then I don’t know what is. It has given meaning to my life at a time when I was really struggling for meaning.

Make plans to meet Mister Romantic at a show near you.

Photo Credit: Bobbi Rich