We all grew up in rural Ireland in small communities in the midlands around County Offaly and County Tipperary. From a young age we were brought up with traditional Irish music, learning the tunes and playing in local sessions. Bluegrass was never a part of our musical upbringing, however, little did we know how strong the relationship between Irish and bluegrass music is. Our band JigJam was formed in 2012 and over the years we developed a sound which captures the crossover between these musical genres.
The creation of bluegrass music and its development over the years is heavily influenced by Irish music. When the Irish people emigrated to North America years ago they brought their music and culture with them, which you can hear within bluegrass music from tunes, melodies, and songs.
We released our new album, Across The Pond, on March 1st of this year. The theme of Across the Pond is to creatively celebrate the deep connection between Ireland and North America through newly composed material that is a dynamic fusion of bluegrass, old-time, and Irish traditional music. By also including traditional tunes and songs which are popular amongst the people from both Irish and American traditions, we added their voice to this transatlantic conversation. This album has been inspired and composed on themes of immigration, nostalgia, cultural difference, and cultural amalgamation. It views the immigrant experience through the lens of pre-immigration, the journey of immigration itself, and their lives upon having settled in North America.
This is our Irish Bluegrass Mixtape, hope you all enjoy! – JigJam
“Good Ole Mountain Dew” – JigJam
Here’s our version of the bluegrass standard, “Mountain Dew,” that we put our own spin on. There’s a similar Irish song called, “The Rare Old Mountain Dew.” It’s about the same subject – “Good Old Mountain Dew” is obviously about moonshine. What we call the “mountain dew” at home is poitin, which is Irish moonshine.
We took some of the lyrics of that song and put it into our version and also wrote our own lyrics based on where we come from. We took the instrumental tune from “Rare Old Mountain Dew” and put it in “Good Old Mountain Dew” while also adding in a bit of Irish lilting. It’s a mashup of both cultures in one song!
“Classical Grass” – Gerry O’Connor
When I was young and first learning how to play the tenor banjo one of my musical heroes was Gerry O’Connor. I was always mesmerized by the speed and precision of his banjo playing. The first time I saw him in concert was at a banjo festival in Ireland called Johnny Keenan Banjo Festival. He was sharing the bill with Earl Scruggs and his band. As a 12-year-old Irish boy, I had no idea who Earl Scruggs was at the time. Little did I know the influence he (Earl Scruggs) would have on my music and JigJam’s music in years to come, when we discovered what bluegrass was and where it came from!! In this track from Gerry, he shows his bluegrass influence himself with pristine crosspicking along with his renowned clean triplets, which was always a favourite of mine growing up.
“Colleen Malone” – Hot Rize
“Colleen Malone” is one of our favorite songs that Hot Rize recorded. Here’s a great live version from their Hot Rize’s 40th Anniversary Bash album. A lovely song co-written by Leroy Drumm and Pete Goble about an Irish girl, Colleen Malone.
“Tennessee Stud” – The Chieftains
In many ways The Chieftains paved the way for Irish bands touring in America and that is something for which we’ll always be incredibly grateful. Their album, Down The Old Plank Road: The Nashville Sessions, paints a vivid picture of the crossover between between the Irish and American music traditions.
“B/C Set” – Beoga
Beoga are an Irish trad band who we all listened to as kids growing up. They were known for thinking outside the box and being ahead of their time as regards arrangements. The second tune in this set is “Daley’s Reel,” which I only realized in recent years when I heard some of the great bluegrass players like Bryan Sutton and Aubrey Haynie playing it. Beoga have a very unique version of “Daley’s Reel,” played on two button accordions and accompanied by piano, bodhrán, and even brass near the end of the track. Certainly a fun one to listen to!
“Streets of London” – Tony Rice
This is one of my favourite songs sung by Tony Rice. “The Streets of London” is a very popular song in Ireland and has been covered by many Irish artists. Written by English songwriter Ralph McTell, I learned this song from the playing of the great Liam Clancy of The Clancy Brothers, Irish powerhouses. I only heard Tony Rice’s version in recent years when I delved into bluegrass guitar playing and I loved it straight away. Tony Rice’s rendition is beautiful as he incorporates his flawless bluegrass crosspicking and signature approach to this classic.
“Water’s Hill” is a song off our new album, Across The Pond. The lyrics were written by Ken Molloy as he tells the story of a couple falling in love together and marrying on water’s hill, a mound near Tullamore in County Offaly. The music is by Jamie McKeogh and Daithi Melia along with an old traditional Irish reel that is incorporated into the middle of the song. “Water’s Hill” features a driving Scruggs-style 5-string banjo part along with a strong mandolin backbeat, fiddle counter melodies, and rhythmic acoustic guitar which creates the JigJam sound, capturing the crossover between Irish and bluegrass music.
“Forty Shades of Green” – Rosanne Cash and Paul Brady, Transatlantic Sessions
The Transatlantic Sessions is an amazing platform for the collaboration of Irish and bluegrass musicians. With the likes of Jerry Douglas, Aly Bain, Mike McGoldrick, and many more, this project has wonderfully captured Irish and bluegrass crossover for years. I could have chosen many songs from their repertoire, but I went with this one. It’s “Forty Shades of Green” from the legend that is Johnny Cash. Here, it’s being sung by his daughter Rosanne and Irish singer-songwriter Paul Brady, backed up by the Transatlantic band.
“Sally Goodin / The Blackberry Blossom” – Gerry O’Connor
Gerry O’Connor from Co. Tipperary is the reason I began to play the tenor banjo and he has always been a musical hero of mine – his music still inspires me to this day. This set showcases his skill set, pickin’ on these classic bluegrass fiddle tunes.
“Battersea Skillet Liquor” – Damian O’Kane, Ron Block
One of my favorite tracks off one of my favorite albums. I always loved the groove in this track and of course the playing from this star-studded crew of players always leaves me feeling inspired.
“Bouli Bouli” – JigJam
This set combines the traditional Irish jig, “The Miller of Glanmire,” with the bluegrass fiddle tune, “Big Mon.” It showcases the dynamic and genre fluid nature of JigJam through seamlessly traversing both traditions while highlighting each instrument’s capabilities. We’ve been having a lot of fun playing this one live!
“On Raglan Road” – Dervish & Vince Gill
I always enjoyed this song being performed by the great Luke Kelly from The Dubliners and recently came across this beautiful version of Patrick Kavanagh’s “On Raglan Road” by the legendary Dervish featuring the iconic vocals of Vince Gill.
“The Stride Set” – Solas
I love this set by Solas from their album, The Words That Remain. We are influenced by their creative way of arranging Irish tune sets. I love the addition of the 5-string banjo featured on this track.
“Did You Ever Go A-Courtin’, Uncle Joe” – The Chieftains
Here’s a mighty set from The Chieftains’ live album, Another Country. The crossover between Irish and American genres is great here with a medley of American songs and Irish tunes and also featuring a 5-string banjo. With a great lineup of The Chieftains with Chet Atkins, Emmylou Harris, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and Ricky Skaggs.
“County Clare” – New Grass Revival
New Grass Revival are one of our biggest influences as a band. Béla Fleck is one of the reasons why I fell in love with the 5-string banjo and started to learn ‘Scruggs style’ while delving into the bluegrass world. Here’s his great instrumental “County Clare,” which Béla wrote inspired by his time spent in Ireland.
Double-, triple-, quadruple-threats are not uncommon in country music, not in the least. It’s a frequent occurrence, tripping over or into a country artist that’s a songwriter, vocalist, multi-instrumentalist, writer, thinker, and so much more. In fact, until more recent decades, wearing many hats was seen as a sort of prerequisite to making hillbilly music. After all, this is “just” country music, it’s got a wide and deep DIY tradition, and the folks who make it often have to also load in the gear, sell the merch, post on social media, and produce the albums, play the demos and scratch tracks, write the lyrics, and otherwise steer the creative ship.
Some of the most successful artists and most original voices in country music are perfect examples of how multifaceted skill sets translate directly to star power. You may not need to be a Telecaster shredder to make it onto the radio or you may not need to be able to pick like Mother Maybelle to make a living, but if you can back up your songs with mighty playing, it certainly translates with audiences.
From Chet Atkins, Dolly Parton, and Wanda Jackson to Charlie Daniels, Willie Nelson, and Bonnie Raitt, here are just a few legendary examples of hugely successful country artists who are or were excellent musicians and instrumentalists, too.
Chet Atkins
A record company executive, producer, and pioneer of the “Nashville Sound,” Chet Atkins was also a one-of-a-kind guitar picker, renowned across the globe for his unique style – which was inspired by Merle Travis. Atkins certainly made “Travis picking” his own, arguably eclipsing all of his predecessors and continuing to influence guitarists today. An inductee of the Country Music, Rock and Roll, and Musicians’ Halls of Fame, Atkins’ impact is hard to understate and his resume includes work with Dolly Parton, Elvis Presley, Hank Snow, Waylon Jennings, and countless others.
DeFord Bailey
One of the first superstars of the Grand Ole Opry, DeFord Bailey was a world-class harmonica player who was also the first Black performer on WSM’s fabled stage. Some sources also credit Bailey as being the first musician to record music in Nashville. However you approach his career and music, Bailey was a seismic presence in the earliest days of country. Born in 1899, Bailey faced constant racism, bigotry, and marginalization on the Opry, in Nashville, and as he traveled and performed. He passed away in 1982 and was posthumously inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2005.
Glen Campbell
Even at the highest heights of Glen Campbell’s superstardom, he refused to let his superlative instrumental skill take a backseat to his roles as frontman, songwriter, Hollywood actor, TV star, and tabloid veteran. Campbell’s approach to country music as a true multi-hyphenate celebrity bridged generations, connecting the hardscrabble, DIY generations where multiple skills were necessary to make a living to the modern era, where he helped pave a way for famously multi-talented picker/singer/writers like Vince Gill and Brad Paisley to not be pigeonholed as one thing or the other.
Ray Charles
Any conversation around or collection of superlative country pickers and musicians would be glaringly incomplete without the inclusion of Ray Charles. His incursions and experimentations in country music are many and infamous. His 1962 album, Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music is routinely listed as one of the best country albums of all time. He’s worked with and performed with Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Ricky Skaggs, Travis Tritt, Johnny Cash, Glen Campbell, and many, many more. Plus, his country forays demonstrate a deep, holistic understanding of the genre. Charles is a quintessential country multi-hyphenate and country-soul in the modern era would feel especially lacking without his seminal contributions to that tradition.
Charlie Daniels
It’s hard not to wonder what young, hippie, “long-haired,” Vietnam War-opposing fiddler Charlie Daniels would have thought of his older self, and his more harebrained and often hateful beliefs later in life. But the controversial and outspoken musician, at all points of his career, was a picker’s picker. Over the course of his life he performed and recorded with Earl Scruggs, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and many more. But his chief contribution to American roots music may just be his fiery, unhinged fiddling on “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Just wander down Lower Broadway in Nashville on any given Saturday night to feel the impact of that particular show-stopper. In this clip, he chats and performs “Uncle Pen” with Scruggs and Del McCoury.
Vince Gill
That buttery voice, that stank-face inducing chicken pickin’, that high, lonesome sound – Vince Gill is all at once country and bluegrass, Nashville and Oklahoma, western swing and old-time fiddle. Whether with The Eagles, preeminent pedal steel guitarist Paul Franklin, the Time Jumpers, or so many other outfits, bands, and iterations, Gill is simply right at home. Because, at his core, he’s just a picker. He may play arenas, but he knows he belongs at 3rd & Lindsley or the Station Inn. Or Bluegrass Nights at the Ryman. A quintessential picker-singer-frontman, Gill continues to define the myriad ways country stars can maintain their selfhood and personality – instrumentally and otherwise – even in their wild successes.
Merle Haggard
Speaking of chicken pickin’, country’s most famous Okie was a shredder, too. A sad song, a glass of (misery and) gin, a Telecaster, and the Hag – that’s all we need, right there. Merle’s playing style, even at its most technical and impressive, was simple and down to earth. You could tell he cut his teeth playing bars, fairs, and honky tonks. You could almost hear him pulling himself up by his bootstraps as he played.
Wanda Jackson
The Queen of Rockabilly has been slaying rock and roll, hillbilly music, and the guitar for more than seventy years. In 2021 she released her final album, Encore, when she was 84 years old. It features her signature passion and fire – and performances by Elle King, Joan Jett, Angaleena Presley, and more. Jackson has been representing the vital contributions of women to rockabilly and rock and roll for her entire career, just as often commanding the stage with her growly, entrancing voice and her powerful right hand.
Willie Nelson
Who would Willie Nelson be without Trigger? Without a tasty, less-is-more, nylon-string guitar solo? For decades, Nashville, Music Row, and guitar players around the world have been emulating his particular sound as a guitarist – whether they know it or not. Sure, he’s a hit songwriter, a star and front-person, a collaborator of Snoop Dogg and Frank Sinatra, and a connoisseur of fine bud, but perhaps more than all of these accomplishments, Willie is an impeccable picker. He can hold his own with the best of the best, because he is the best of the best.
Brad Paisley
Brad Paisley’s fame crested at perhaps the perfect time for him in country music, combining a rip-roarin’ guitar playing style with a sound that was entirely trad while carrying touches of the bro country wave that was about to inundate the genre. As such, he was able to build a career on the diversity of his skill set, before Music Row and the power behind it began prioritizing music that didn’t need to be musical and voices that didn’t need to be singular. Luckily, Paisley is both those things and more, and despite the many eyebrow raising moments across his career, our faces more often show shock at his mind-bending skill as a guitarist than anything else.
Dolly Parton
How is it that Dolly Parton can play so many instruments so impeccably with those iconic acrylic nails!? Nowadays, you are just as likely to hear Dolly performing to a track – yes, she does lip sync and pantomime playing along with recordings – but don’t get it twisted, she absolutely can play a passel of instruments from her beloved “mountain music” traditions. She plays guitar, banjo, auto-harp, dulcimer, and has even been known to pick up a bedazzled saxophone from time to time – though we can’t guarantee she actually knows how to play that one, we’re still blown away.
And what about thatone viral video with Patti LaBellewhere they play their acrylics like washboards? Dolly can make music with just about any instrument.
Bonnie Raitt
How many people do you think enjoy Bonnie Raitt’s soulful blues and Southern rock sounds without knowing she’s also often the one playing the guitar solos and making that bottleneck slide weep? Raitt is a Grammy winning songwriter, a fantastic vocalist and song interpreter/collector, and – above all, in this writer’s opinion – a superb guitar picker, especially playing slide. She can hold her own with just about anyone, and she has. Her phrasing and use of melodic space demonstrates that she’s been honing her craft for her entire life. That taste can’t be taught, it has to be found. Boy, has she found it.
Marty Stuart
Marty Stuart’s long, fabulous, superlative career began with him filling the role of sideman for such luminaries as Lester Flatt, Johnny Cash, Vassar Clements, and Doc Watson. He plays guitar and mandolin, working up his chops as a youngster with pickers like Roland White as his mentors. When his solo career took off after his Columbia debut in the mid-eighties, his ear for fine picking remained present throughout his music – however far afield from those early bluegrass and country days he may have traveled, stylistically. Whether bringing in psychedelic surf sounds or Indigenous flavors of the American West, Stuart’s catalog of music centers virtuosity that’s never gratuitous. And his band, the Fabulous Superlatives, featuring crack guitarist Kenny Vaughan and multi-instrumentalist Chris Scruggs, represent a high level of picking prowess, too.
Tedeschi Trucks Band
By many measures, Derek Trucks is the world’s foremost living slide guitarist, but don’t overlook powerhouse vocalist and co-band leader, Susan Tedeschi in order to venerate Trucks! Both started playing as youngsters – Trucks when he was a kid and Tedeschi when she attended Berklee College of Music. These two are guitar and blues royalty, helming one of the most impactful modern blues and Southern rock orchestras on the planet. They’re consummate musicians, knowing just how to surround themselves by players who support and challenge, both. Even with their laundry list of personal accomplishments, together, Tedeschi & Trucks – who are also married – are so much greater than the sum of their parts.
Keith Urban
Keith Urban brings a scruffy, down to earth guitar playing style to his polished and glam mainstream country sound. Yes, even as far away as Australia, having instrumental chops means having country currency. When he moved to Nashville in the early ‘90s, with a few Australian radio hits and awards under his belt, he immediately found work as a side musician and co-writer in Music City. It wasn’t long until his star ascended stateside, too – and then, as quickly, around the world – bolstered by arena-ready guitar. Now readying his first album since 2020, Urban shows no signs of slowing down, with the music or the picking!
Artist:Abby Hamilton Hometown: Nicholasville, Kentucky Latest Album: #1 Zookeeper (of the San Diego Zoo)
Which artist has influenced you the most?
It’s always been Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash. My mom used to have us stop before a Myrtle Beach or Gatlinburg vacation growing up to have us pick out a book. At 12 years old I resented this greatly. But, as luck would have it, I landed on a June Carter Cash biography, Anchored in Love. Realizing I had known this music my whole life, I saw so much of myself in her story and it led me down one of the richest love affairs of discographies I’ve ever experienced. The music and life stories of Johnny Cash and June Carter have always been a north star for my writing, performing, and presence as a person and a writer. I adore them. It also opened the doors to the world of country and folk music.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
Speaking of Johnny Cash, I remember being in college and discovering that Kris Kristofferson had written “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” not Johnny. I had no idea people could be songwriters and not the artist. It was like this huge “aha!” moment in my life. I never really felt like I was good at anything growing up. Not very high achieving in school and not super passionate about anything. Until that moment. I thought to myself, “If I can write songs, I will be happy. No matter who sings them.” And that’s what happened!
When I started writing here in Kentucky, I quickly realized everyone who made music here wrote their songs. A beautiful legacy from these parts, but it made me shift my attention to performing them. Thinking maybe, “If I sing these songs, someone might want to sing them, too.” This lead to a beautiful and unexpected journey with performing and falling in love with singing and my band. Don’t know how I got here really, but that’s the most I know.
Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?
Man, I think I’d take a bowl of Vodka Pasta and Bruce Springsteen. Those two always hit. And make it spicy.
What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?
There’s so many things. I’m lucky to be surrounded by so many friends, family, and influences who know me and tell me the truth. The biggest thing has always been staying true to myself. Protect my tribe and be honest with those closest to me. CLICHES I know. But, it’s true.
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?
Anytime I’m in Eastern Kentucky on a dewey spring morning, I’m writing like a fiend. TRULY. If I can catch a sunrise and see the spiders making webs in the grass in the morning, I’ve always finished a song. Something that feels like a retreat from the real world always inspires me. No matter the season.
Few words stir up conflict in country music circles the way “authenticity” does. While debates over authenticity rage within every corner of the arts, the tension is especially potent in country, whose unofficial tagline is, after all, a commitment to honest simplicity: “Three chords and the truth.” While “truth” can be a broad umbrella to work under, within country music it tends to encompass a longstanding commitment to sharing the stories and experiences of everyday people, in particular those of the rural working class.
Accordingly, an adherence to and celebration of the very concept of authenticity – nebulous as it may be – is as baked into country music culture as an anti-establishment sentiment is inherent to punk music. Listen to country radio, though, and you might have a hard time finding it, particularly as the bro country of the mid-teens, though finally waning in popularity, still dominates the majority of terrestrial country airwaves.
It’s 2024, though, and it’s way past time to declare that country radio is irrelevant. Glance at Billboard’s Hot Country Songs chart, which includes sales and streaming data alongside airplay, and you’ll see the top spot isn’t occupied by one of the usual radio favorites like Luke Bryan, Morgan Wallen, or even Luke Combs, the latter of whom has notably found a way to straddle the line between commercial success and critical acclaim.
Rather, at the time of this writing the number one country song in America is “I Remember Everything,” a duet between the relatively new artist Zach Bryan and one of the genre’s more adventurous stars, Kacey Musgraves. As a song, “I Remember Everything” isn’t necessarily groundbreaking. Bryan’s and Musgraves’ voices play nicely off one another, with his achy grit contrasting sweetly with her smooth twang. The production is simple, underdone even, and lyrically the track travels well-trod territory: romantic heartbreak.
So, what, then, has kept “I Remember Everything” firmly situated in that top spot for 14 straight weeks (and counting)?
If you’ve paid even the least bit of attention to country music in the last couple of years, you’ve no doubt encountered Zach Bryan and his genuinely singular approach to the genre. With his raw sound, confessional lyrics, and decidedly DIY approach to business, Bryan radiates the kind of authenticity that fans crave. He joins a host of other recently established and emerging artists – including but not limited to Tyler Childers, Lainey Wilson, Colter Wall, and Billy Strings – who found success by foregoing the traditional route to country stardom, one that typically involves following an out-of-date formula honed over time by profit-driven record labels.
Zach Bryan debuted with DeAnn in 2019, finding an audience online thanks to the viral success of “Heading South” on DeAnn’s follow-up Elisabeth. He quickly built a fanbase on TikTok and YouTube before releasing his 2022 breakout LP, American Heartbreak, which had more opening week streams than any other country album that year. In the lead-up to American Heartbreak, Bryan, who served as an active-duty member of the U.S. Navy for eight years, was honorably discharged in 2021 so he could pursue music in earnest.
In addition to topping charts, American Heartbreak set itself apart from the rest of the year’s crop with its unadorned production, heavily narrative songwriting, and sheer ambition – the record clocks in at a lofty 34 tracks, with less filler than one would anticipate. The album’s biggest single, “Something in the Orange,” earned Bryan a Grammy nomination for Best Country Solo Performance and, for a time, landed him atop Billboard’s Top Songwriters chart.
That record, along with a handful of EPs and loosies released in between, teed Bryan up for his 2023 self-titled LP, a much more focused effort (a mere 16 tracks!) that found Bryan firmly situated as a real-deal country star, one who can tap the likes of Musgraves, the War and Treaty, Sierra Ferrell, and the Lumineers to come join the proceedings. While it no doubt shows the depth of his rolodex, that guest roster also points at the breadth of Bryan’s influence, as each artist comes from a different part of the broader country/Americana ecosystem.
‘First ever’ is fuckn insane, one of the best songwriters to ever do it https://t.co/GdkuWiWDvq
And while he considers himself a country artist, Bryan’s roots are more indebted to the folk-rock revival of the late-aughts and early teens, when acoustic acts like Mumford & Sons and the Lumineers grew so big as to cross over into Top 40, eventually helping spur an explosion in popularity for Americana and roots-adjacent music. It’s fitting, then, that the Lumineers feature on Zach Bryan, joining on the track “Spotless” so seamlessly it isn’t always easy to tell who is singing: Bryan or Lumineers frontman Jeremiah Fraites.
It’s on these collaborations, in particular, that you can hear Bryan’s joy at being able to do what he loves. His vocals are raw, but never phoned in; in fact, sometimes he seems to be straining so hard to communicate a particular emotion that you worry his voice will give out. It never does.
In other words, Bryan is a fan’s musician, one who geeks out about his favorite artists the way his own fans do about him. In a post about the duo the War and Treaty, who joined Bryan on the standout Zach Bryan cut “Hey Driver,” he writes, “I can tell you the first time I heard War and Treaty live and I looked to the person next to me and said, ‘Are you hearing this?’ I talked to them later that night and they were the kindest couple I’d ever met.” In the same post, he says of the Lumineers, “I can tell you about how when my Mom went on home I got the Lumineers tattoo on my tricep after hearing ‘Long Way From Home’ for the first time and how Wes [Schultz] and Jeremiah are some of the most welcoming humans I’ve ever met.”
This post points to a major piece of both Bryan’s appeal and the air of authenticity that surrounds him: His direct line of communication with his fans. He manages his social media accounts himself and is no stranger to getting vulnerable in his messaging, often posting progress updates on new songs he’s working on or taking a moment to express gratitude for his success. For fans, it’s almost like there are no barriers between them and Bryan, which reinforces the relatability at the core of his music.
The beating heart of Zach Bryan, for me, is “East Side of Sorrow,” a song that grapples with hope and religious faith by connecting the grief Bryan felt after losing his mother to his time being shipped overseas while serving in the Navy. Despite – or perhaps because of – these vivid references to specific experiences, like being “shipped… off in a motorcade” and losing his mother “in a waiting room after sleeping there for a week or two,” the song is deeply emotional and relatable, a wrenching but empowering anthem encouraging the hopeless to try to keep it moving. These days, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who couldn’t use such a message, this writer included – Apple Music tells me it was my most-played song of 2023.
It would be – and for a lot of folks, already is – easy to accept Bryan’s every word, to believe that his hardscrabble songs about “rot-gut whiskey” and manual labor are honest reflections of the life he’s lived and the person he is. Then there’s the cynical interpretation, that Bryan’s anti-marketing is, actually, still marketing, that a young musician could only know so much of the realities of the struggle of the working class, that it’s the same twang to a different tune. Bryan has, after all, had a few bumps along his road to fame, including some less than flattering encounters with police that negate his humble personal.
But the truth, as it so often is, is likely somewhere in the middle. With such personal material, it’s easy to trace one of Bryan’s songs to its point of inspiration – “East Side of Sorrow,” for example, is undoubtedly ripped right out of his lived experience. And Bryan isn’t afraid to admit the gaps in his experience, like when on “Tradesman” he sings, “The only callous I’ve grown is in my mind.” Compare that to, say, the sheer tone deafness of a song like Blake Shelton’s “Minimum Wage” and Bryan’s instances of stretching the truth feel trivial.
Bryan is only the latest in a long line of country artists for whom authenticity is both a blessing and a curse. Genre giants like Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings are often held up as unimpeachably authentic pillars of the genre, despite weathering their own brushes with the authenticity police earlier in their careers. And these debates, which tend to center white, straight, cisgender men, aren’t nearly as hostile in their scrutiny as they are for marginalized artists, against whom the idea of authenticity is typically wielded as a gatekeeping weapon.
Wherever you fall on Zach Bryan, it’s hard to deny that the gravel-voiced, baby-faced boy from Oklahoma has changed the very fabric of contemporary country music. What he does with that power moving forward could break the genre open for good, making space for artists with unusual paths, atypical backgrounds and a disregard for the flavor of the week. If Zach Bryan is who he says he is, he may very well do it.
I bet in the next few years, an expert taxonomist will come by and tell us exactly what country music is – and that this definition will create endless arguments. In the last few months, this argument about what exactly country music is has been growing louder. Jason Isbell has been fucking around with Nashville for decades, playing the field between rock, country, southern rock, country rock, and classic country. (He has recently said that he considers himself a rock singer). Adeem the Artist, the infamous cast iron pansexual, says that they are a folk singer. Willi Carlisle, a folk up-and-comer, has released Critterland, a certainly country album. On the other hand, Maren Morris released two singles last fall which were about burning Nashville to the ground, yet they’re perhaps the most country songs of her career – in terms of how she tells stories, how the bridges work, her vocal tones, and even some of the instrumentation. It seems lately, country is both everything and nothing.
Amanda Fields’ 2023 project deepens this ongoing problem. The album, What, When and Without, is a complex artifact of her own wrestling with genre, history, and biography. It slides into that complex sorting of genre and feeling that is key to Nashville right now. Fields calls this a country album – lushly produced, thick with strings, and dense with vocals, reminding one of an updated countrypolitan record – but sorting out what that means comes with a history of playing and listening.
Fields has a reputation on the bluegrass circuit, often an insular genre with an insistence on a certain kind of purity. She recognized how those questions of purity often don’t pay the bills, and her first major recordings were on a series of bluegrass cover records, called Pickin’ On – recorded by prominent bluegrass studio musicians, there are dozens of them, the artists covered include the expected (Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash), the unusual (Blink 182), to the fully flummoxing (Modest Mouse). Though Fields did not play on all of these records, she talks about them as an integral understanding of herself as part of a musical team: “When I look back on my experience within the ‘genres’ I’ve taken part in, I think about the groups of people I worked with… When I worked on Pickin’ On, I got that gig because of who I was hanging out with and playing music with at the time. I sang ‘gospel’ when I was growing up, because that was the community within my proximity.”
Proximity is a complex question for Fields. She has close ties to the bluegrass community, and there is something intriguing about the idea that genre is a social category – one about who one is near, or what the audience and the performer agrees to participate in. Yet there is a kind of roving that occurs here too; for Fields, roving is both a history of moving around geographically and, as she says here, moving from music that she considers bluegrass or gospel or country.
Fields moved around a lot as a child. Though she was born in Appalachia and currently lives in suburban Nashville (right next to Loretta Lynn’s old house), the line between these two legendary destinations was not direct.
Asking Fields about these roots – expecting a standard line in response – she honestly describes the complexity of her raising: “I’m originally from the mountains and it was my anchor growing up, but my dad moved us around a lot. He was one of those people who felt there was more to life than what was available to us living in that area, so he took job opportunities that carried us away from the mountains. I didn’t like that, because I was always longing to be ‘home’ with the rest of our family. I lived for summers and holidays when I got to be in Virginia and East Tennessee. Playing and listening to country and bluegrass music was my way to experience home when I couldn’t be there physically.”
This moving and returning is a common note for country musicians. Listening to her talk about the juxtaposition of moving, returning, being forced to leave, and finally finding home in an idea more than a place, I am reminded of Tanya Tucker or Merle Haggard. Tucker’s early childhood had a father who moved her from Arizona to Las Vegas to finally Nashville, chasing an acting and singing career. She broke out as a singer who fused a desire for rock and for country. It is similar to Haggard’s talk of moving – to California with his family as a consequence of economic disenfranchisement – and spending the rest of his career chasing economic stability. That idea was perhaps best written about in his tragic ballad “Kern River,” with its opening line, “I grew up in an oil town, but my gusher never came in.” (A Fields original from well before What, When and Without, “Brandywine,” strikes a similar note.)
This connection to Tucker, Haggard, and other classic country singers suggests that Fields landed not necessarily in a place, but as she says, in a music which has tight connections to place. What, When and Without, a classic country album, is infused with this kind of nostalgic listening.
Asked about her relationship to figures like Loretta Lynn or Haggard, she answers carefully: “Most of the music that really stirs my soul is older. I listen to all my friends’ new music and I’m always hunting something fresh to connect with, but on a day-to-day basis, I’m usually listening to the same stuff I’ve always loved. I’m talking Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty just about everyday. Classic country is what excites me (especially when I discover something I haven’t heard) and those familiar sounds and voices help me regulate my body’s nervous system.”
The album, rooted in those sounds, contains a deep knowledge of genre. Its ability to move between old school country, bluegrass chops, and deep, modern desire is one of its strengths. Figuring out how to sound both modern and historical is something Fields achieves with some skill. If her commitment to genre has a loose, rootless quality – or at least one which floats and lands depending on aesthetic or social need – then how she considers time has a similar quality.
Maybe her early commitment to bluegrass, a genre who remembers more than it forgets, and faces backwards as much as it faces forwards, and which was complicated by how hungry those covers were, suggests one way of bridging eras. But, her recent work, crafting contemporary studio craft with the careful polish of Studio A aesthetics is another. Asking her about memory and nostalgia, she again answers carefully: “One thing that was very intentional with the album was the pace. I think that going slowly is nostalgic in a way, because society and industry move so fast nowadays. I usually walk slowly and I talk slowly compared to most of my peers. My body responds to tempo and dynamics and I wanted to invite the album’s listeners to slow down with me.”
The slowness of the album can be heard in how she starts many of the tracks. There is often an instrumental intro where one waits a significant time for the vocals to be introduced and on occasion there are gaps, where her vocals recede and the band takes over – though the band itself is also quiet. There is a quality, listening to the work, of a kind of courtly two-step, the band asking Fields to dance, and vice versa.
The very first song, “What A Fool,” begins with brushed drums, and has a quite lovely open-ended moment where the pedal steel becomes central. On “I Love You Today,” the old-fashioned cheating song, heartbreak is introduced via an elegant, western swing sound, not outside of Lovett at his best. The last song, “Without You,” plays drums as solid and regular as a heartbeat. It’s another heartbreak song.
The pedal steel is crafted by Russ Pahl, who has been playing for decades. He has been nominated by the Academy of Country Music for his work on the steel guitar three times and for specialty instrument once, between 2004 and 2021. Before that, aside from being an in-demand studio musician, he was part of legendary Great Plains, another band who was excellent at moving between genres, across time, and throughout modes.
Talking to Fields about Pahl, she noted how good he was at not only playing, but matching vibes in the studio: “He came across very quiet and contemplative in the studio and I think he ‘got’ the vibe right away. After a song or two, he said, ‘…this ain’t Zip A dee Doo Dah.’ And it wasn’t. It was an album created in the midst of global pandemic [and] a time of great suffering for society and for myself personally.”
What, When and Without sounds like Fields has had some rough times, even outside of the lockdowns (regardless of how dense the record sounds, there is a yearning in the vocals that have a certain lockdown edge); but there is also an irony in this loneliness. Megan McCormick, who co-wrote on and produced the record and plays in Fields’ band, shows great intimacy throughout the project – there is a reason for this, McCormick and Fields are personal as well as professional partners. They sound good together, and the track where McCormick sings backing vocals, “Moving Mountains,” is the highest energy, most open of the entire record. It’s a great love song – but it’s a love song which calls to Mother Maybelle Carter as an avatar of country music, as a figure outside of space and time, which can tell the narrator how to love after years of heartbreak.
When asked about McCormick, Fields is still a little coy, but her commitment to their lives and sounds is made clear: “She really has a special gift and believing in her as a producer, as well as trusting her intuitions and abilities, has allowed me to grow as an artist. She’s my toughest critic, because that’s what I’ve asked of her. She’s also my constant cheerleader. We thrive when we get to travel together and both enjoy that feeling of being untethered that you get when you’re on the road.”
One can hear some of the untethered quality in Fields’ work, the road as untethering as much as time or genre, but the closeness that she has with McCormick is another kind of tethering, be it a consensual one.
Throughout the album, there is a quality of choosing which traditions are valuable, which are worth keeping, and which ones might have outlived their usefulness. When she talks about her childhood as a Pentecostal, she says: “I am very spiritual, still, and that energy I saw in church growing up is no different than the energy I feel when I’m composing music or playing music with other people with whom I am ‘tuned in.’”
She is definitely tuned with McCormick, their close contribution seen in how they work together – the harmonies without necessarily the negative consequences of some of that church life. She continues: “Those are universal aspects of the human experience that transcend dogma, class, and denomination and that’s what I carry on and value from my experience in church.”
One can see the universal quality in Fields’ work, and it contains interesting juxtapositions. A rootlessness across genre or time, which lands on something contemporary sounding; or a heartbreak record which rests on multiple commitments to one person; or even a religious tradition which widens and deepens.
Maybe we don’t need that taxonomy. An audience knows what a country record is.
In advance of the release of Vincent Neil Emerson’s latest, critically-acclaimed album, The Golden Crystal Kingdom – which dropped on November 10 – BGS moderated a conversation between VNE and his friend and peer, country & western singer-songwriter and song-interpreter Charley Crockett.
Both artists cut their teeth in music venues in Texas a decade ago. In our conversation, they tell the story of how they came to know each other and discuss ways they protect each other within the business. They talk about covering and cutting each other’s songs and the importance of telling their truths.
Emerson’s new album, produced by Shooter Jennings, veers his sound toward warm ’60s rock and folk influences. He opens up to Charley and BGS about its creation process and what is on the horizon for him.
Charley Crockett: What’s up, Vincent?
Vincent Neil Emerson: What’s up, my boy?
CC: Another day, another dollar.
BGS: Tell me where you both are in the world right now.
VNE: I’m in Asheville, North Carolina, right now, at an Airbnb.
CC: I’m up here in San Luis Valley in Southern Colorado.
Both really nice places to be in the fall.
VNE: You ain’t wrong.
Can you give us a little bit of context about your relationship, where you know each other from, and how long you have been working together?
VNE: Charley, you wanna go?
CC: Oh man, I always tell that story; I wanna hear it from you.
VNE: I met Charley in Deep Ellum. We were playing around town, playing a lot of shows around there and Fort Worth. That was over 10 years ago, maybe?
CC: I was trying to think about it this morning. I think it had to be ’13 or ’14.
VNE: That’s crazy, man.
CC: He remembers it being at Adair Saloon; I remember it being at the Freeman. It really don’t matter, ’cause I’m sure it was both places.
VNE: I’m sure we went and had a drink at Adairs or something like that.
CC: I remember I walked up on him and said, “I like all them Justin Townes Earle songs.” And he said, “I only played one.” I always liked what he was doing, and he used to play solo and do the guitar pools up at Magnolia Motor Lounge all the time. He’d be up there smoking a cigarette, picking through them songs like Townes Van Zandt, and I thought, “Oh lord have mercy, this boy is a force to be reckoned with.”
VNE: Man, I felt the same way as soon as I heard you, brother. I remember a couple of nights I saw you at the Freeman with this band. You had a bunch of guys up on that tiny little stage, and you were just ripping through all these songs, taking all these old honky tonk songs and flipping them on their head and turning them into blues and vice versa. I always thought that was so cool, man.
CC: I don’t remember that well, but I guess you’re right. In those days, every gig we played for both me and Vincent, we ended up getting booked by the same folks, or they were all standing together in some bar, no matter if it was Ft. Worth or Nashville or Los Angeles. One way or another, all them same business folks been standing pretty close to me and Vincent. And that’s the truth.
Well, that’s convenient if you like to work together, I guess. Charley, do you have questions you want to dig in on?
CC: You know, Erin, I don’t even know what the hell we are doing?
Let’s talk about the release of Vincent’s new album.
CC: Well, let me just do this then. Everything he’s been putting out with Shooter [Jennings], like everything else he’s ever done…If you sit there looking at Vincent and he surprises you, it’s like, “Oh damn, I didn’t know old boy was gonna do that.” The very next thing he does, it just happens again — every single time. I remember when he was playing “7 Come 11” way before anybody gave a damn about him and was looking out for his interests or his career. He had all them songs in his pocket way before anybody had ideas or designs on him and his business. I’ve said for a long time that “7 Come 11” is one of the best folk songs written out of Texas in 20 years. Remember Central Track, Vincent?
VNE: Yeah, they did a lot of write-ups on music.
CC: I will never forget that stuff when you did that record and what you were doing live. Erin, he was playing for 50 bucks and a case of Lone Star in them dive bars in Fort Worth, you know? He was living in a 10×10 room. He was hardly ever even standing inside of the damn joint.
A handful of us showed up at the same time, and we are all moving on our own paths, but we’ve all stayed pretty close, or we damn sure weave it together quite a bit even if we get way out there, you know, in the territories, we always come back to each other. I think I met Leon Bridges right around the same time that I met Vincent. I met him in Deep Ellum, too. There is a guy who plays guitar with me now named Alexis Sanchez. He had a band back then, and he was playing at Club Dada there for some little festival, and Leon Bridges was standing there in a trench coat and a bowler hat. I venture to guess that me and Leon and Vincent met each other damn near about the same time. There were a lot of other folks like that. Ten years later, especially for some Texas guys, you know, we’ve all grown a lot, and I think we have always supported each other and loved each others’ music. That’s only grown, and Vincent is standing there as one of the premier, original, authentic talents to come out of Texas since the turn of the damn century. I’m not blowing smoke. I’m just stating what is already happening.
VNE: Man, that is high praise. I appreciate you sayin’ that, Charley.
CC: Well, they want all this shit to write about it, but that’s just the truth. He was playing in Fort Worth and like I said, playing for all that low money. They were calling him Lefty. Why did they call you Lefty? I figured it was because you had a black eye or something.
VNE: Yeah, I had my left eye knocked out of the socket one time, and the nickname stuck for a while.
CC: I remember they wrote about you pretty salaciously there in the Fort Worth Weekly. I know a thing or two about that myself.
VNE: I would say it was because they were trying to sell papers, but it was a free publication.
CC: Shit, they are selling advertisements. I think the Dallas Observer is still doing that to me.
He was playing them bars, we were playing them bars. I don’t know which one of us is which, but more often than not, he sure seems like if I’m Waylon, he’s Willie. I have felt like that for a long time. You could change the names. I think about this stuff a lot. The business folks, it is always hard to tell what they are doing, but you can be sure they are rolling dice and betting and gambling on folks. It ends up being, a guy like Vincent that somebody like me can lean on a lot more. We can trust those guys, and I’m real happy with who I’m working with, and I’m sure Vincent is, too. It is the other artists living life for the song that gets us through. I know I feel like that about Vincent, and I feel like that about a lot of other guys I don’t know as well as him.
Kind of like Johnny Cash said, “We are all family, even though some of us barely know each other.” I think it is because we can see each other and know we are in the same boat and in that way, care more for each other than other people would. I think it is pretty serious. It is life and death.
VNE: That’s a good feeling to not feel so alone in that way and have people out there and doing things similar to you. They probably think a lot of the same thoughts. Me and you are good buddies, Charley, and I feel that way, too. I feel like some guys out there like Tyler Childers – I really respect him, and I feel like he is in the same boat as us. I’m not as well known as you guys, but I think none of that really matters. I think what it comes down to is that we are all songwriters trying to make our own stories happen and be true to ourselves and honest to the world. I think that the reason we can relate to each other is the same reason the fans can relate. Honesty will cut through anything and bring people together.
CC: One way or another, them folks we are selling tickets to, they know.
VNE: You can’t fake the funk, I guess.
CC: Eventually, it comes through. Speaking of Tyler Childers, we ended up on the same plane flying from Nashville to Austin recently… I was there for the Country Music Hall of Fame induction and I didn’t want to go. I get real antisocial and want to hide out from everybody and shit, and I went to Nashville kicking and screaming. Tanya Tucker was getting inducted to the Hall of Fame with a couple of other people. Patty Loveless and Bob McDill, who I wasn’t that familiar with. I had thought that he’d written the Jimmy C. Newman song, “Louisiana Saturday Night”, which I know real well. To be honest with you, it is the only reason I agreed to go out there, ’cause I love singing that song. I made a lot of money writing songs off of that song, so I figured I owed whoever the songwriter was. Long story short, there in the last week, I found out it was a different “Louisiana Saturday Night,” regularly mistakenly attributed to Bob McDill cause he wrote a totally separate song called “Louisiana Saturday Night” that Mel McDaniel had a big hit with, and that’s the one that goes,
“Well, you get down the fiddle and you get down the bow Kick off your shoes and you throw ’em on the floor Dance in the kitchen ’til the mornin’ light Louisiana Saturday night”
That was a big ol hit, right Vincent? He did “Baby’s Got Her Blue Jeans On,” and a bunch of shit like that that I just didn’t realize. My naive, ignorant ass goes up there to Nashville kicking and screaming, and that’s how I feel. A horse gets led to water or something like that. I saw Tanya get inducted. I damn near built my career off of my version of “Jamestown Ferry” when I was younger, and I realized that she had blazed that trail for me, and I had not shown her enough respect. I really hadn’t. Same thing with Bob McDill. All those songs he wrote and the advice he gave in his speech, and my dumbass could really shut up and pay attention to these folks.
Then I ran into Tyler going from there. He was flying to Austin to do a John Prine tribute. That’s how it is. When I see Tyler, I’m on a plane. When I see Vincent, it is at Monterey Fairgrounds. We are ships passing in the night. All these guys like Tyler, Colter [Wall], Leon, Vincent. Whenever I see them, they got a big light around them, and it is shining. You just want it to keep shining for them, and for myself, to keep it going,
I don’t know exactly where you want to go with this, Erin, but I’m excited about this record. Shooter was telling me about your songs and offered to send them and I was like, “No, I ain’t gonna do that. I wanna be like everyone else.” I wanna watch this thing get rolled out, and I wanna be excited. I’m looking forward to going through the songs.
Vincent, can you tell us about working with Shooter on this record?
VNE: I met Shooter a few times. Me and Charley were at this festival in Iowa hanging out, and Shooter came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. I’d met him before at another festival but I’d never talked to him. He turned me around and said, “Hey man, I really like that thing you did with Rodney Crowell.” He paid me a lot of compliments, and since then, we talked, and when it came time to make another record, Shooter was the first guy I thought of. I thought it would be such a cool idea to work with him on an album. One thing about him is he really is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and he is a genuine fan of music. He’s trying to make cool things happen. I’m so lucky I got to work with him on it. That is the big takeaway from the whole thing for me was making a real good friend like that and meeting someone who gets me excited about songwriting and about making an album and making music in general.
Since Charley cut “7 Come 11” and you cut one of Charley’s songs for this record, can you talk about what prompted “Time of the Cottonwood Trees” winding up in this pile of songs?
VNE: Oh man – that song. Me and you were on tour together for three months, was it last summer? We did a bunch of dates, and we were on the road a long time, and I was listening to Charley do that song every night. It was a brand new song that hadn’t come out on his record yet. I got to hear him sing that song every night by himself, and I just think it is one of the best songs I’ve ever heard. It is one of my favorites from you, Charley. I think it is a fine example of songwriting. When it came time to make this album, I always wanted to pay tribute to you and cut one of your songs on a record because you cut “7 Come 11.” That really ties back into that whole Willie and Waylon and all those old timers who cut each others’ songs and lifted each other up like that. I just wanted to pay tribute to you, and that’s why I put it on the album.
CC: Shit, I appreciate it. I’ll be excited to get the check in the mail. You surprised the hell out of me with that one, you really did. I’ve always wanted people to cut my songs. Sometimes, I think I’d be better off that way. I have so many. I’ve always cut a lot of songs that weren’t mine, probably about half of them. And I got about a 250-song catalog of published shit. I would guess about 40-50% are songs I didn’t write. I feel like I’ve caught a lot of heat for that. People have an idea about me that I never wrote a single song. I think that’s because we live in an era where, like what Vincent was talking about, where all those folks back in the day, across genres, and it wasn’t just country it was pop, folk, soul, R&B. It was everything. Everyone was cutting each other’s songs. I just really think that to write a great song, you have to learn great songs from other people.
You have to watch out for these publishers these days. They’ll just put any piece of junk out as long as they’ve got control over it. They figured out they can make money selling junk. If you can make more money than ever before selling junk and you aren’t principled, and you aren’t that close to the music, well, they don’t see the reason not to do it that way. I think it feels like a renaissance.
VNE: Specifically in the genre of country music, there is a lot of junk out there. I don’t want to put anyone down. Most of the time, I just try to ignore whatever I don’t like. I think that’s the best way to go about it. I think there is room at the table for everybody, whatever you are into. I just think it is so cool that Sturgill and Charley and Colter and Tyler, all these other guys that are out here putting out real, honest-to-goodness songwriter songs. And not just that, but real country music. It doesn’t matter if it is your song or someone else’s; if you are telling that story honestly, I think that’s great. I’ve always appreciated you for that, Charley. I think you are a great interpreter of songs, and I think you are an even better songwriter, man.
CC: Damn, I’m glad I talked to y’all this morning. I feel better.
I’m glad that we are talking about cutting songs because that is such a huge part of country music, interpreting other people’s songs or reinterpreting a song. It feels like that art was lost in the past 20 years or so and it is having a resurgence. I’m excited that you guys are at the forefront of that, because great songs have more than one life. And it is an opportunity for songwriters to make more money.
VNE: I think it is one of the greatest compliments that a songwriter could receive – to have an artist who they love and respect cut one of their songs.
CC: There is no question about that. That is the best feeling.
VNE: It is, cause you know that your songs has legs and can go places that you can’t, which is a great feeling.
CC: It really is. It is such a political world, and it is so divided. There is a lot of pressure on people that you step out there into the great mirror of society, and the more out there in front of the public that you get, there is a mirror that starts projecting on you, and it is tough to deal with. It is hard to know what to do, but the thing about it is – being able to write honest songs and tell the truth in your writing; that is the most rewarding feeling. That is why I always look forward to what Vincent is doing. There aren’t a whole lot of people that I anticipate their new works as much as him, if anybody really. That’s the whole deal. You look over, and he’s writing better and better, and it makes me want to write better, too.
Speaking of, Vincent, can you talk a bit about your writing process for this record?
VNE: I kind of pieced together songs over time. Sometimes they jump out real fast; sometimes it takes a while. And thanks for saying that Charley, brother. Damn.
CC: I’ve been saying it for 10 years.
VNE: That’s kept me going a lot of times and I don’t think you realize that. These songs – damn, what was I saying?
CC: You were saying sometimes they come quick, sometimes they come slow.
VNE: I’m very influenced by the music that I’m listening to and that is why I try to be real careful about what I listen to. I think it is like if I’m making a smoothie. I gotta put certain ingredients in my brain, and it comes out me on the other end, hopefully. I was listening to a lot of Neil Young and Steven Stills and David Crosby. A lot of the ’60s rock and roll and a lot of Bob Dylan stuff. That’s just where I was in my headspace, so I was taking in all that. I try to put it all together to make it my own. That’s where I was at when I was making this album.
By the way, I’m excited about this rodeo we are playing together, Charley.
CC: Oh shit yeah! At the Virgin Theater there? Yeah man, I’m excited about it, too. Thanks for doing it.
VNE: Thanks for having me on.
CC: When it comes to money and shit like that, just any time, whatever you gotta do to make it work cause I wanna keep playing with you as much as we can and build up. I’ve played in some arenas recently, and I really don’t like it. I don’t know if country music belongs in arenas. And I just mean opening. I can’t sell tickets to no damn arena. And I take a cue from Colter cause he and Tyler and them boys, they could be in arenas all day long if they wanted to be. I would rather play rodeos and municipal auditoriums and really special theaters and stack ‘em up. I think we need to get a goddamned Dripping Springs reunion tour going. A real one.
VNE: Man, that’d be great.
CC: You know what I mean, just do some of our own shit. My aunt and uncle and a bunch of people who haven’t been out to see me play in a long time are coming out to Vegas. I used to live with my uncle when I was a kid in Louisiana and Mississippi and shit. He’s gonna flip his shit when he sees you.
VNE: I can’t wait, man, I’ve heard so many stories about him.
CC: He’s wild. We gonna show these folks what country music actually sounds like. They might not be able to tell who is left or right. Nahhh I’m just kidding it is a bunch of cool people.
Thank y’all for letting me be a part of this. I’m just happy to help out or talk about this. I’m real excited about the album for real. The imagery in your writing, man, it’s like everything you write is getting more and more vivid. You paint such a picture. I’ll stop blowing smoke up your ass.
I’m gonna get back on the trail and Vincent, I’ll talk to you soon.
VNE: Thank you for doing this brother, I appreciate you.
Told that a song on his new album brings to mind The Doors, Marty Stuart is bemused, but open to the idea.
“Did it?” he responds during an interview. “That’s fine. If so, why not?”
“Nightriding,” from new album Altitude by Stuart and His Fabulous Superlatives, kicks off with droning guitars, then evolves to a riff somewhat like that of Jim Morrison’s “Roadhouse Blues”
“Cadillac, sundown,” Stuart intones. “Think I’ll investigate this town.”
To be clear, most of the cuts on the Altitude are more evocative of The Byrds than The Doors. So, is Marty Stuart really a country music traditionalist, as many people perceive him? Yes. And also no.
“I’m totally fine with it,” Stuart says when asked if the country music purist reputation is OK with him. “It’s a self-appointed mission. But my comment would be that country music has broad shoulders.”
Dante Bonutto, who heads up Snakefarm Records, which is releasing Altitude, says that Stuart has earned the right to experiment.
“Since he’s definitely someone who pretty much invented the wheel, he’s allowed to put different spokes on it when he wants to, I think,” Bonutto said.
Stuart, who’s been a bluegrass prodigy, a mainstream country music star, and remains a prodigious collector of country music artifacts, was born in 1958, making him a child of the 1960s, with all that comes with it.
“I still think of when The Byrds and Bob Dylan and all those guys came to Nashville to make their records in the late ‘60s,” he says. “That is like contemporary stuff to me. …That was the stuff that touched me when I was growing up, so it was just a part of country music to me.”
At a recent benefit concert for Northwest Mississippi Community College, Stuart’s base was definitely country — he and the group appropriated the whole history of the genre as their back catalogue, doing songs by Merle Haggard (“Brain Cloudy Blues”), Marty Robbins (“El Paso”), Waylon Jennings (“Just to Satisfy You”) and Stuart’s own hits from the early 1990s such as “The Whiskey Ain’t Workin.’”
The casually virtuosic Fabulous Superlatives band (Kenny Vaughan on guitar, Chris Scruggs on bass and Harry Stinson on drums; all of them sing) wore matching glitter-flecked black suits, and Stuart’s performing style still owes a debt to his former boss and mentor Johnny Cash.
But that wasn’t all. During the hour-long set before a well-heeled audience dressed in tuxedoes and evening gowns, there was also a Woody Guthrie indictment of the rich, a mandatory gospel number, and a big helping of surf rock, obviously a favorite of Vaughan in particular.
“We hereby declare Senatobia, Mississippi, as the surf capital of the world,” Stuart announced before Vaughan launched into a Telecaster version of “House of the Rising Sun.” Also, “Wipeout” was played by Scruggs solo on the upright bass, with Stinson slapping out the drum solo on the cheeks of his face.
“Well, it doesn’t really matter how people categorize us,” Stinson said. “If anybody’s interested in what you’re doing, then they listen a little bit deeper and find a much wider spectrum, in terms of the music. I think Marty is much more than just a traditional country artist. He came from that world and uses that as a place to plant himself, and then branches out in different directions.”
Possibly because the Altitude album hadn’t been released yet during the March 25 concert in Mississippi, that audience didn’t get a taste of its cosmic, sometimes psychedelic country music.
The album’s beginnings go back to 2018, when Stuart, Vaughan, Stinson, and Scruggs toured with Roger McGuinn and Chris Hillman to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the pioneering country rock album Sweetheart of the Rodeo by The Byrds. McGuinn and Hillman were original members, along with the late Gene Clark, David Crosby, and Michael Clarke.
“That was Roger McGuinn’s idea,” Hillman recalled. “Roger had done some dates with Marty; he knew him really well. …He knew the Superlatives would be right on the money because he had done a couple of Byrds songs with them onstage.”
Hillman rates the Superlatives as “the best band probably in this country right now, if not the Western Hemisphere.”
“We had so much fun doing the Sweetheart of the Rodeo Tour,” said Hillman, who was also a member of the Flying Burrito Brothers and Desert Rose Band. “The arrangements were the same as we did on the album in 1968,” he said. “We played the songs better, but we didn’t change anything. It was a joy to go back out and do those songs, especially with the Superlatives.”
Stinson says the tour with The Byrds was “a joyous experience.”
“I got to play with some of my heroes,” he said. “I grew up on those records and so to get to play that music, especially the Sweetheart record, which was kind of groundbreaking. I got to go back through it and really dissect it, and then put it on stage. It was surreal for me.”
The Sweetheart of the Rodeo Tour, coming around the same time Stuart and the Superlatives were opening for Chris Stapleton and the Steve Miller Band, had a profound effect on Stuart’s songwriting.
“It got me in the mood to write songs with all the sounds that were left hanging around in my head,” Stuart said. “We were hot on those ideas, and I just carried the inspiration in with me.”
Like a lot of albums released in the past year, Altitude was recorded while COVID-19 was at its height.
“We rehearsed,” Stuart said. “Most of the producing of this record was done in dressing rooms and at soundcheck and trying songs out there in shows before we ever went to the studio.” The original plan to record was ruined by the coronavirus.
“We were hot, we were ready to go to Capitol Studios in Hollywood (California), and make a record,” Stuart said. “Well the pandemic crashed and Capitol Studios shut down, so we found East Iris Studios (in Nashville). We put on our masks and stood 6 feet apart and soldiered on.”
“I’m glad everybody agreed to do that, because I think this record would not have sounded like it does if we would have had to wait several months and relearn it.”
The album’s Byrd-like sound, complete with the jangling guitars that are McGuinn’s trademark, has Hillman’s endorsement.
“What they’ve done is not a tribute to The Byrds,” Hillman said. “It just has a few little nice, ever-so-tasty hints of what we did.”
Hillman thinks the driving “Country Star,” which also owes a debt to Chuck Berry, has the feel of Byrd’s songs such as “So You Want to be a Rock ‘n’ Roll Star.”
“There’s a lot of influence there — not overtly, but it just is there. Marty doesn’t stray far from the well, meaning the bluegrass well. I never did either.”
Stuart’s ability on mandolin shouldn’t be overlooked, Hillman said. “Marty is an unbelievably gifted musician,” he said. “I love Ricky Skaggs’ playing and Ronnie McCoury,” he added. “But I told Marty when we were on the road, ‘You got that machine gun hand.’ He says, ‘Yeah, that’s Everett Lilly.’”
Lilly (1924-2012), played mandolin and sang tenor with the Lilly Brothers and Don Stover. He also spent a couple years with Flatt and Scruggs.
“(Lilly) had that cool right hand and when he took a break on ‘Earl’s Breakdown,’ when he played with Flatt and Scruggs, it was great,” Hillman said. Factor in Vaughan on guitar in the Superlatives, and “you can’t get any better,” Hillman says. “But it’s two different approaches to music.
“Marty really grasped ahold of the pulled string stylings of Clarence White (who played with The Byrds and Kentucky Colonels before his 1973 death)”, and then Kenny “is so good, all over the place.”
“He doesn’t overblow; he plays just what is needed,” Hillman said of Vaughan.
While Stuart released his last album, Way Out West, on his own Superlatone Records, he’s partnered with Snakefarm, a subsidiary of Universal Music Group, for Altitude.
Bonutto, a journalist and record company executive, heads up the roots-rock focused Snakefarm and its sister label Spinefarm Records, which specializes in heavy metal. In addition to Stuart, Snakefarm has acclaimed Southern rocker Marcus King on its roster.
“(Stuart is) obviously an artist I’ve always been aware of, because I love country music and I’m aware of its legacy,” Bonutto said. “The first time I saw him was when he played the Country to Country (music festival) in London, which is a big annual country music event. I thought his personality was fantastic and his playing is obviously unbelievably good.”
Bonutto wrangled a quick meeting with Stuart at the festival, but had to wait a while before Stuart and his management were ready to sign a new record contract.
“I’m trying to build the Snakefarm label into a global entity [in Americana music],” he said. “The best way you can build anything is to attach yourself to people who are legendary and iconic. Hopefully you do an amazing job for them and they speak well of you and they become part of the fabric of what you do.”
Bonutto noted that Stuart, who is also a photographer and working on a facility to display his country music artifacts, is not “a one-dimensional character.”
“He’s a man with a fantastic vision,” Bonutto said. “I think that comes across in the other things.”
Stuart is a leading collector of country music memorabilia, and he’s working on a $30 million museum to display it in his hometown of Philadelphia, Mississippi. A 500-seat theater is already open, and 50,000-square-feet of exhibit space for 20,000 artifacts will be the second phase. An education center is planned after that.
“I was a fan, going back to those country or gospel groups or bluegrass groups who come through my hometown when I was a kid,” Stuart said. “I’d always buy a record and ask for an autograph or ask one of the pickers if I could grab a pick.”
In the 1980s, he observed that “old timers, the pioneers, the people who had raised me, were being disregarded.”
“Their treasures, their personal effects, their guitars and costumes, were winding up in junk stores around Nashville,” he said. “I found Patsy Cline’s makeup kit for 75 bucks in a junk store on Eighth Avenue in Nashville. I couldn’t believe it.”
Stuart met Isaac Tigrett of Hard Rock Café in London, and he showed Stuart how that restaurant chain was investing in and exhibiting rock music memorabilia.
“Even though it was a hamburger joint, I understood the importance of them collecting and curating stuff from The Beatles and the Stones and The Who. … Beyond the Country Music Hall of Fame, I didn’t see anybody doing it, so it just became a self-appointed mission to start rescuing a lot of those things that were winding up in junk stores.”
Stuart’s collection includes treasures such as the handwritten lyrics of “I Saw the Light” and “Cold, Cold Heart” by Hank Williams Sr., the boots Patsy Cline was wearing during her 1963 fatal plane crash and Cash’s first all-black performance outfit.
Speaking of country music history, Stuart began his career in bluegrass backing up Lester Flatt before joining Cash’s band. He’d like to return to those roots and record a bluegrass album.
“I need to, I need to,” he said. “But it needs to be authentic. It needs to be the real deal, blood-curdling bluegrass.”
Artist:Charley Crockett Hometown: San Benito, Texas Song: “I’m Just a Clown (Billy Horton Sessions)” Album:The Man From Waco Redux Release Date: May 26, 2023 Label: Son of Davy/Thirty Tigers
In Their Words: “Listening back to Waco, I’d had an idea to do a part two in the style of Marty Robbins’ Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs or Johnny Cash Sings the Ballads of the True West. I guess I’ve always been turning in these Western folk ballads from the very start. I’ve always been a folk songwriter, and if your tune really holds up you oughta be able to present it with any kind of band or arrangement and have the story show through. On ‘I’m Just a Clown,’ it started out as a three-chord barroom honky-tonk number and then I went soul on it. Here we went and flipped it all around again using the same darker chords but in more of a late-‘60s folk color.” — Charley Crockett
Artist:The Bootstrap Boys Hometown: Grand Rapids, Michigan Song: “Even Though” Album:Hungry & Sober Release Date: April 28, 2023
In Their Words: “‘Even Though’ is me grieving the death of my father and thinking back positively on his memory at the same time. It was an emotional roller coaster to write. I have all these happy memories of playing and singing with my dad, and they’re sitting across the table from sad realizations about how that can’t happen again. He would be proud that I’m doing what I want with my life, venturing off the beaten path.
“It was a harsh realization for me to accept that line ‘even though he had to die for me to be the man that I’ve become.’ Without that painful experience of losing my father at the young age of 30, I wouldn’t have undergone the personal growth I was forced into. Without that sadness and loss, this song wouldn’t exist. I might just still be half-assing poetry over acoustic guitar at a coffee shop for a handful of hipsters. Sometimes it feels like I owe a debt to death for spurring me on.
“My dad played Johnny Cash’s ‘Don’t Take Your Guns to Town’ every time he picked up the guitar practically. The gospel and bluegrass songs he listened to and played (around/with me) when I was growing up carved and shaped me like water does rock. I reference a song from Tom T. Hall [‘Homecoming’] in the second verse. I wondered if being distant from your family and feeling alone and exhausted in this world is just a part of being a country music singer. I identified with that sentiment heavily, decades later. The names and faces have changed but the story stays the same.” — Jake Stilson, The Bootstrap Boys
Sarah Shook laughs at a mention that Nightroamer, the title of their third album with the Disarmers, could refer an activity they pursued as a late teen: after-dark escapes to engage in sexual rendezvous. But the same-named song is about more than breaking free; it’s about moving beyond, as in the lyric, “Don’t know where this road gonna take me/But I’d rather die than ever turn back.”
Several of the album’s 10 songs touch on searching for strength to reject toxic relationships and temptations, and even inspiring others to find that resolve. There’s some backsliding; in “No Mistakes,” they implore a wronged lover to “give me one last try.” But experiencing life at opposite ends of society’s spectrum — going from an ultra-conservative upbringing to identifying as bisexual and they/them nonbinary, and from addiction to sobriety — has toughened the North Carolina native, and Nightroamer’s sharp-edged mix of punk, pop, country and rock reflects that.
“One of the things that I really love about this album is that a lot of it was a surprise to me,” Shook says. “I don’t write albums; I write songs, and I make little stacks, like, this pile is definitely Disarmer songs, and this pile is probably not Disarmers. The last rehearsal we had before we flew to L.A. to make the record, we finished early, and morale was through the roof. Everybody was on cloud nine. The guys were like, ‘Do you have anything else that we could run through just for the hell of it? We’re done early, and it’d feel good to just blow off some steam.’ I was like, ‘I’ve got this song called, “I Got This” and a song called “Been Lovin’ You Too Long.” We ran through them, and they were like, ‘Yeah, those should be on the record.’”
Throughout Nightroamer, producer Pete Anderson adroitly sprinkles in touches such as an unexpected guitar chord, organ tickle or layered vocal; on “Been Lovin’ You Too Long,” he notably emphasizes Will Rigby’s around-the-beat drumming and tight-headed tom tones. On “I Got This,” Shook’s defiant tone also carries a sweetness reminiscent of a post-punk Kirsty MacColl, with hints of vulnerability that somehow reinforce its confident stance. But something else also stands out on the album: a spirit of resilience, even optimism — attitudes a person who’s endured repression, addiction and heartache might embrace once they dump the demons, break those cycles and finally realize, “I Got This.”
BGS: You grew up sheltered in a religious environment and broke out of that. When did you figure out that was not something you wanted to be part of, and how hard was it to get out?
Sarah Shook: It was a process that had many different steps. I’m still unlearning a lot of the stuff that I was raised to believe is true. I started having a lot of questions and doubts when I was a kid. I have two siblings, and I was the one that was always pushing buttons, asking questions that my parents were answering with, “Because I say so,” which, to me, was very unsatisfactory.
There was a lot of stuff in the Bible that wasn’t adding up. Just to clarify, we weren’t a family that (only) went to church every Sunday morning. We read our Bibles and had worship and prayer together every day. So I’m very familiar with the Bible as a text. In my early 20s, I hadn’t been going to church for years; I felt very disconnected from all of that, and pretty turned off by it. But this one day, I was just like, “I’m going to read the Bible one more time. And this time, I’m just going to read it, and everything that in the past I’ve justified with, ‘Well, I just have to trust that God knows best’ or ‘I just have to have faith,’ I’m not going to do that. I’m not gonna give God an out this time.”
I will never forget the moment: I was sitting on my porch in the sunshine, and it was a beautiful day; it was quiet. It was really scary to even be contemplating letting go of all of these beliefs that I was raised with (but) I made that decision on that porch that day. I was just like, “You know what, I don’t agree with this. And even if every word of this is true, I don’t see God as the good guy here; it’s not meshing with my view of humanity and the way that we should treat each other.”
Were you also questioning sexuality at that time?
I knew that I was attracted to girls when I was 8 or 9. Obviously, that wasn’t something I could share with my family. They weren’t openly hostile, but I knew that was not OK in their view. So, it was something that I kept to myself, and it was burdensome to feel like I couldn’t totally be myself, because it was around that time that I also was just, like, “I don’t think I’m a girl. And I don’t necessarily think I’m a boy, either.” But when you’re raised with the belief that gender is binary, if I’m not a girl, I must be a boy. You use the language that you have to try to make sense of your circumstance.
It wasn’t until my late teens that I started sneaking out of the house. I was 18 or 19. We weren’t allowed to date; we weren’t allowed to talk to boys in any romantic capacity. So I was going out and sleeping with people. My coming-out story was my dad asking me if I’d been sneaking out and sleeping with people. And I was like, “Yes.” He wasn’t impacted by that. Then he asked me if I’d been sleeping with women, and I was like, “Yeah,” and then he was just crying and devastated. Because that was, like, the worst thing in the world. At this point, my parents are in a totally different place, and I’m very grateful for that. If my folks, who are pretty conservative and religious, can grow and change and learn, then I’ve got hope for just about anybody.
Did you have to sneak to teach yourself piano and guitar?
I did not. We had a very old and not properly maintained upright piano in our hallway, just a catch-all for clutter. We were allowed to listen to classical and worship music; we weren’t allowed to listen to any contemporary Christian music, nothing with electric guitars or any sort of rock, bass or drums. So I started teaching myself piano when I was 8 or 9. I’m sure the first songs I wrote were religious in nature, because that’s all I knew at the time. When I was 16, I wanted to learn to play an instrument that was a little more portable, that I could take outside with me. So my folks got me one of those old-school posters that has a bunch of (guitar) chord shapes and I just sat in my room and learned chord shapes and strum patterns.
You weren’t allowed to listen to even contemporary Christian?
My parents were very protective. Even in the church setting, my siblings and I weren’t allowed to go to youth group. We weren’t allowed to go on trips that all of the kids our age were going on. They were very, very strict.
The more restrictive parents are, the more they’re pushing children to pursue the forbidden.
It’s almost a chicken-egg situation too, because it’s like, “I wouldn’t have known I wanted to do this if you hadn’t said something!” (Both laugh.)
You’re now part of a wave of artists trying to wake up and shake up attitudes in Americana and country and other realms, musically and socially. How did you get from that musical background to where you are now?
I have somewhat of an advantage because I didn’t grow up playing in bands and wanting to be in bands. This was not ever a career I would have chosen for myself. I’m very grateful to be where I am, and to have accomplished the things that we’ve accomplished as a band. But it does not come naturally to me. I’m introverted; I like my porch. But if I had been immersed in traditional country music from the word go, I probably would have gotten very jaded very fast. And really, there’s a lot of work that needs to be done. I cannot change anybody’s mind, and I’m not out to. But I am out to plant seeds. I am all about sharing whatever information I have with others who might benefit from it. I’m still learning a lot of shit, too. It’s important to be out front about that.
What turned that key that allowed you to hear and draw into this music? And how were you able to stay cloistered for so long? You were never able to turn on the radio and hear something else? I take it you were homeschooled.
All the way through. But yeah, it’s strange, and hard to pinpoint sometimes, because the progression is linear, but it’s evolution in fits and starts instead of one smooth line. The first stuff that I was listening to, I was at the mercy of coworkers. I was a cashier at a grocery store and my coworkers were giving me CDs to sneak into my house and listen to after my parents went to bed. So, my introduction to music was Elliott Smith, Belle and Sebastian, the Decemberists, Yo La Tengo and Gorillaz, and to me, that was just unbelievable. But I don’t necessarily seek out listening to music. I probably only listen to music once or twice a week because I need silence to get my tasks done. That’s just what makes my brain happiest. And I can’t listen to the radio at all because I cannot listen to advertisements.
How did that exploration of music turn into creating your own?
Because I was so sheltered musically, when I first started listening to actual, normal music, it was absolutely mind-blowing. There are no words for that experience, listening to Elliott Smith after having never heard anything like that in your life.
In my early 20s, I started dating this guy. We were sitting on his porch one day, and he had a little record collection and a turntable, and he put this album on. I was just like, “What is this? What is this called?” And he’s like, “This is Johnny Cash.” And I was like, “Yeah, but what kind of music is this?” And he’s like, “Well, this is country music.” And I was like, “I’ve been writing songs like this!” Not exactly, but the same kind of feel. We proceeded to listen to all of these old-school country artists.
I was just blown away because it felt like a homecoming. It was like, “I understand this music; this has already been coming out of me!” — having never heard it before. The second time that happened was with old-school punk. My introduction to punk was Sex Pistols and X-Ray Spex, and Germs and the Adverts. The first time I started hearing that stuff, I was just like, “I understand this. This is me.” Something good came out of all that isolation.
Photo Credit: Harvey Robinson
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