Tag: lgbtq

You Gotta Hear This: New Music From Sweet Petunia, Big Richard, and More

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Your weekly dose of new music is here! You Gotta Hear This.

We’ve got a couple of brand new music videos, leading off with Big Richard absolutely smashing a David Olney song, “Millionaire.” To say the track is apropos for this moment in time would be a laughable understatement. The string band/bluegrass supergroup give it their signature impassioned treatment, with energy, conviction, and musicality. Their new music video for the just-released single was shot in and around Salt Lake City. Plus, Boston-based alt-folk duo Sweet Petunia bring us a new music video, as well. Their new, stark indie folk track “Grub” is set to a delightful animated, stop-motion, hand-drawn music video. The song explores identity, embodiment, beauty, and pain, and holds space for solidarity for trans and gender-nonconforming folks.

You’ll also find a music video for Michael Haney’s new cover of a Bruce Springsteen song, “Brilliant Disguise,” rich in Americana rock ‘n’ roll. Haney knew he wanted to record the number because of how it “speaks directly to the heart of the human condition.” Singer-songwriter Kirby Lyle picks up the same mantle on the title track for his brand new EP, Change Is Hard. It’s also a song of solidarity and community, because who is going to save us if we don’t save us? But we are going to save us.

It’s a lovely collection of tracks this week highlighting community, togetherness, and how roots music is built upon both. We hope you enjoy, cause we think You Gotta Hear This!

Big Richard, “Millionaire”

Artist: Big Richard
Hometown: Denver, Colorado
Song: “Millionaire”
Album: Pet
Release Date: January 13, 2026 (single); February 6, 2026 (album)
Label: Signature Sounds

In Their Words: “‘Millionaire’ is a song about the greed and corruption of the rich written by David Olney, originally released in 1991. It is still wildly topical nearly 35 years later, although it might be time to change ‘millionaire’ to ‘billionaire’ at this point.

“We added this song to our setlist just after the inauguration last year and it has become one of the most emotionally charged moments in our sets. For us, this song is a unifying message, because regardless of which side of the line you voted on, we are all on the same side in the great class war. All of us are at the mercy of a very few, who only have their own best interests in mind, and who would never dismantle the systems that hold them in their places of power. It’s up to us to join with our neighbors and tear it down, from the joke that is the insurance industry to the politicians that are openly bought and controlled by corporations.

“We filmed the music video in Salt Lake City, where local fans will recognize many of the landmarks, which include the state capitol building, the offices of the LDS (who currently own more real estate than any other entity in the world), and the fuel refineries that choke the air of that beautiful city.

“We sing this old song with a lot of hope in dark days like these. Our species is brilliant, and more than capable of solving the problems that we have, if we would put the money in the right pockets and put limits on the folks that choose to hoard it.” – Dr. Joy Adams

Video Credit: Wonderstone Films

Michael Haney, “Brilliant Disguise”

Artist: Michael Haney
Hometown: Originally from Columbia, South Carolina; now living in Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “Brilliant Disguise”
Release Date: January 23, 2026
Label: Rock Ridge Music

In Their Words: “I chose to record ‘Brilliant Disguise’ by Bruce Springsteen as an up-tempo rock version, because I’ve always been drawn to the tension and truth in that song. It’s one of his most well-known pieces from a transitional period in his life, and I think it speaks directly to the heart of the human condition — that universal experience of hiding parts of ourselves, even from those we love most. The more you sit with it, the more you realize the song captures something even deeper: how often we don’t truly know who we are in the first place. We walk through life trying to piece together our identities, yet we still build masks on top of that uncertainty — sometimes to protect ourselves, sometimes because we’re afraid of being seen, and sometimes for reasons we don’t fully understand.

“I liked the idea of doing late-’80s Springsteen as if mid-to-late-’70s Springsteen had taken it on, with that raw, energetic edge that defined his early sound. Reimagining it that way let me lean into the emotional conflict at the center of the song — the push and pull between authenticity and self-deception — while giving it the kind of drive that felt truer to my own voice. It’s not a song that’s been covered often, which made it feel like the perfect addition to my catalog: both as a tribute to his songwriting and as a reflection of where I am personally right now, navigating my own questions about identity, honesty, and the parts of ourselves we choose — or struggle — to reveal.” – Michael Haney

Track Credits:
Michael Haney – Vocals
Ben Jackson – Drums, percussion, keys, Hammond B3 organ
Luis Espaillat – Bass
Brian Fechino – Acoustic guitar, electric guitar
Brad Sample – Electric guitar
Kaleb Thomas Jones – BGVs

Kirby Lyle, “Change Is Hard”

Artist: Kirby Lyle
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “Change Is Hard”
Album: Change Is Hard (EP)
Release Date: January 16, 2026

In Their Words: “‘Who’s gonna save us if we don’t save us?’ That’s the line. We are. Us. You and me. Right here in the moment. Every time I play ‘Change Is Hard,’ my soul activates! I’m so full of gratitude that the heart has an infinite capacity when it’s shared, because I can’t express this feeling alone. The music commands a full choir and joyful ruckus of players to lift it up to megaphone level. When the audience engages, our positive energy is ubiquitous! The hope is simple: inspiration toward progress – personal and societal. It’s on us. Be moved. Get better. Make each other better. Together.” – Kirby Lyle

Track Credits:
Kirby Lyle – Lead vocals, guitar, auxiliary percussion, songwriter, background vocals
Kyle Tuttle – Banjo
Keyboard – Jacob Merlin
Erika Nalow – Saxophones
Jordan Perlson – Drums
Background Vocalists: Maya de Vitry, Kyle Tuttle, Ethan Jodziewicz, Anthony Saddic, Brenna, Dana Baker, Emory Major, Noelle McFarland, Rachel Isabella, Sean Donovan, Kimberly Albertson, Laura Stack

Sweet Petunia, “Grub”

Artist: Sweet Petunia
Hometown: Boston, Massachusetts
Song: “Grub”
Album: Foggy Mountain Mental Breakdown
Release Date: January 13, 2026 (single); March 13, 2026 (album)
Label: Righteous Babe

In Their Words: “‘Grub’ is a song about my experience of being trans and the beauty and the pain that come with it. The song came to me almost completely at once. Most of the first verse came out in one fell swoop as you hear it today, but the second verse was inspired by a video of beautiful baby birds crowded into a small nest. I was so jealous of how close and happy they looked — a perfect opposite to reflect the isolation and sense of otherness that I explore in the first half of the song. Maddy and I then spent two hours just playing it over and over and over again until we finally found the perfect duet of banjo and vocals to support the song.

“I feel so lucky to have been able to share this song with so many other trans people through years of performing it live and hear how they connect to it within the context of their own experiences. It feels particularly special to be putting ‘Grub’ out in a time where our rights and lives as trans people are being put in harm’s way in a much more visible way than in the past few years.” – Mairead Guy

Video Credit: Riley Halliday

Photo Credit: Sweet Petunia by JJ Gonson; Big Richard by Rett Rogers.

1994 AIDS Benefit Album Red Hot + Country Was Ahead of Its Time

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

During the 1992 CMA Awards, Kathy Mattea had a decision to make. The singer-songwriter and 1989 and 1990 CMA Female Vocalist of the Year had opted to wear four red AIDS awareness ribbons, which had become prominent at award shows such as the Tonys, the GRAMMYs, and the Oscars. In ‘92, the Country Music Association decided to hand out green ribbons to promote environmental protection. According to a Billboard article, reports of the CMA’s decision sparked controversy and the organization reacted by offering to distribute red ribbons to artists backstage.

But there was no plan to publicly address the disease on the broadcast. After a local columnist wrote that country fans may not know what the red ribbons symbolize, calling for Mattea to publicly speak out on AIDS – which had become the number one cause of death for all Americans ages 25 to 44 – Mattea realized simply wearing the ribbon was not enough.

“We went to the CMA and said, look, we’ve been called out and I don’t wanna grandstand and I don’t want to go against you guys, but can you help me?” Mattea says. “We basically got no response. So the night of the show I had to decide what I was going to do. I didn’t want to be sanctimonious… How do you stand up in a moment when you feel called to do something bigger? I just went backstage during the commercial before and searched my heart.”

When Mattea took the stage to present, she spoke the names of three of her friends who had died from AIDS. One of those names belonged to her dear friend Michael, who had died without ever telling Mattea he had the disease.

“The problem was he couldn’t tell me,” she says. “You didn’t know who you could talk to and who you couldn’t back then. It’s hard to fathom now, but that’s the way it was.

“Something in me just kind snapped and I thought, I’d like to do something to help. I had a long talk with my manager and I was like, these people in New York who are working on this, they don’t even know that I’m down here in Nashville and we’re dealing with it, too.”

Mattea got in touch with the Red Hot organization, which was founded by Leigh Blake and John Carlin in 1989 to raise awareness and financial support around the AIDS epidemic. Carlin, who got his start in the New York art world, where he curated shows at the Whitney Museum of American Art and befriended artists such as Keith Haring and David Wojnarowicz, had already experienced immense loss among his friend group.

“Being in New York in the 1980s was at the start this kind of paradise liberation. There was all this creativity. If you think of the late ‘70s and early ‘80s in New York, it’s when hip-hop, punk art, music, the East Village arts scene, graffiti, all these things were really being born culturally,” Carlin says.

“Then by the mid ‘80s, the specter of HIV and AIDS turned what felt like a paradise into an inferno. All of a sudden people that you would see at parties or at openings – you’d go, ‘Where’s Nicholas?’ and people get that kind of quiet look and say, ‘Oh, he’s sick. He’s in St. Vincent’s.’”

Carlin, who had since left his job as an art curator to work as an entertainment lawyer, began working on Red Hot’s first project, 1990’s Red Hot + Blue, a compilation album featuring pop and rock artists such as Sinead O’Connor, Debbie Harry, Iggy Pop, U2, David Byrne, and more covering the songs of Cole Porter. The album was a smash hit, raising money for AIDS organizations, including ACT UP, a grassroots protest movement which successfully pushed the government and pharmaceutical companies to release drugs that now allow people to live with HIV.

Despite its success, Carlin had no initial plans to release more Red Hot compilations. He left the law firm where he was employed after the partners gave him an ultimatum. (“My reward for [organizing the project] was basically the partners of the law firm said, ‘stop doing that or leave,’” Carlin says.) Then he received a phone call that would change everything.

“I got a call from George Michael’s manager saying George was a big Red Hot fan. He wants to contribute a song to your next album,” Carlin says. “At the time, we didn’t have a next album. But, in 1991, if George Michael says he wants to give you a track, we were like, ‘Well, we better get an album together.’”

In 1992, the organization released Red Hot + Dance, featuring Michael, Madonna, Sly & the Family Stone, Lisa Stansfield, and more. The album cover featured artwork by Keith Haring. No Alternative, featuring Nirvana, Soul Asylum, Pavement, Patti Smith, and more, followed – and even spawned an MTV special with live performances. AIDS awareness was becoming a key issue among the MTV generation, but the country music industry was still mostly silent.

“I don’t think the seriousness of the problem has hit home yet with the country audience,” Mark Chesnutt, who co-chaired the Country Music AIDS Awareness Campaign alongside Mary Chapin Carpenter, told Billboard in 1992. “Most of the people who speak about AIDS and participate in the awareness programs have been in the pop business, movie stars and rock stars.”

Starting the Conversation

If Nashville’s music industry was slower to respond to the AIDS epidemic, it certainly wasn’t because the community hadn’t been impacted.

“If people found out you were HIV positive, there were landlords who threw people out on the street,” Mattea says. “There were medical facilities that would not take them in. I had a friend who worked on my crew for a while who was legendary in Nashville for taking people in during the AIDS crisis. If you had nowhere to go, you went to his house and he had an army of volunteers. There were lots of stories like that. But there was also a lot of rejection and a lot of stigma.”

After Mattea’s statement at the 1992 CMA Awards, she was quietly approached by people who had been impacted by AIDS. At an event the morning after the award show, Mattea was approached by a man named Bubba who worked at a large radio station in the Deep South who had lost his high school best friend to AIDS. Later, a man who worked for The Nashville Network’s hit talk show Nashville Now told Mattea his son was diagnosed with HIV. Another, a Nashville radio DJ, told Mattea that he had AIDS, but didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone else in his workplace.

“There were all these people in our community who couldn’t talk to each other about it,” Mattea says. “That’s what I was wanting – some compassion and support and for people to be able to speak up about what they were struggling with and hear each other.”

In 1992, Nashville mayor Phil Bredesen and Jo Walker-Meador, former executive director of the CMA, co-chaired the city’s first AIDS Walk. Mattea and Chesnutt performed at the event. With Red Hot + Country, Mattea set out to help expand country music’s AIDS outreach beyond Music City, leaving nerve-wracked answering machine messages for anyone she thought might be interested in taking part in the project.

“Kathy was very brave. I think it’s almost like a heroic gesture for her to take a stand at that moment,” John Carlin says. “Let’s just say [there was] a lot of homophobia in the South and country music in general, and AIDS-phobia. It was not a topic people wanted to talk about. It was really difficult. I think she made it her business so that people couldn’t ignore it.”

Hunter Kelly, a country journalist who hosted Apple Music Country’s Proud Radio from 2020 to 2024, says, as a gay kid growing up in Alabama, artists who championed LGBTQ+ causes felt like a safe place. He remembers Mattea’s speech at the 1992 CMA Awards and attending Reba McEntire’s 1996 tour and seeing her bring a replica of the famous AIDS Memorial Quilt, an ongoing community project to honor the lives lost to HIV/ AIDS.

“I definitely knew on some level I was gay, but I was also in a Southern Baptist church, so I was drawn to those things,” Kelly says. “I was drawn to that mainstream representation that was more open to queer people.”

“Teach Your Children Well”

Carlin says the original idea for the Red Hot + Country album was to have country artists cover John Lennon songs. He even met with Yoko Ono, who granted the organization permission to use Lennon’s songs for the project. But when that idea didn’t come to fruition, the theme shifted to the Laurel Canyon folk-rock scene of the ‘60s and ‘70s and the songs of Jackson Browne, James Taylor, and Bob Dylan. The album would be produced by Randy Scruggs, a GRAMMY-winning musician and songwriter whose own father, Earl Scruggs, had played a significant role in the cross-generational Nitty Gritty Dirt Band album Will the Circle Be Unbroken two decades earlier.

“Randy kind of wanted to recreate that spirit of bringing generations together and, obviously, because of his dad, he had access on a level that I never could get,” Carlin says.

Alongside renditions of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Teach Your Children Well” and Jackson Browne’s “Rock Me on the Water,” the album featured covers of country classics, such as the Carter Family’s “Keep On the Sunny Side” that had inspired California folkies of the ‘60s.

The album also features the first recording by the band Wilco, which was formed by Jeff Tweedy in 1994 after the breakup of his former band, Uncle Tupelo. The group teamed up with singer-songwriter Syd Straw to perform “The T.B. is Whipping Me,” an Ernest Tubb song inspired by his hero Jimmie Rodgers, who died of tuberculosis in 1933.

Carlin says he wanted to highlight that Rodgers, known as the father of country, had also died from a disease that weakened the immune system.

“What is the difference between tuberculosis and HIV? Really nothing other than homophobia,” Carlin says. “It’s a disease; it doesn’t choose people.”

Other standouts include Nanci Griffith and Jimmy Webb’s “If These Old Walls Could Speak,” Patty Loveless’ “When I Reach the Place I’m Going,” and Marty Stuart and Jerry & Tammy Sullivan’s cover of the traditional gospel tune, “Up Above My Head/ Blind Bartimus.”

Perhaps the most stirring song on the album is Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “Willie Short,” which was written by Carpenter’s producer and guitarist John Jennings after seeing a Newsweek feature called “The Faces of AIDS.” There, he spotted the photo of a Houston dishwasher named Willie Short.

“I was looking at the pictures, and under the picture of Willie Short, there was a very affecting caption and it just got to me: ‘Don’t forget me. From time to time, mention my name’,” Jennings told The Washington Post in 1994.

Red Hot also produced a Red Hot + Country television special, which aired on CMT. The program featured Mattea, Griffith, Earl Scruggs, Carl Perkins, Waylon Jennings, Vassar Clements, and more performing at the Ryman as well as interviews with rural and Southern folks impacted by the AIDS epidemic.

“Three Chords and the Truth”

In many ways, the early ‘90s seemed to usher in a new era in country, where queer issues were concerned. Kelly points to Garth Brooks’ song “We Shall Be Free,” which includes the line “when we’re free to love anyone we choose.”

“You also had Bill Clinton, who was a Southerner, but also a Democrat, in office,” Kelly says. “Culturally, in ‘94, there was a lot going on that dovetailed – I really see the Red Hot + Country album as country music being a part of the mainstream at that time.”

None of that translated to radio play, however. Despite the Red Hot + Country’s wealth of talent, Carlin says the album was “dead on arrival,” a huge contrast to the compilation album Common Thread: The Songs of the Eagles which was released the year prior and was certified Platinum three times by the RIAA. Red Hot + Country peaked at No. 30 on the U.S. Billboard Top Country Albums chart.

“Sadly, it was pretty clear it was homophobia in country radio,” Carlin says. “At that time, if you didn’t get played on radio, you couldn’t get arrested.”

Though Red Hot + Country didn’t gain the listenership of previous Red Hot releases, Carlin and Mattea both remain extremely proud of the project.

“It’s a beautiful cross section of musicians and music. Many of these people I know and love, and I feel proud of my community for stepping in and stepping up and doing something to try to contribute in this situation that just felt so impossible back then,” Mattea says. “I’m more of a ‘fraidy cat than it might appear, and I’m happy with my younger self that I could listen to my heart and step in.”

In the years since Red Hot + Country, LGBTQ+ representation in country music has grown tremendously. Queer artists such as Chely Wright, Brandi Carlile, Brandy Clark, Orville Peck, T.J. Osborne, and the Kentucky Gentlemen have opened doors within the genre. But Kelly says when he launched Proud Radio in 2020, he faced many of the same roadblocks Red Hot + Country faced 25 years earlier.

“There were artists whose publicists would be like ‘We don’t want to make [being gay] the main focus or we don’t want to belabor it,” Kelly says. “With the anti-DEI [diversity, equity and inclusion] thing [from the] Trump administration coming in, we might as well be in 1994, as far as the mainstream country space.”

Kelly champions LGBTQ+ country artists Adam Mac and Chris Housman’s recently released “The Outside” as an anthem for queer country artists who’ve never felt embraced by the industry.

“I keep going and keep hoping for progress, but it’s disheartening,” Kelly says. “But also I look to artists like Chris and Adam who keep making great music and purposefully [making music] in the mainstream.”

Earlier this year, singer-songwriter David Michael Hawkins, an openly gay and openly HIV-positive country artist, released his song “Sin,” which addresses the stigma around HIV.

“When I started to look back on the emotion surrounding primarily the stigma attached to the diagnosis, that’s where the emotional well ran really deep,” Hawkins says. “Stigma is rampant in a lot of LGBTQIA identities. For me, the HIV diagnosis was a big part of it, which was also surrounded by poverty, which was surrounded by substance abuse. They were all in this weird cycle of feeding each other. The healthier I got physically, mentally, and emotionally, the more I was able to put words to that deep well of emotion.”

Hawkins says he wants to expand the conversation around HIV/AIDS by helping more artists feel comfortable with sharing their personal connection to the disease.

“Sin is not the first country song written about HIV. There are probably hundreds or thousands, but up until very recently and maybe up until my song, there’s no one that’s been transparent about that being the root of why the song was written,” Hawkins says.

“I think if the industry is doing our job, which is to offer a safe space for artists to come up with inspiration from anyone or anything, then the artists should feel comfortable saying, ‘Yes, this is about HIV, or this is about drug use, or this is about domestic violence,’ and however closely it’s attached to them as an individual. I think we could probably do a little bit better about letting artists know that no matter the subject matter or the inspiration, if it’s a good song and if it helps people – if it’s three chords and the truth – then we’ve done our job as country musicians.”

 

Basic Folk: Olive Klug

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Olive Klug and I recorded this interview in my closet while they were in Portland, Maine, to play a show. Along with their band Cori, Haley, and Payton they stayed with us and it was a real pleasure to be around them for a few days. You can tell that Olive is at their best around their band and it is a true collaboration on stage. Shoutout to the whole crew for leaving such a remarkable impression on me and my wife and for assembling some baby furniture while they were staying at our house.

In our conversation for Basic Folk, Olive takes us on a journey through their musical upbringing, exploring their childhood influences, including their father’s eclectic taste in ’60s and ’70s rock and folk. Olive discusses their love for Joni Mitchell and Taylor Swift, which inspired them to learn guitar and develop their own musical tastes. They provide insights into their early internet presence on platforms like YouTube and Tumblr, and how these shaped their creative expression and online identity.

LISTEN: APPLE • SPOTIFY • AMAZON • MP3

Olive also touches on their experience of transitioning to a music career, going viral on TikTok, and the emotional and practical challenges that come with it. Additionally, they delve into how their psychology background and neurodiversity inform their songwriting, live performances, and day-to-day life. Our conversation wraps up with thoughts on the productive chaos of touring, the importance of community in the folk world, and their aspirations for long-term, sustainable growth in the music industry. Everyone belongs at the Olive Klug show. They leave their glow wherever their travels take them.

 

@oliveklugThe gay cowboys keep leaving nashvillea title=”♬ original sound – Olive Klug” href=”https://www.tiktok.com/music/original-sound-7519310944065817375?refer=embed” target=”_blank” rel=”noopener”>♬ original sound – Olive Klug

Photo Credit: Alex Steed

The Road Home: A Documentary Short About Fiddle, Family, and Kentucky

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Bluegrass and country fans may recognize Kentucky-born, San Francisco-based fiddler Brandon Godman from touring, recording, and performing with folks like Dale Ann Bradley, Laurie Lewis, Jon Pardi, the Band Perry, the Music City Doughboys, and many more. He’s also an accomplished business owner and luthier, helming two fiddle repair and retail shops based in Nashville (The Violin Shop) and the Bay Area (The Fiddle Mercantile.) In addition, Godman helped found Bluegrass Pride and was instrumental in organizing the non-profit association’s float and marching contingent that won the coveted “Best Overall” ribbon from the 2017 SF Pride Parade.

Godman has played fiddle his entire life, beginning on the instrument as a young child in Northern Kentucky. His skills span old-time, bluegrass, western swing, country, contest fiddle, and beyond, and his career, by necessity often, has been remarkably varied, boasting stories of success, trials, tribulations, and highs and lows beyond his years. Now, filmmaker Bria Light has crafted a remarkable, heartfelt, and stunning documentary short all about Godman and his journey on and with the fiddle.

Shot and crafted in 2022 and 2023 as Light’s thesis film at UC Berkeley’s Graduate School of Journalism, The Road Home is an intimate and gorgeous look at Godman and his relationship with his instrument, his career path, and his rural home in Kentucky. The film includes lovely original music – much drawn from Godman’s acclaimed 2024 solo album, I Heard the Morgan Bell – that offers many varied samples of his expansive skillset on fiddle throughout, a perfect score and soundtrack for the 20 minute-plus documentary. Together, Light and Godman travel from California to Kentucky, visit with Godman’s family, share old memories and stories, and examine the complications and intricacies of family and community, the transient, intangible nature of “home,” and the pains and reliefs of leaving and returning.

Now, for the first time, The Road Home is available to screen online, right here on BGS and on YouTube. (Watch below.)

Light has a deft and artful touch as a filmmaker and director, utilizing the fiddle and Godman’s original compositions as an enormous character in these narratives, propelling the story forward and entrancing viewers with the sights, sounds, textures, and mythos of Northern Kentucky – as could only be delivered by a musician and creative like Godman. The end result is moving and illuminating, subverting expectations of the region, the instrument, the genres we associate with the fiddle, and the communities we expect – or don’t expect – to love these traditions and the people who keep them alive.

We spoke to Light via email about the film, its conception and making, and the twists and turns along the way that led Light and Godman to this stellar piece of visual, aural, and narrative storytelling.

Let’s begin by going back to the beginning. Can you tell us a bit of the story of how this film project came to be? What inspired you and how did you get connected with Brandon?

Bria Light: I made this film for my thesis film in the documentary film program at UC Berkeley’s Graduate School of Journalism and when it came time to look for a story that I would be spending all year working on, I knew I wanted a story that was music-related. But I also wanted to find a story that revealed something deeper about how music can help us find our way through the sometimes fraught path of being human. I eventually got connected with Brandon, who agreed to let me into his life and tell me this slice of his story.

This film tells such an expansive story in a relatively short amount of time. What was it like trying to condense such an interesting and often complicated narrative into this short film “package”?

I’ve sometimes used the metaphor that making a film feels like having the vast expanse and depth of the ocean stretching out before you and your job is to chart the best course from continent to continent. It can feel overwhelming! At every turn there are not only creative decisions to be made (What part of this person’s complex life do I focus on? Do I shoot this scene? Do I interview that person?), but also ethical ones (Who is affected by telling this story and how? Should I or should I not reveal someone’s identity? What impact am I hoping for this film to have and how is that best served?).

While you’re finding and crafting the story, it’s not always self-evident what the best, most meaningful storyline is and you want to explore a million different possible paths. You end up with hours and hours of footage (the ocean) that you have to fully explore to find the best course. And the thing is, you have to try things out to see if they work in a movie and until that golden moment where something works, it, well, doesn’t work. So it is a process of months – or years for feature docs – of trial and error, during much of which you suspect you might be terribly lost at sea and had no business becoming a sailor in the first place, to follow the metaphor… until one fine day you’re like, “Land ho!” and things start coming together and you can sleep again at night. [Laughs]

I feel like you let the music itself, and the tradition of fiddle music and roots music, do a lot of the storytelling here. What is it like translating music to a visual media like film in this way and leveraging it to help advance your narrative?

Absolutely. One of the key elements of my vision of the film from the beginning was to leverage the richness of this musical tradition and Brandon’s music within that to assist in telling his personal story. In fact, I pictured the music almost as a character itself. Music, of course, is a storyteller, even when it doesn’t have lyrics. So thinking of the music almost like the narrator of the story felt very natural.

Of course, Brandon creating his album of original tunes, I Heard The Morgan Bell, is part of the film’s narrative as well, so it all tied together organically. Additionally, since part of the film delves into the past and the creation of the album was the part of the story that was unfolding in the present, it helped provide a narrative thread to follow and to tie Brandon’s musical and personal evolution together from his past to his present.

Can you tell us a bit about what it was like traveling to Kentucky with Brandon?

It was very, very cold! Our trip to Kentucky took place over Christmas week and it just so happened to be during a cold snap that swept the entire country. It was in the single digits temperature-wise, in the negatives with wind chill, and the roads were covered in thick ice. I had envisioned going there and shooting scenes on the family farm with golden winter light sparkling in the crisp air, etc., and instead there was roaring wind so bitterly cold that you could barely be outside for two minutes before your fingers were completely numb. At one point, my camera was having some issues because it was so cold! But of course we filmed mostly inside and Brandon’s family was so warm and welcoming. I ate a copious amount of Mamaw’s famous chocolate peanut butter squares!

The music of the film is so stunning, and some of the selections went on to be included on Brandon’s 2024 album, which you mentioned already, I Heard the Morgan Bell – it was one of our favorite bluegrass albums of last year. Was there a “music supervision” process for the film? Did you leave it up to Brandon? What was it like collaborating on what would become the soundtrack and soundbed for your visuals?

Brandon was so generous in granting me permission to select music from his album, which was still in process, to use for the film. Through the course of our many hours of conversation over the year, he told me many of the stories behind the songs, of the inspiration and ideas that led to their creation. So I used that, along with the general feel and mood of the tune, to inform my choices as to which pieces to include where. Normally, you’re right, there would be a music supervision process, but in this case I had the privilege of working directly with Brandon, who was essentially also the film’s composer!

Do you have a favorite moment in the film? Or from the process of crafting it?

Hmm, there are so many memories attached to the creation of this film! I loved filming and editing the “Morgan Bell” scene in the church. The music is so gorgeous and I knew I would love filming in low light with stained glass church windows as the container for that wordless song that expresses so much emotion.

I also loved the moment in the editing process where I found the old footage of Brandon as a young teen on a local TV show. In Kentucky, his parents had given me a paper bag full of photo albums and old VHS tapes of Brandon at fiddling contests and other things to go through and see what I could use. Late one night, after a full day on campus, I headed back to the edit rooms in the journalism school to continue digitizing and going through the old VHS tapes. I got to one tape, began watching it, and it seemed to be all recorded re-runs of Days of Our Lives. After fast-fowarding through so many episodes of Days of Our Lives, I was wondering if that tape had been mistakenly included. I was about to stop when suddenly it cut to the footage of Brandon on the local TV station. It ended up becoming of my favorite scenes in the film, thanks to the very enthusiastic TV show host and a young, guileless Brandon.

Another favorite part of making the film was simply working with Brandon and getting to know him throughout our many conversations together. He’s such an old soul was a joy to work with, which is of course not always the case when making a film about someone’s real life. He was always open and willing to go along for the ride, despite the vulnerability required.

Filmmaker Bria Light, creator and director of ‘The Road Home.’

Maybe it’s an obvious question to ask, but what’s your goal? Making such an incredible and involved piece of art is goal enough, but where do you hope to take this film? How are you thinking about getting it in front of audiences? What’s next for the project?

I had several goals: I hoped some people might see a bit of themselves in the story and feel that they, too – despite having been made to feel othered in the past – belong in bluegrass and country music, that this music can be a home for everyone.

I also hoped that people would see Brandon’s story and say, “Wow, I didn’t realize there were still folks facing this type of persecution in the music industry.” This wasn’t so long ago. And unfortunately, as we all know, we are seeing today the continuation and resurgence of anti-LGBTQ laws and bigotry all over the country and the world. Another hope I have for the film is that by sharing stories that elevate the depth and humanness of the characters onscreen, folks from all sides of the political spectrum might, over time, begin to think about these issues in a new light.

What’s next? Recently the film screened to lovely and engaged audiences at the Sebastopol Documentary Film Festival and next it will play a bit farther from home at the Sound on Screen Film Festival in South Africa. I’m also hoping to show the film at music events or conferences, to continue to share Brandon’s story with audiences around the country.

What did you learn during the making of The Road Home that was unexpected? What will you take with you into future projects – whether in a similar vein or in another space entirely?

I learned so much! I learned the importance of finding that balance of pre-planning and knowing what the story is about while at the same time going with the flow of real-life, nonfiction storytelling – that is to say, you can’t actually predict how life is going to unfold, so you have to hold your preconceived ideas in one hand, while leaving room for the story to reveal itself to you as it unfolds in real time in the other. One thing I “learned” (in quotation marks because I’m still learning it…!) is to trust the creative process, with its highs and lows, self-doubts, rewarding moments, and ultimately, you find that you have gotten to the end of your creative process and survived! There are really too many things I’ve learned that I’ll be taking with me into future projects, so I’ll just leave it there for now.

Film, poster, and images courtesy of Bria Light.

Vandoliers Find Liberation
in Life Behind Bars

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Vandoliers are doing their part to keep the spirit of alt-country alive with their raucous blend of punk, country, and mariachi. In other words, they’re the quintessential Texas dive bar band.

They’ve long been outspoken supporters of the queer community, going viral for protesting the Tennessee Drag Band by performing in dresses as a protest; that was when lead singer Jenni Rose realized that she may be a member of the LGBTQIA+ community herself. And so, the band’s fifth and newest album, Life Behind Bars (released June 27), finds the Vandoliers exploring the wild desert landscape of the heart: sobriety, grief, gender dysphoria — and joy in liberation.

Good Country spoke with group members Rose and multi-instrumentalist Cory Graves in early June about collaborating as a six-piece band, working with producer Ted Hutt to push the band to ever-more lyrical honesty and musical proficiency, and the profound impact Jenni’s sobriety and coming out has had on the band.

The album’s title track, “Life Behind Bars,” deals in part with frustrations of life on the road – but Vandoliers are known for bringing the party. How do you balance these two realities?

Jenni Rose: I couldn’t be a lead singer of this band unless I got sober. I tried really hard to be the party person and be the lead singer and be able to do this hundreds of times a year. I just couldn’t do everything. Put the party down for a little bit, and that brought up so much in my life. It made the shows exponentially better. It made me a better singer. On this record, you’re really hearing me processing this new identity, this new life unfolding. It starts with the question, “Why can’t I get sober?” and then it’s like – “Oh my God, I’m in the wrong body.”

I was dealing with a lot. Cory was dealing with a lot, the whole band was dealing with a lot. We have made four records of us asking, “Where am I at in my life? What am I going through?” We’ve been able to conquer the humorous and the serious, so we weren’t really out of our comfort zone by talking about big feelings, but they’re in this album for sure.

The song has four co-writers: you two, Joshua Ray Walker, and John Pedigo – Texas royalty for sure. While it’s common for pop country songs to have many writers, it’s a bit unusual in the Americana world. How did you all even find yourselves in one place together?

JR: Josh Walker and I are really close. I was with him a lot during his cancer diagnosis. We were catching up and we were about to go to Sonic Ranch to record. I suggested we just go write a song and call up John, who used to produce our records. He pretty much has a co-write on every Vandoliers record except for the last one. We love writing together.

Josh Walker brought up the frustrations with touring and we were talking about how we can keep doing it. Then we thought, “Let’s say we didn’t do it. What else are we gonna do? What kind of jobs are hiring 40-year-olds for entry-level positions?” Cory and Josh had been talking about this line “life behind bars” as a double entendre for years. We all related to it and everybody just started throwing out lines. And then by the end of it, we were all screaming the hook and we had a song.

When you began working with producer, Ted Hutt, he said your songs were “superficial” and pushed you to go deeper. How was it to hear that feedback?

JR: It was wonderful. That conversation was like a year before we got to the studio. So I came in with like 40 tunes. Cory came in with like six or seven. Ted really took the time to listen to our writing and pick the songs that were right for the record. He pushed me so hard with my lyric writing and my vocal performance.

I was writing and rewriting things, clarifying, digging deeper into what I was trying to say and that opened me up to a lot of emotions. I knew I was gonna hit gender dysphoria, but I didn’t know I was gonna hit it there. Then [the] Pandora’s Box was completely opened.

Cory Graves: We’ve always craved a producer that would come in and be like a seventh voice in the room, like a tiebreaker voice or someone who could come in with other ideas. We’ve gotten that a little bit here and there in the past, but never as much as I think some of us wanted. He was heavy-handed, like suggesting we change a song from a punk song to a country song or changing the key.

We all knew that we wanted that. Going in, we all agreed that if Ted wanted to try something, everyone would just be happy about it and try it. That’s exactly what happened. It always worked out for the better.

What lessons do you think you’ll bring with you from this process?

JR: I’m already better at being fully vulnerable when I write. Life Behind Bars is me opening up, whereas some of my writing right now is pretty brutal. I’m excited about moving forward being fully aware and shameless in my writing now.

The band itself is so collaborative, by nature of the kinds of sounds you make. How does the band work together?

CG: We all have so many different influences. None of the songs ended up sounding like the demos. They ended up sounding like a piece of everyone. My song, “Thoughts and Prayers,” was more of a punk song, but ended up as a rockabilly song. “Life Behind Bars” started as an emo song while “Bible Belt” was kind of like a Green Day song. Now it’s like The Cars meets, like – I don’t know. So many different things. There’s a twang to it, but also ’80s rock, because Dustin [Fleming], our guitar player, was in a Cars cover band. So he’s got that in his blood.

There are different things that we each bring out from our past into the tunes.

Jenni, it sounds like for a while you isolated yourself socially from the band a bit. How do you both feel things have changed since you’ve come out?

JR: When I was trying to quit drinking, I changed all of my habits just to make sure that I could. It would have jeopardized my career if I kept going the way that I was going. I didn’t wanna do that, ’cause it’s not just my career, it’s everybody’s career. So I started going to the gym after the shows and then journaling during the day, having a ten-minute free write, word-vomit of poetry that I would send to Ted. I would do this every day and that would take me three hours – most of the van ride. So I’d be in my headphones, dead silent with everybody, and I was cocooning. I was going through a lot and I was trying to heal while in motion.

So everybody got to live with a hermit, essentially, for three years. I know it wasn’t cool, but I had to do it. I’m writing these songs. I’m reading every fucking self-help book I can possibly grab to figure out why I’m an addict. The dysphoria is starting to pick up and ramp up, because I’m starting to understand my emotions instead of dull them and ignore them. I am becoming more in tune with my body at the gym and noticing the dysphoria there and starting to understand myself better and better and better. While all of this is happening, I’m on fucking tour all over the world with six other people.

They’re watching somebody change the way that they eat. They’re watching somebody change what they do during the day. They’re watching my social life become pretty much non-existent. … Everybody becomes [at] arm’s-length on the road for a couple years. And then at a Taco Bell, I tell everybody I’m a trans girl and it’s like I’m right back to the party, I can like hang out again, I can go out after the show, or I can skip the gym. … I’m existing as my highest self after years of searching.

It sounds like your coming out has been a fairly positive experience so far.

JR: I saw immediately how quickly my relationships have been healing since coming out. Each person I told – before coming out publicly – it was great. Now I just get to be in a band with my friends again and they get to know me fully without me being scared of rejection.

I can’t manipulate anybody into accepting me. I can’t control how they feel about me. There’s nothing I can say that would make them either love me or not love me. You just kind of get to figure out who’s with you or not. I am so blessed that the people that are around me are at such a high quality. I think it’s a testament to just my exquisite taste in humans. I’ve been so blessed.

Everybody around me loves me and wants me to keep going and wants to keep being in my life, which is not what I thought that they would do. I assumed that I would be abandoned by everybody, because that’s the narrative that we’re all used to, but it’s been really beautiful. I’m really glad I did it.

Your coming out process has been very public. Your band went viral for protesting the Tennessee drag ban the day it was passed by wearing dresses on stage. And now, you’ve come out in Rolling Stone. So, how are you doing?

JR: Wearing the dresses was Cory’s idea. I have worn so many dresses behind closed doors. No one knew this side of me. When we went shopping for dresses, we all were having fun. When I put it on I was so nervous, but I was also really comfortable. And then we went out and played and I twirled. I had a great time. I thought only like 80 people were gonna see this, that I’d wear a dress for this one show and that would be it. Then everybody saw it.

That was kind of when I realized I had this aspect of me. It was the first time anybody had seen it and everybody kind of saw it at once. It made me wanna drink again, ’cause I didn’t want this to keep multiplying because I was scared. It wasn’t the first time I’d worn a dress and I knew that that wasn’t the first time that I felt comfortable doing so. I didn’t know if I wanted to accept that, or think that it was anything more than a kink or whatever. But I was sober and I did have to deal with it, and I did have to talk about it with my family and my wife.

If anybody’s reading this and they’re questioning if they should come out, you should. It’s good for you.

What are you each most excited about getting the album out in the world and touring it?

CG: I’m excited that people are gonna hear a little bit of a different side of us and to see what they think of it. I think more people are gonna be aware of us than ever, and I’m excited to see how people react to that.

Also, I’ve been doing music for, I don’t know, 20-something years. I’m 41 years old. I’ve never sung a lead vocal on any record in my entire life. I’m just excited for that [“Thoughts and Prayers”] to be in the world. That’s a big accomplishment for me, personally.

JR: I’m glad you sang it. You sang it much better than I was singing it!

I am most excited to be seen as 100% me on the road and to see what that does. So far, it’s been really magical. I think it’s been really positive. As I’m out and I’m playing, these bars or venues or theaters or little music series or festivals, they’re gonna see a trans person in a band, maybe at a country festival, maybe in a small town, maybe at a place that they wouldn’t usually see a queer person, and they’re gonna have to figure out how they feel about that.

I think the thing that I’m most excited about is posing that question to people and giving them a chance to react. I have faith in our fans, but I also have faith in our country, too. I don’t think hate has as much of a stronghold as we might think. It’s there for sure, but I think there’s a lot of love too.

Photo Credit: Vincent Monsaint

Basic Folk: Kora Feder

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

On this episode of Basic Folk, Kora Feder talks about her new album, Some Kind of Truth, and reflects on the incredible changes and growth she’s experienced since we last spoke in February 2020. One of the impacts of the pandemic on her music career was the necessity of exploring other artistic ventures – like crafting hats and lino-cutting. She relocated from Philly to California, finally settling in Detroit. Daughter of songwriter Rita Hosking, Kora went slightly viral during the height of COVID lockdowns thanks to her song “In a Young Person’s Body.” In the poignant composition she pays tribute to John Prine and old friends she hasn’t spoken to in years – and somehow still captured incredibly well.

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Elsewhere in our conversation, Kora discusses the passing of her grandparents, who she moved back to California to be with before they died. Their lives and deaths deeply influenced the new record. She opens up about the nuances of her gender identity, the importance of historical friendships that allow for unfiltered creativity, and her approach to writing both personal and political songs. We go through many of the tracks on the new project, including what I think is the best breakup song I’ve ever heard, “Paragraphs.” Kora Feder is a really incredible leave-you-breathless songwriter, particularly with her political writing. Here’s hoping that she doesn’t wait five more years to release a record, because we’re gonna need her.

Photo Credit: Anna Barber

Basic Folk: Indigo Girls (Reissue)

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: Welcome to our Reissue series! For the past several weeks, Basic Folk has been digging back into the archives and reposting some of our favorite episodes alongside new introductions commenting on what it’s like to listen back. This is our last Reissue for now, so please enjoy!

This episode featuring separate interviews with The Indigo Girls – Amy Ray and Emily Saliers – and host Cindy Howes was originally posted winter 2019.)

Back in 2019, my now-wife and I attended the inaugural Girls Just Wanna Weekend in Cancun, Mexico, which featured an all-women lineup curated and hosted by Brandi Carlile. I was lucky enough to be able to interview The Indigo Girls there in two separate solo interviews. I still feel nervous thinking about the scene of talking to both Amy Ray and Emily Saliers in each of their (very nice!) hotel suites on my new little Shure mic that connected to my phone. Lucky for me, both Amy and Emily were really into my new mic, so it served as the best possible icebreaker. Both were very generous with their time and with their answers to my unorthodox questions.

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First I got to speak to Amy Ray, who talks about growing up in a conservative, modest Southern family with her radiologist father and a smart, scholarship-attaining mother. She speaks to how her suburban upbringing and intake of conservative values of the South has influenced her identity. She shares about her father’s deep involvement in community service and the impact of her father’s generosity on her own activism. I also asked Amy about her sense of fashion and how it challenges traditional gender norms. She talks about her love for creative clothing and that her historically unconventional approach to style serves as a form of activism.

Next up: Emily Saliers. She talks about her relationship with guitar playing, tracing it back to childhood lessons at the YMCA and musical members of her family. She also points out how playing electric guitar changed the game, particularly through collaborations with Amy Ray. Emily talks about first solo album, Murmuration Nation. Released in 2017, it took a long time to come to fruition due to challenges and emotional hurdles she faced during its creation. Lyris Hung, longtime Indigo Girls friend, collaborator, and producer – including on that solo album – brought her expansive musical imagination and played a critical role in shaping the record. We also get into Emily’s love for hip-hop, specifically political hip-hop, and the profound impact the genre has had on her. Emily ends with talking about her other great love, food, by drawing parallels between the communal nature of music and cuisine, illustrating how both bring people together in meaningful ways.

Photo Credit: Jeremy Cowart

Singing Through Dark Times:
Willi Carlisle Finds Hope in Roaming and Reckoning

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

We are in a moment of extreme distress. Especially, but not limited to, the formal politics of America’s dying empire. Living in its wake, it’s easy to collapse into hopelessness. Hopelessness seems reasonable, considering the criminalization of trans voices, or ICE raids, or the tariffs that wipe out hard earned income, or climate change, or any of the other myriad disasters we are in the middle of. There has to be some way forward – a full understanding of how bad the situation currently is, but also that there might be a small amount of hope; that it has been worse than this, but it has also been better.

Willi Carlisle released an album of traditional songs, called The Magnolia Sessions, in December 2024 and will release Winged Victory June 27 via Signature Sounds. Winged Victory includes original songs and covers of Utah Phillips, Richard Thompson, and Patrick Haggerty, among others. These songs are about the delicate negotiation between historical understandings, current realities, and the possibility of a progressive future; about carving out small moments of pleasure against melancholy; of building a small paradise against these impending crises.

I reached Willi Carlisle by phone on Good Friday, the saddest day of the Christian calendar. On the first Good Friday, no one thought Christ would return. I have not been a believer for a while, but I remember sermons in college which warned against racing through Friday to get to the hope of Sunday. So when I call this album a hopeful one, it is hopeful with a full acknowledgement that it might not get better. The work needs to be done with the assumption that there is no intervention, divine or otherwise.

When asking Carlisle about optimism, or about hope, he makes his choices sound purposeful, mentioning that he had been wanting to make this kind of album for more than a decade and that these two albums are “more just like musical moments that continue to say the things I want to say, as opposed to saying the things that I want to get off my chest.” This is not a manifesting energy, or an optimism despite all odds, but one which is well earned after decades of performing.

Those decades of performance tile with decades of listening, each working together mutually. Winged Victory has several moments which cross cosmic time – decades or centuries – looking backwards or seeing what is possible in the futures of our children’s children’s generations. The collection begins, for example, with the Utah Phillips standard, “We Have Fed You All for 1000 Years.” Its chorus states baldly:

Go reckon our dead by the forges red
And the factories where we spin.
If blood be the price of your cursed wealth,
Good God! We have paid it in!

This album is one of reckoning, of refusing the standard moments. In the original song, “The Cottonwood Tree,” a slow waltz, Carlisle talks about a “place where nobody lives, and everyone is free.” He is singing in first person while he plays a concertina, mentioning how he is part of nature now and how he will be part of nature in his own rotting. He is happy to die trusting people, but even after dies, even when he is buried under “the cottonwood trees,” he will be heard.

He concludes the song, believing that he will meet his friends six feet under the cottonwood tree. In a subtle moment, his friends are “the tall grasses rustling between his ears,” or the forget-me-nots in a parking lot, and maybe even other humans. Here time collapses, between the immediacy of the moment and the length it takes a body to absorb fully into those cottonwood trees.

Carlisle’s album of traditional songs, The Magnolia Sessions, has moments of this cosmic time as well – a much eerier version of “Leatherwing Bat” than the one made famous on Peter, Paul and Mary’s children’s album, as well as the last song, a version of “Jubilee,” a moment which reminds us again that the joy will come, after working and waiting.

Conversation between original tracks and new work is central to Carlisle’s practice. His reckoning, which occurs over and over again, is also about the complex matrix of listening and performing other people’s songs. When asked about the covers, he talks about working together – that he had a “strong relationship to the material…”

“I see my whole project in folk music is hearing history with all of its interpretations, its historicity, back to the lives of actual human beings. It’s time to take off the cowboy hat and put on the work gloves.”

The strength of the relationships between material, is partly due to how the original songs on this album work in conjunction with the old songs. For example, how the waltz of “The Cottonwood Tree” leads into the harder, faster waltz of the Patrick Haggerty-penned “Cryin’ These Cocksucking Tears.” That Carlisle includes a Patrick Haggerty song at all is remarkable, even more so that he makes it full of joy and he considers it as part of the tradition of folk and country music. It’s a cult song in queer folk circles – the mainstreaming of this work is a foregrounding of queer desire, another tradition and another culture. Carlisle sings it with horns and an accordion which sounds like a circus calliope (between this and Lucy Dacus’ “Calliope Prelude,” the instrument is having a moment).

Collapsing of time can again be seen in his version of Richard Thompson’s “Beeswing.” Also running a little quicker than the original, it’s a song about lovers who cannot be kept and immediacy about “the price you pay for the chains you refuse.” But the next song, “Big Butt Billy” – a comic riff on possibly hooking up with a non-binary server at a diner in the midwest – makes other arguments, models other kinds of hope (for an immediate pleasure).

Other versions of “Beeswing,” meanwhile, take the side of the narrator and have a misogynist tinge against the person who roams. Having these two songs back to back argues in favor of roaming and typifies desire as a kind of roaming – Haggerty wants, the Romany wants, the server wants, and at the risk of thinking he might be a little autobiographical, Willi wants. Throughout these two albums, the hunger is palpable.

Roaming is central to Carlisle’s music, not only on this album, but as a theme. Roaming through time and space, through the cosmos, and on the very real roads of California, Texas, or Wisconsin. The first thing that Carlisle and I talked about was BBQ and about Kansas City, where he is staying on Good Friday when we connect. That could be seen as a kind of metaphor – having strong feelings about a very local meat & three and about the history of a song that is brand new; having thoughts about the place where he is landing and a song that is centuries old.

Roaming is a way through this mess, through catastrophe and disaster as a way of finding community, against despair while not naively thinking things will get better without labor. This pattern of Carlisle’s interpretive skill is top notch throughout both of these albums, because of that curious hunger, that roaming, and that possibility of a way forward, even in the darkest era.

The last question I asked Carlisle was about theater – he had worked at Fringe shows in his 20s. He said that he wanted to direct or act again, especially Brecht. I keep returning to Brecht’s “Motto,” which reads in its entirety:

In the dark times, will there also be singing?
Yes, there will also be singing.
About the dark times.

This poem was the epigraph to a book written when Brecht had moved to Denmark, escaping German fascism.

Winged Victory reveals there is great beauty in darkness, that singing itself is an act of optimism, and that exile creates its own narratives. Therein, Carlisle has found a way of singing through dark times.

All photos: Whit Stone

Chely Wright Now

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

From growing up on a Kansas farm, to building an award-winning country music career, to a groundbreaking coming out in 2010, to now. As Senior Vice President, Corporate Social Responsibility and New Market Growth at global workplace experience and facilities management company ISS, Chely Wright has followed a simple but effective mantra: “Plan your work and work your plan.” Her parents instilled this ethic in Wright and her siblings, and to this day it guides her trajectory.

“My parents raised all three of us kids to be problem solvers,” she says. “When you live on a farm, you’re poor, and you have to fix things with duct tape, you get really good at problem-solving. It’s in our DNA, and I love that they raised us to do that.”

A singer and songwriter, she moved to Nashville in 1989. Awarded the Academy of Country Music’s Top New Female Vocalist of 1995, her steady ascent led to over fifteen chart singles — including her first hit, “Shut Up and Drive” (1997), first number one, “Single White Female” (1999), and “The Bumper of My S.U.V.” (2005) — and eight studio albums.

Wright came out in 2010, making history as the first country star to publicly do so — at great personal and professional risk. At that time, she could not have anticipated that her courage and authenticity would not only reverberate and empower countless others, but would eventually lead to a high-level position.

“When I came out, I wanted to do it well,” she says. “That included embedding myself with organizations that could inform, educate, and help me be a good voice in the LGBTQ community. In doing that, I gained tremendous understanding of the power of storytelling and, essentially, culture work. I began having opportunities to do that work with corporate organizations, higher education, and faith communities. It became what I called my ‘side hustle,’ in addition to my work as an artist.”

When COVID-19 lockdowns brought touring to a halt in 2020, Wright continued her “side hustle” through virtual events and workshops. One of her clients, global design firm Unispace, brought her on full-time as chief diversity officer, working in DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion). This year, she joined ISS, whose international reach includes over 320,000 employees worldwide.

Moving into corporate social responsibility was an organic transition, as CSR intersects with DEI. “We think about creating access and opportunity for Black- and Brown-owned businesses, women-owned businesses, locally owned businesses, LGBTQ-owned businesses, veteran-owned businesses,” she says. “We think about procurement, sustainable sourcing, and ethical supply chains. Our clients have their eye on mindfulness around who works for them. They know there’s an employee value proposition. Those employees want to know that the company they work for is not only being good corporate citizens, but also ‘What are they doing for my community? What are they doing within a twelve-block, twenty-block, hundred-block radius of where I go to work?’

“Especially in the past five to ten years, companies are seriously asking themselves, ‘How do we not only protect our shareholders, our stakeholders, but how are we making sure that the people who work here know that not only do we need and want to give them health insurance, and economic security through a 401k and a paycheck, but what are we doing to use the monies we are making as a company to make the communities outside the four walls of this business, this office, better?’ That’s how I see the shared space between DEI and CSR.”

Wright works in the ISS New York office, sometimes telecommuting from home, and often traveling to meet with clients onsite. “I keep having opportunities to use my story,” she says, “and I cannot think of a single thing more gratifying than doing that now in a corporate space, in a global organization. I get to use that on their behalf and on behalf of our clients.”

In time for Mental Health Awareness Month, Chely Wright spoke at length with BGS about what she calls a move “from C-chord to C-suite,” how the landscape on Music Row and beyond has and hasn’t changed in the fifteen years since she came out, and how she balances fear and caution about the current climate with innate hope and optimism.

So many of us, especially women, experience impostor syndrome in our careers. Did you experience this as you moved into corporate spaces?

Chely Wright: Yes, a hundred percent. “Am I good enough? Am I smart enough? Do I belong here? Do I actually have the goods to deliver?” Making a dramatic life pivot, impostor syndrome bubbled up and it wasn’t my first bout. I dealt with it when I came out. I dealt with it when I left Polygram and went to MCA Records. I dealt with it in 1989, when I went to Nashville to get a record deal. I know now that when impostor syndrome scratches at my back, I just turn around and say, “Okay, I have things to learn.”

There is nothing more exciting than taking on a new skill set and dipping my toe in a body of water that I never thought about being in before. I have 10,000 sunrises left, if I’m lucky. So it’s not “What can I do?” It’s “What do I get to do?” Why wouldn’t a person like me have a second and third life, take the leadership/communication/radical listening/storytelling/execution skill set, and go into corporate spaces?

We take a myopic view of the music business, but it’s business. The artists who have staying power and choices are iconic not just because of their talents. They do open their mouths and something magical comes out. But when you look at what they’ve done with their business and marketing and the protection and stewardship of their brand, it is business.

When Rodney Crowell produced Lifted Off the Ground [2010], he asked me, “What is your goal as an artist?” I said, “My goal is to be able to make music as long as I want to, when I want to, where I want to.” Because I’m in a corporate role right now does not mean in any way, shape, or form that I’m not going to make more records. I know I will. I have the choice to do that when, where, and how I want to, and having that choice is a blessing and a gift.

What changes do you see in the music industry? How does the big picture look today compared to when you came out?

It looks different than it did fifteen years ago. The music industry, as a whole, obviously is making progress. And I think it would be safe to say that the country music industry is making its own progress at its own pace.

All I know is this: change happens, whether we want it to or not, and there will never again have to be someone who says, “Do I jump first?” I jumped and several others since then have joined me in raising their hands, owning their narrative, and saying, “I am a writer, a producer, a picker, and I happen to be a queer person.”

That said, a lot has changed in the world that makes it more difficult to raise your hand and say who you are. Certainly in the last few years, politically, it’s gotten, in some ways, more dangerous to do that. In some ways, the stakes feel higher right now. But change happens. That’s the thing about time: you can’t slow it down. It’s coming.

Does country music have quite a ways to go to be known as a bastion of equity, fairness, justice, and safety for all? Of course. So does banking, construction, and tech. They’re all on their respective journeys and it takes courage. It takes courage to be a holder of a unique story that people might not be ready to hear. It takes courage, tenacity, and a sense of self. God bless those who raise their hands and say, “I am also this.”

Change is not always a forward or positive step. Change is happening now, but in ways that many of us feel are going backward and becoming increasingly frightening.

Change is happening in some terrifying ways. I won’t gaslight and say, “It’s not as bad as it seems,” or, “It’s just rhetoric,” because even if the thing itself doesn’t happen, the terror that it might is the damage.

Some of these things we fear might not come to pass for certain populations, but we look at our brothers and sisters who are in the fight as well — Black and Brown people, immigrants, trans people — they are my family, and very real things are manifesting for them that aren’t just rhetoric. My wife is Jewish, we are an interfaith family, we are two moms, we are women, and we feel under threat in a lot of different ways. People in our family, and in our circle of love and trust and chosen family, are under threat.

American democracy is, by all intents and purposes right now, very close to being disabled. When we hear we’re in a constitutional crisis, in farm terms, we’re hogtied. As a mother of Jewish babies, as a queer person, as a person who has traveled the world and believes America is the greatest nation on the planet, the importance of America and democracy surviving this — it’s not just America at stake. It’s everyone. It’s the human population. We need to find a way to become un-hogtied, because democracy and freedom, real freedom for all, has to stand. I shudder to think what the world would look like without an American democracy.

In a 2010 interview with Entertainment Weekly you said, “It’s the secret haters who do the most harm, historically.” Those haters are now loud and proud. Is that better or worse? Knowing the enemy versus not knowing who and where they are?

Yes. They’ve become unburdened by any concern of being seen as homophobic, anti-Semitic, misogynistic. The power of gang mentality is real and negative gang mentality scares me a lot. There’s danger in it and people are very easily pulled into the vortex of those energies. When these people group together, form coalitions, lock arms, and move, they take on a new and exponential energy that can suck others up into it.

That scares me. I almost wish they would stay in their closets. But it’s also helpful to know who’s with us and who’s against us. That is really powerful information to have.

You said earlier that you have 10,000 sunrises left, if you’re lucky. There was a point in your life when you no longer wanted those sunrises. The Trevor Project’s 2024 U.S. National Survey on the Mental Health of LGBTQ+ Young People cites, among other things, that 39% seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year. What is your message – and how is your mental health today?

Coming out as gay when I did was the only way I could survive. On the morning after I didn’t end my life, on that cold winter day in my house in East Nashville, I was afraid I was going to go back downstairs, grab that gun, and do it. So I got on my knees and said, “God, if you have a way for me now, I need to know it.” Hand over my heart, in an instant I knew, “You’re going to come out, you’re going to come out well, and you’re going to tell the whole story.”

I had a responsibility to my maker to tell that story, which included a successful, relatively well-positioned person who always had a ton of confidence, love, friends, health, and resources. I had all those things, and I found myself with a loaded nine-millimeter gun in my mouth – a gun my parents bought for me for protection.

I had a responsibility to say, “This is how bad it gets when you don’t get to be who you are.” It was important, and I’ve said this many times, for the 14-year-old kid at the foot of their bed with their dad’s gun in their hand. It was important because we have to raise our hands in spaces where representation does matter, like in country music. Somebody needed to say, “I love the Grand Ole Opry, I love our troops, I love having grown up in a farm town in Kansas, I’m a person of faith, and I am a queer person, always have been, and always will be.”

My mental health, ever since that morning after I didn’t end my life – I’ve never had another thought of doing it. I’m often asked if the day I came out was the best day of my life. It wasn’t. The best day of my life was the day I decided I was going to come out, because for the first time since I was 9 years old I had hope that I could be me – the whole me.

So my message … I don’t say “It gets better.” I never liked that campaign of “Just survive junior high. Just make it through being bullied in high school, because once you’re an adult and have resources to change your zip code, it gets better. Just hang on through the shit because it’s going to get better.” I don’t like it. Our job as grown-ups is not to ask young people to survive the shit until it gets better. Our job is to roll our sleeves up, reach out, go to the shit, and fix it for young people right now. It’s incumbent upon those of us who have power, position, and resources to make it better now.

What can each individual, those of us who don’t have “power, position, and resources,” do to help make it better?

What I realized after coming out and having conversations with thousands of other queer people, whether it be on the phone, or they’d write a letter, write to me on Facebook, or stand in line after an event and talk to me and share their story, I understood that everybody has a fan club. That fan club may be your neighbors, your colleagues, your family, your congregation. It may be one person or a collection of people that notice what you do, what you say, how you express yourself. Everybody has their own personal story and presence. How will you use your respective power, position, and resources to do good?

Power means your personal influence – and it may just be with one neighbor or coworker. Position means, for example, if you’re really good at swinging a hammer, then do a little work with Habitat for Humanity. Use your skill. Resources might be, “I’ve got some extra ‘this,’” so use it.

Everybody has power. How will you wield it? How will you use your skill set? How will you use your unique resources, your influence, to make things a little bit better for an organization or a single person? That might mean swinging your hammer, or it might mean helping someone in a crosswalk when the light is about to change. There are a thousand ways we can use our power, position, and resources every day.

You wrote your autobiography Like Me: Confessions of a Heartland Country Singer “to tell the story of who I am.” Who are you now?

I’m exactly the same. I have new experiences to add, my CV looks different, but I am exactly the same person. Still a person of faith, a person who loves country music and the Grand Ole Opry, who loves to meet and talk to people. I’m still really curious, proud of who I am, and as hopeful as I always have been.

And I’m still strategic, as evidenced by the way I came out. If you look at the way I’ve lived my life and evolved my career since then, it should surprise no one how strategic I was in how I came out. I wanted to come out well, and that required strategy, because the people who will and do malign people like me, the Focus On the Family [kind of] organizations and the far-right fringe, who want to tell stories that aren’t true about people like me — you better believe they’re strategic.

I’m going to meet and match their strategy with how I tell the real story of me and people like me. It goes back to what [my parents] Stan and Cheri Wright told me: “Plan your work and work your plan.” I did that when I came out, and I’m doing that now.

Photo courtesy of Shorefire Media.

Dualities & Disorientation: Olive Klug is Older, Wiser, and Still Feels Like a ‘Lost Dog’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

“If the world is my oyster I’ve been poking at it with a plastic fork,” sings Olive Klug on “Taking Punches from the Breeze,” the first track off their second album, Lost Dog, which released April 25. Klug writes with a mesmerizing combination of levity and intensity about a slightly off-kilter world. Through closeups on minute, funny, and revealing moments in life, they illustrate how schisms can be beautiful, too, if you see them right.

Though often joyful and whimsical, Lost Dog isn’t always rosy. On it, Klug works through immense life and perspective shifts. Their takes on breakups – “The butterflies have all got broken wings” (“Cold War”) – and depression – “When my friend hangs up / and my mind turns gray” (“Opposite Action”) – are refreshing not for their angst but for their realism. But nowhere is their combination of playful, revealing storytelling more evident than on “Train of Thought,” their love letter to their neurodivergent brain.

There’s a train in the sky in the middle of my mind and it’s flying off a one-way track
And they try to button up my suit and tie in an attempt to hold me back
But I’m this strange old conductor wearing pearls and a backwards baseball cap…

Klug grew up in Oregon and studied psychology in college, intending to work towards a master’s degree and career in social work. Not long after graduation, the COVID-19 pandemic hit and they lost their job. Like so many others, Klug ended up at home, on TikTok. There, music took off fast, and their song “Raining in June” scored them an audience. From there, life hit warp speed – a record deal, a move, a music career, a new relationship – and then it fell apart.

Now older and recalibrating, they’re releasing their second album, Lost Dog (their Signature Sounds debut), about aging with a neurodivergent brain, leaning into their differences, and coming to terms with not having everything figured out.

Your first album, Don’t You Dare Make Me Jaded, came out in 2023 and now we’re talking about your new album, Lost Dog. You’ve lived a lot of life between recording the two albums and you’re clearly writing from a different place this time around. What’s changed for you between those two projects?

Olive Klug: I was 23, 24 when I really started to pursue music as a career. I was not particularly young, but I was kind of naive in the music industry world. I blew up pretty quickly after giving it a go and then moved to LA and signed a record deal. When I look back, I had a lot of hubris, I was very self involved. I was living in LA. It was very exciting. I thought “I’ve made it.” I was making all my money off of music. [But] I was dropped from that record label directly after the release of that album, Don’t You Dare Make Me Jaded, which I think now is kind of like funny and ironic and is hilarious.

That’s funny, “Damn, I said don’t.”

So I was dropped from that label and I also went through a breakup. I had these two years of riding this crazy high and then everything came tumbling down at the same moment. I realized that that whole era of my life was a little bit gilded; that relationship wasn’t right for me, that record label wasn’t right for me. But I looked like I had it together on the outside.

All of that made me dig pretty deep into what I wanted out of my life. It was a moment of soul searching and a moment of having to believe in myself, understand who I was, and motivate myself to keep going in music, because there was nobody around me believing in me anymore.

The past two years have been this wild journey of figuring out what I want, figuring out who I am, and maturing and leaving that hubris behind – and [leaving] that life behind. Since that happened, I moved to Nashville, Tennessee, I recorded a bunch of songs, I wrote a bunch of songs. I bought a van. I now live in my van, but I still don’t really have things totally figured out. I’m still lost at times. I think that’s the reality for a lot of people my age.

I’m in my late 20s now and I think that this album is really about the moment that I woke up. I was 27 and things were less figured out than they were when I was 24. That’s where the Lost Dog title comes from, feeling like I am getting older yet I am still feeling like a lost dog, wandering around the country.

There is so much pressure in this world to have it figured out or to be one specific way, and it feels like you’re pushing back on that and saying you don’t have to do that if it’s not right for you.

I’m not really trying to make a statement. My first album, I tried to tie all of my songs up in this neat little bow to be like, “Here is the message that I want to send with this song.” This next album is much more unfiltered. It’s just what came out of me. This is my experience. I’m not trying to reassure anybody with these songs.

You’ve said that this album is about aging as a neurodivergent free spirit. Particularly talking about “Train of Thought,” where you’re leaning into the chaos you feel inside your brain sometimes, instead of trying to hide it. What about that experience felt like what you needed to write about on this album?

I spent my adolescence trying hard to fit in. I had my little secret moments at home. But at school and in my regular life, I got good grades. I dressed up in a way that I thought would be rewarded [at] school. I still was very [much] conforming to my gender, and I tried really hard to be “normal.” I was scared of what would happen to me socially if I did not try to fit in, even though there was this part of me that really wanted to be different.

It wasn’t until my adulthood that I felt the freedom to experiment more with my identity and experiment more with rejecting those norms. I think that’s totally the opposite of what a lot of people experience. A lot of people, when they’re a teenager, they rebel and they dress really crazy and they try to be as weird and challenge the norms as much as possible. I didn’t start doing that until maybe even slightly after college. Since then, it’s been a deep spiral down into allowing myself the freedom to really be myself.

I didn’t understand that I was neurodivergent. I didn’t understand that my brain worked a little differently than other people. Now I’m like, “Well, what do I have to lose? I’m just going to be totally myself.” Having this community of people who are my listeners and fans who really like that about me, and who really celebrate that about me, has been really healing. I think that a lot of artists and writers are neurodivergent in some way and the superpower of it is that’s what allows us to write the way that we do. That’s what [“Train of Thought”] is about, allowing myself to stop trying to put myself in a box and let the chaos of my mind roam totally free.

I’m curious about “Taking Punches from the Breeze,” which is you letting yourself wander in a different way. There are these great lines in there like, “…If the world’s my oyster I’ve been poking at it with a plastic fork.” I don’t think anybody has ever presented that concept before in that way.

I wrote that one living in an apartment in LA by myself. And I love living alone. It’s like the best for my creative flow. But I was really sad. It was in the aftermath of that breakup and being dropped from the record label where I wrote these songs. “Taking Punches From the Breeze” was one of the first ones I wrote. That and “Cold War” were the beginning of this Lost Dog era, so to speak. I got really high one night, to be so honest with you. I was in my apartment and I had just gone on– you know when you have your first date after a breakup? I was on this first date after a breakup. I feel like I am pretty good at asking other people questions and I was asking this person all these questions. Then they would turn around and ask me those questions and I’d be like, “God, I don’t know what I’m doing right now.”

When I’m doing shows, I’m like, “Oh, I’m a Gemini. That’s why this album is the way it is.” I think it’s true, it’s about holding a lot of dualities. A constant disorientation is what I’ve really felt for the past two years. But there’s a lot of fun and joy and possibility in that constant disorientation. It can be hard at the same time.

The other side of the duality, or another part of the duality, is “Opposite Action,” where you’re really pretty down in the middle of the album. Tell me about writing that song.

That was also in that time. I think it was late summer, I was in my apartment in LA feeling weird. I was a psychology major, and I learned about DBT [Dialectical Behavioral Therapy]. That song borrows from a DBT concept called opposite action. I remember having questions about it when I learned about it. But it’s basically the concept that you do the opposite of what your instincts are telling you to do: If you are feeling particularly depressed, you’re supposed to take a deep breath and try to do the opposite. So if you wake up and you want to lay in bed all day and do nothing, you’re supposed to force yourself to go out and be social, go to the park, go to the beach.

I was like, “I’m gonna go to the beach, even if it’s by myself. I’m gonna try to plant things in my backyard.” It was all these things that I was trying to do to make myself feel better, but then feeling really frustrated, because I was taking good care of myself and I still felt bad.

How the song really started was, as a touring musician, so many of the things that people tell you to do to establish some sort of stability and happiness are just impossible to do. Growing plants is something that I would love to be able to do. I can’t do that, because I’m not at my house most of the time. I came back from a trip or a show or something and I had tried to grow jalapeños and tomatoes in my little back patio area. They had died.

That to me is one of the things that really sticks out about your music. You have this way of dialing in on these minute observations. Is that how your brain works all the time? Is that how you’re seeing the world?

I don’t know, maybe. I don’t know how people see the world differently or not. But my writing does feel sort of matter of fact to me oftentimes. So maybe that is how I see the world.

It’s matter of fact, but it’s really joyful.

I think a lot of Lost Dog is coping with those decisions I can’t really take back. If I had gone down that traditional path, if I had gone to grad school, become a therapist, I would have health insurance right now, I would have job security right now. There would be a lot of things that I would have right now that I lack in my life. It is scary to be even a semi-successful musician. I have no certainty. It’s really, really hard to feel any sense of stability or certainty. And to not have any health insurance and to not have any benefits, and all of that stuff, it can be really scary. I wish that small working artists had that. It makes me feel like I’m never going to be able to really have a family, if I go keep going at this rate, I am never going to be able to go to the dentist.

That’s the thing that I really wish more people understood. You’re looking at this artist on stage every night and you relate to their music, they’re still on the road maybe 200 days a year. They don’t have that personal life stability. They don’t have that health insurance often. Even if you think they’re well known, the margins are so crummy and what it takes is so intense.

But if I had not taken this risk, I would always wonder what would have happened. I’m really glad I took the risk. It’s such an incredible payoff. One thing that I can always feel when I’m on stage every night is I have the most fulfilling career ever. That is something that I will never question.

People are like, “I want to have a job that has meaning and that feels aligned with what I’m good at and who I am.” Every night I go on stage, I’m getting paid to do the thing that I feel like I am meant to be doing and that is really worth it. Maybe one day that will include some stability.

And just like that, we’re back to dualities.

Yes, exactly.

Photo Credit: Alex Steed