Tag: mutual aid

The Subtle Danger of Guitarist Sunny War and ‘Armageddon in a Summer Dress’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

In 2022, punk-blues innovator Sunny War moved into her late father’s house in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and began making repairs. There was no heat that first winter and the house needed a full electrical rewiring. By winter 2023, she had the money to heat the place, but as the temperature rose each night, Sunny felt a strange impulse to patrol the house in the dark, swinging her grandfather’s machete at the ghosts inhabiting the top floor.

At the start of our Zoom call interview in January, Sunny recounts the bizarre magical realism of the weeks she spent living with an undiscovered gas leak. I ask enough follow-up questions to be reassured that my friend is not still being fumigated in her own home before I allow myself to belly laugh. “I have to fix everything,” she sighs.

Sunny goes on to explain that by the time the city discovered and fixed the problem, the mood had already been set for her forthcoming album, Armageddon in a Summer Dress. I would describe the results as psychedelic and subtly dangerous.

My friend Sunny can be a little hard to read, a fact which she mentions at one point during our call. We first met at Americanafest in 2019. It was my second year traveling from New York to Tennessee for the annual roots music conference and festival. That summer I had made up my mind to bring Black artists together during the festival for our own unofficial day party. I booked Dee’s Country Cocktail Lounge, cross-referenced names on the festival poster with Google image searches, and sent out a few invitations. Sunny agreed to perform, as did Tré Burt and Milwaukee folk duo Nickel & Rose (featuring Carl Nichols, the artist soon to become Buffalo Nichols). One after another we played our songs then stepped out onto the Madison, Tennessee, porch, most of us meeting for the first time. It was the greatest number of Black people I had ever been around in a professional space since releasing my debut album in 2017.

It was clear to me even then that Sunny was a star. Carl, Tré, and I were on ascendant career arcs of our own, but Sunny was out ahead somehow. She was already well known in songwriter circles for her inimitable movements on the guitar and for her punk rock roots, but it was the intensity of her stage presence that stood out to me most on that first meeting. I watched her suck in the air and light around her as she sang, quietly commanding the audience’s attention. Songs like “Drugs Are Bad” and “Shell” became spells when sung in War’s almost-effortless, warmly breathy style. She appeared peaceful in her own creative world amidst the restless energy of the festival.

2019 was also the year that Sunny founded the downtown Los Angeles chapter of Food Not Bombs, a national network of community groups addressing hunger. In interviews about the movement she was candid about having experienced houselessness herself and how she noticed the disproportionate presence of veterans on the street. She organized weekly meetups in which volunteers made meals and shared them, potluck-style, with their unhoused neighbors on skid row. When COVID hit they switched to burritos and sack lunches. On “Deployed and Destroyed,” one of the outstanding tracks from Sunny’s 2021 album, Simple Syrup, she invites her listener to spend three minutes and 54 seconds in the shoes of a 26-year-old unhoused veteran experiencing PTSD. When I listen to her sing “I still love you/ We’re still friends” I feel like I am sitting beside her. This is what Aristotle and contemporary Marxists call “praxis.”

Sunny is fearless on stage. Six years into our friendship I remain awed by the way in which she commands attention without ever seeming contained by it. Her presence has a kinetic power that you can more easily get lost in than describe. We met up in Chicago on a winter night in early 2023 when Sunny was on tour and I was in between tours. Both of us were depressed, I think. Wide, wet snowflakes were beginning to fall outside while we caught up over drinks. We bribed the DJ into letting us jump the line for karaoke and then launched into a formally unconventional performance of Destiny’s Child’s “Jumpin’ Jumpin’.” The mostly-white crowd of beer-drinking twenty-somethings were amused at first and then bored. I gave up. Sunny stayed the course, winning the audience over with mischief in her eyes.

Later that year Sunny released Anarchist Gospel on New West Records to well-deserved, unanimous acclaim. The album featured Americana heavy hitters Allison Russell, Dave Rawlings, and Chris Pierce. She also toured with Mitski, broadening her fandom to include more indie listeners. I cheered my friend from afar, mostly on Instagram, as her star continued to rise.

When I ask about her memories of that album cycle, Sunny enthusiastically recalls the younger audiences who discovered her music. She expresses gratitude that a 14-year-old at a Mitski concert, someone who “actually is into music for the first time in their life, in the way that you are when you hate your parents and all you have is music” would become a fan. A lot of journalists described her as an “emerging” artist or a songwriter soon to be one of the most beloved in Americana. But for those of us on the fringes of the format, Sunny had been the best around for a minute and the momentum of her career spoke for itself.

Sunny’s latest album, Armageddon In A Summer Dress, comes out on February 21. I ask her to describe the new record in her own words. “Silly,” she responds. I ask if there is a genre descriptor for her music in general. She says, “No.”  I am going to follow the artist’s lead and not do her album the disservice of describing it too much. I will say that Armageddon In A Summer Dress is her seventh full-length effort and contains her most inspired vocal performances yet – and some of her finest lyrics.

There is a haze hovering in the top layers of some of these tunes. The winding guitar melodies often weave themselves into the vocal lines, but sometimes they go their own way. I ask her if audiences are reacting to the Black anarchist content of her songs differently than they did the last time she released a folk album with transparently leftist politics. “I don’t feel like people pay that much attention to my lyrics,” she responds. Her primary musical concern, she reflects, is playing the guitar. And in any case, the best way to metabolize these songs is by listening to them repeatedly.

Sunny, Carl, Tré, and I have remained loosely intertwined in the years since that first Americana kickback. We have toured together. We run into each other at festivals and in thrift shops. Tré and Sunny were roommates for a time and in the summertime can be seen riding bikes like cousins in Sunny’s recent music video for “Scornful Heart.” I interview my friends periodically.

We all continue to embody aspects of the blues tradition while resisting categorization. Sunny continues moving patiently through her own cycles of living, transforming, creating in darkness, and then telling the story. She leaps unexpectedly from now to the future and then doubles back to sample tradition, inviting you to keep up. Her lyrics are disarmingly empathetic. Like all great artists, Sunny moves in her own time, less concerned with debating the canon than she is with creating the future. She looks back on the nights she hunted ghosts with her grandfather’s machete joking, “That wasn’t me!”

There is great integrity in Sunny’s storytelling, which means that no matter how long it has been since we last spoke, she will catch me up quickly when we meet again. I ask her who the narrator of “No One Calls Me Baby” is, trying to signal that I am a feminist who recognizes women writers as authors beyond the world of autobiography. But she quickly tells me that the narrator is her and fills me in on the past few months of her life. She has been single for over a year, and has been learning to enjoy the alone time in a house she owns. We commiserate about being single, but we are both leaned back by this point, looking down on loneliness together. “No one calls me baby anymore/ I hold my own hand now…”

One of my favorite things about Sunny is that whether she’s playing a dive bar or a sold-out theater, everyone walks away dazzled. She is just as warm and entertaining sitting across from you in her home. She accompanies herself.

Find more Sunny War Artist of the Month coverage here.

Photo Credit: Joshua Black Wilkins

Artist of the Month: Sunny War

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Sunny War has done it again. Her brand new album, Armageddon in a Summer Dress (out February 21 via New West Records), is yet another anarcho-punk-roots masterpiece in her already deep-and-wide catalog of superlative recordings. The project builds on the sonic and rhetorical universe of her critically acclaimed and triumphantly received 2023 release, Anarchist Gospel, further expanding her charming, down-to-earth doctrine of mutual aid, community, and truly radical ideas – musically, and otherwise – exactly when we need them most.

That fact – the apropos timing of this collection of songs and their release – feels most striking because this music wasn’t written expressly to be a response to the current critical mass of fascism, oligarchy, and attacks on human rights in our country and around the world. Instead, the messages and morals in these songs are well-placed, not as slapdash reactions to the current political discourse or as activist-branded cash grabs in a terrifying societal moment, but by focusing on the real day-to-day implications of such imperialism as evidenced within War’s own life and her own inner circle.

On Armageddon’s opening track, “One Way Train,” she sings:

When there’s no one left to use
And no police or state
And the fascists and the classists
All evaporate
Won’t you meet me on the outskirts
Of my left brain
Close your eyes and take a ride
On a one way train

This album is exactly such a refuge on par with the singer’s “left brain” – and stemming directly from it! – in “One Way Train.” Armageddon is a respite from the noise of the news cycle and the sensationalism of consumerist media that needs not deny the realities we all witness and live through in order to be a resting place. This isn’t toxic positivity or “joy” and “hope” as cudgels to smack down criticism of inequalities, corruption, and ruling classes, thereby reinforcing the status quo. The songs of Armageddon in a Summer Dress do feel hopeful– but because they acknowledge and grapple with these issues, instead of willing them away under the rug or into hiding.

The deft and artful positioning of these incisive songs is directly tied to the ways anarchy, mutual aid, and solidarity have been woven into War’s life as an artist – and as a human, since even before she picked up the guitar. These are embodied, real concepts to Sunny, not just intellectual ideas and hypotheticals.

Punk and blues, folk and grunge ooze out of songs ripe for protest and resistance, but never packaged in a pink crocheted pussy cat hat or internet-ready bumper sticker quips. Sunny War knows the violence and tyranny we all face – she has faced it her entire life – and gives it the treatment it deserves, but without ever preaching or finger-wagging. The beliefs evident in Armageddon in a Summer Dress are never contingent on which team, “red or blue,” holds the power. Rather, the hope and tenacity in these songs feels derived from an intrinsic understanding that it’s always been “the many versus the few” and “the powerless versus the powerful” where the battle lines are drawn, instead.

“Walking Contradiction” – which features punk icon Steve Ignorant – is searing in its indictment of toothless neoliberalism having landed us in this exact political and social scenario:

…While the war pigs killed more kids today
Picket signs were made 6,000 miles away
And all the lefties and the liberals were marching so you know
Just because they pay their taxes doesn’t mean that they don’t know
All the pigs and the big wigs foaming at the mouth
Look down at us laughing like we’ll never figure out
All the war outside starts here at home
If they didn’t have our money they’d be fighting it alone
Doesn’t matter what your silly little signs have to say
‘Cause the genocide is funded by the taxes that you pay

Stopping and inhabiting this song, one of the project’s singles, and its message is illuminating. Especially when you realize it was written under the prior administration, but applies to the current one as well. And, perhaps, to every other presidential administration in U.S. history.

Armageddon in a Summer Dress still feels light and rewarding, though. It’s flowing and intuitive, and decidedly charming, even with these stark messages. Because, like most of Sunny War’s creative output, it actually drives to the heart of the issues we all turn over in our minds and on our screens each day, rather than tilting at superficial, sensational windmills that end up reinforcing our oligarchic status quo.

Of course, this album is not solely political and anarchic and intellectual. In fact, it’s not attempting to be cerebral and be-monocled at all. These are songs of love, of grief, of being an individual with a collective mindset in an individualist world with collective blindness.

There are songs of introspection, of perception, of self growth, of regression. Each feels fully realized in production, lush and deep. But there, in the gaps, in the bones of each track, are War’s signature fingerstyle licks, hooks, and turns of phrase on the guitar. She plays banjo throughout the project as well, and though the referenced genres evident on the project are endlessly rootsy, the blues and folk approach that charmed much of the bluegrass, folk, and Americana worlds previously serve a more subtle purpose here. War’s personality on her instruments is still prominent, and is ultimately successful playing more of a support role to the greater whole. Above all else, you can tell creating this album and these songs must have been so much fun to make.

Tré Burt, Valerie June, and John Doe – along with Ignorant – all guest on the record, which was produced by Andrija Tokic and recorded in Nashville, just up the highway from War’s current hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee. Like Anarchist Gospel, seeing War’s community of collaborators grow and morph on the new project again speaks to the way this guitarist-songwriter-performer’s mission is an active, constructive one. It’s never merely a mantra hung on the wall to be admired from afar.

As we all face an ongoing apocalypse, as we each reckon with the indisputable fact that we are already living in dystopia – and have been – Armageddon in a Summer Dress is the perfect album to bring along with us. Dancing and flowing and twirling through the end of the world is certainly not a winning strategy, but dancing, marching, caring for one another, and lifting each other up despite Armageddon and imperialism might just do the trick.

She perhaps encapsulates this feeling best alongside wailing organ on “Bad Times:”

Had nothing so I had to borrow
What I owe’s gonna double tomorrow
Maybe now or in an hour or so
I’m gonna have to let everything go

So long room and board
And all the other things I can’t afford
You’re overrated anyway
I’ll be good soon as you
Bad times stay away
Bad times stay away
Bad times stay away
Bad times stay away…

This affirmation is not the end game, it is merely the beginning. If we take Sunny War’s ideals to heart, if we sing along at the top of our lungs, if we do mutual aid on a daily basis, if we take each moment, one individual second at a time– we, too, can navigate through Armageddon in a Summer Dress, emerging on the other side in a better, more just, more sunny world.

Sunny War is our Artist of the Month. Check out our exclusive interview with Sunny by her friend and peer Lizzie No here. Make sure to save our Essential Sunny War Playlist below while we gear up for the new album on February 21. Plus, follow BGS on social media as we dip back into our archives every day for all things Sunny during the entire month of February.

Photo Credit: Joshua Black Wilkins

How to Help Musicians and Artists Impacted by the Los Angeles Wildfires

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Even before The Bluegrass Situation was its own entity, pre-dating the existence of this website, we’ve been proud to call Los Angeles home. From our co-founder Ed Helms’ original shows at Largo, or our first, homespun blog, Bluegrass LA, or our debut festival, the LA Bluegrass Situation, to today – boosting and presenting shows across Los Angeles County, building our new variety show, the Good Country Goodtime, and beyond, staying connected with the myriad of folks who make this place so special and vital – Los Angeles has been the perfect cradle for growing our worldwide roots music community.

Last week, we watched anxiously with the rest of the world as an rare wind event in Southern California turned into one of the most devastating series of wildfires in the nation’s history. Many of these fires are still burning, causing the destruction of thousands of homes, structures, and businesses and torching countless acres, so many precious landmarks, and irreplaceable memories. While we are incredibly grateful our team members who are based in Los Angeles are safe and sound, we’re acutely aware that so many of our neighbors, loved ones, and community members have not been so lucky.

We spoke to musician, singer-songwriter, and Mipso member Jacob Sharp – who recently moved to Altadena – about his own experiences over the last week, as his and his partner Cate’s neighborhood burned down around their home.

“I’m from a tiny town the western North Carolina foothills,” Sharp explains via email, amidst phone calls with FEMA and filing insurance claims. “I’m obsessed with cities with expansive music communities only rivaled by their even more expansive food scenes. I couldn’t believe it when I found out there are tiny towns in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains on the edge of America’s most-difficult-to-navigate city where the true wildness of nature meets the beauty of urban chaos. Altadena felt like the best kept secret in California.

“We moved out to the hills a few months ago inspired by the current creative community that calls it home, by the insane music and food hangs that casually happen here on a daily basis because of it, by its historically diverse intermingling of racial worlds (there are more historic Black homeowners in Altadena than basically anywhere else in LA), and by the ease with which you can fade from the urban landscape into some of the best hiking in Southern California. (We have friends who see a bear in their yard literally every day).”

 

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“It was everything I’d ever wanted in a community,” Sharp continues. “I’d drive back from other neighborhoods and feel my shoulders relax as the mountains came into view. Today I drove back to our still-standing but currently-unlivable home crying, seeing those same mountains now devoid of their greenery and smoldering in the hazy morning light and replaying the sequence of events that altered our little world forever.

“We could see the Eaton fire from our backyard well before the emergency notifications came rolling in. We grabbed a go-bag with a headlamp, change of clothes, toiletries, all my instruments, some comfort items for the pup, and we rolled down the hill towards safety. We spent the night in the downtown Pasadena Hilton, where we were cruelly upgraded to a ‘mountain view’ room perfectly situated for watching our neighborhood burn to the ground overnight.

“My partner Cate is a therapist. Between her community of therapists and mine of musicians we have only two friends out of 16 who live in the neighborhood that still have a home. And, we have our health. We are so, so lucky. But with smoke damage making the house currently unlivable and the National Guard standing watch on every cross street starting half a block from us, we’re realizing that whether your house is standing or not, we all have one loss in common: our beautiful community.

“We had space in our car as we evacuated, but no desire to stick around and load more,” Sharp describes leaving behind so many of their earthly possessions. “It was clarifying how easy it was to say goodbye to our physical things. They’re all replaceable.”

“Altadena was such a magic community we delayed our move back to the East Coast by a few years so we could have a kid here. We knew our neighbors, saw friends on every walk, and if you forgot your wallet while picking up coffee you could always pay them next time, because they knew you and knew you’d be back. It was that type of place. After traveling the world on tour the past 13 years wondering at every stop along the way, ‘Could I call this place home?’ I’m realizing what’s irreplaceable is having finally found that place. We’ll find our magic again, but it’s going to be a long road. There are so, so many people who could use your help if you have resources to give – below you can find some I’m giving to.”

Los Angeles is a city of makers. Of creators and dreamers, of actors, singers, writers, and poets. So many of those directly impacted by the fearsome power of these fires have been folks in our immediate roots music circles. From Altadena and Pasadena to Pacific Palisades and Malibu, this disaster has not discriminated. Whether well-known and well-loved superstars or pickers we know from the neighborhood jam, publicists and publishers and agents and managers alike; the flames burned through homes, livelihoods, histories, and futures with zero regard for name or notoriety.

Luckily, that same collective of creators and makers are a vibrant and robust community – and just as we watched the fires destroy, we’re watching the people of Los Angeles rebuild in real time. There’s much to be done and there are seemingly endless needs to meet, but solidarity, mutual aid, and togetherness are not in short supply.

“It’s hard to put into words what I and so many other Angelenos are feeling right now,” BGS executive director Amy Reitnouer Jacobs shares. “It waffles between shock, anxiety, despair, and exhaustion as we watch our friends lose everything and our city burn. But amidst those feelings of grief, there is also an immense welling of hope. People are showing up for each other in unprecedented ways.”

That’s what it’s all about. As the climate crisis worsens and we re-enter an exceedingly unpredictable political reality, this kind of community action will become more and more vital. We’ve seen this is true over the past decade, through periods of racial reckonings, police violence, unrest, and growing political activism. Community-centered collective action is what will get us through. In bluegrass, in roots music, and beyond.

“I have never been so proud of this place and have never loved this city as much as I do right now,” Reitnouer Jacobs continues. “Los Angeles will always be home for me, for BGS, and for our amazing musical community.”

Below, we’ve collected a few resources from our artistic communities in Los Angeles and from mutual aid and community organizations working on the ground in southern California. If you’re able, we encourage you to donate, to volunteer, to show up however you can and whenever you can for our friends and fellow roots music lovers who have had their lives permanently altered by these wildfires.

All we have is each other, but when we support and care for each other – no matter what – that fact is always enough.

Support the Music Community

Local on-the-ground organizers have compiled THIS LIST of fundraising pages, resources, and urgent needs for musicians, instrumentalists, producers, and artists in the Los Angeles area. As of this writing, it has raised more than $6,000,000 across its various fundraisers and donation pages. Hundreds of families and individuals have been affected and are listed in the spreadsheet. If you’re looking for a way to directly support, this is a great collection of options.

Additionally, you can find a directory of fundraising pages for folks impacted by the Eaton Fire here. Plus, you can find a directory of Black families fundraising in the wake of the fires here.

Need support? Each of these directories includes instructions for submitting your own fundraiser, if applicable.
Giving support? Find countless fundraisers and offer direct support here, here, and here.

LA Times Compiles Resources

 

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The LA Times has put together a lengthy and exhaustive list of local organizations working on fire relief. From dog and pet rescue orgs to the American Red Cross to the California Fire Foundation. There are plenty of options and plenty of missions to support.

Guitar Center Foundation – Grants for LA Fires

The Guitar Center Foundation has announced that they will accept applications from musicians to replace gear and instruments lost to the fire:

“Have you lost instruments and gear?” The foundation asks via social media. “If you’ve been impacted by this week’s fires, please visit our website for information and to request instrument replacement assistance. The Guitar Center Music Foundation is committed to supporting our music community in times of need.”

Those impacted by the disaster will be able to apply for grants of replacement instruments and gear until February 28, 2025.

Need support? Get more info and apply for replacement gear here.
Giving support? Donate to fund these grants and the foundation here.

Mutual Aid LA

Mutual Aid LA has been collating and disseminating shelters, resources, and relief programs for folks actively in crisis and for folks looking for a way to give and help. You can find their spreadsheet of resources here, but you can also find more information and learn how to participate in mutual aid on their website.

Need support? Find resources here.
Giving support? Learn more here and donate here.

MusiCares

 

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MusiCares has long been an indispensable program of the Recording Academy with a mission of supporting music industry professionals in crisis or in periods of hardship. They’ve already begun dispensing emergency funds to music industry folks in need, as well as collecting donations specifically to support those impacted by the fires. You can donate to support MusiCares here. You can find ways to get help from MusiCares here.

Need support? Apply for emergency aid here.
Giving support? Donate to help fund fire relief MusiCares grants here.

Sweet Relief Musicians Fund

Sweet Relief Musicians Fund is a non-profit founded in the ’90s that provides financial assistance to musicians and industry professionals who are struggling to make ends meet. They’ve already begun accepting donations and applications following the LA fires.

Need support? Submit your application here.
Giving support? Donate to Sweet Relief here.

Entertainment Community Fund

Geared more towards actors, performers, and film industry and entertainment workers the Entertainment Community Fund (formerly The Actors Fund) has compiled a list of resources and organizations working on fire relief here. Entertainment professionals impacted by the wildfires can apply now for financial assistance and through the ECF can already access a variety of programs and aid.

Need support? Apply here.
Giving support? Donate here.

Photos by Amy Reitnouer Jacobs.

The ‘Anarchist Gospel,’ According to Sunny War

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Sunny War’s stunning new album, Anarchist Gospel, is never preachy, because it doesn’t need to be. War’s evocation of both anarchy and gospel in this context is strikingly grounded, blossoming from everyday understandings and interactions with each concept. And deeper still, in these sweeping, grand arrangements built on sturdy bones of fingerstyle, folk-informed right-hand guitar techniques, she indicates actions really do speak louder than words. 

These songs are active. Bold, resplendent, and broad with dense, fully-realized production leading to tender, contemplative, and microscopic moments, War draws from her lived experiences, her days and years navigating poverty, living unhoused, sheltering in abandoned buildings, relying on and offering mutual aid, to direct messages of hope, resilience, resistance, and joy, not just to us, her listeners, but also to herself. 

Perhaps that’s why, in this collection of songs born out of a harrowing and challenging emotional, spiritual, and mental period of Sunny War’s more recent past, there is so much hope in hopelessness, a constant – though sometimes minute – light shimmering at the end of the tunnel. Anarchist Gospel isn’t preaching at us, because she is compassionately, kindly, and tenderly talking to herself. And we all, as listeners, audience members, and fans, are just so fortunate enough to be brought into this internal dialogue, from which we can learn and challenge ourselves, and each other, to make a better world for everyone right now. 

It’s a record whose underpinning moral-to-the-story is never burdensome or heavy, but rather uplifting and soaring, exactly as an Anarchist Gospel ought to be. We began our Cover Story interview connecting with Sunny War at home in Chattanooga over the phone, discussing how anarchy is not simply an academic concept, but a real, everyday practice.

I know that in your life, anarchy isn’t just a concept, it has a very real, concrete application in your day-to-day. I think first of your work with Food Not Bombs and the mutual aid work you’ve done in Los Angeles – and wherever you’ve lived. A lot of people right now, especially in younger generations, have frames of reference for anarchy and collectivism and mutual aid work, but usually in the abstract. As if these concepts can only be for some imagined future. So why is anarchy something you wanted to represent in the album and its title, and what does the concept of anarchy mean in your life?

Sunny War: The album title isn’t really political, to me. I felt like the big choruses [on the album] felt gospel in a way, but it wasn’t religious so I felt like it was Anarchist Gospel. It was really because of the one song, “Whole,” where I just felt like the message of the song was kind of about anarchy, in a way that most people could understand. I guess I’m more of a socialist now, but it’s the same sentiment. I just want people to have what they need. That’s more what anarchy means to me. It seems like it’s government that’s in the way of people getting what they need. 

For me, it’s more personal. When I was homeless, a lot of times we would be living in abandoned buildings and we’d get arrested for that. Anarchy, to me, means, “Why can’t we be here? Nobody else is going to be in here. Why are you keeping us from this?” It feels weird that we don’t get to claim where we live, but other people do. Why do they have more rights to the same places? I don’t know if that’s anarchy, so much as I just think people have a right to everything. 

It feels like there’s this agnosticism to the album, this come-togetherness, as something we can all feel and inhabit without necessarily being called to by a higher power. We really can all realize, whatever our starting points, that all we have is each other.

I’m not against people that need God, or whatever. I’ve been in places where I’ve felt like I wanted to believe in that before, so I can relate to where that comes from. But then, I don’t know… [Laughs] Whether it’s religious or spiritual, I don’t know. 

This sounds like a record where we’re all supposed to be singing along. Part of that is the gospel tones, the title but also in the genre and production style, but part of it is also the messages here. Uplifting people from darkness, hope in hopelessness – so to me, so many moments on this album feel like church! 

I love church! I grew up in church – well, I don’t love church, but I love gospel. I still listen to gospel and I guess I’m being nostalgic, but also it just slaps. That’s just good music. If you like original R&B, it’s the basis of so much of American music. I wish it was a little more, I dunno… I guess I wish it wasn’t religious. [Laughs] Then I’d really be into it. But it’s cool how it is. 

In the moments in this record that feel like they’re at the lowest point, I still hear so much hope. I hear surrender in this album, not the kind that’s giving up, but the kind that feels generative and hopeful – especially in “I Got No Fight” and “Hopeless” and “Higher.”

This record was a lot of me talking to myself. It’s definitely the loneliest I’ve ever been writing something. Every other album I’ve ever made, I was in a relationship. This was different. After me and my ex broke up, I wasn’t even really socializing with my friends, because we had the same friends and I was embarrassed about our break up. I was so bitter, I didn’t want to be around anyone. I felt like I couldn’t be around anyone. I was barely leaving the house, I was isolating myself and got really morbid. I wasn’t turning lights on. [Laughs] I would sit in the dark a lot, I was lighting candles – [Laughing] I don’t really know what was going on, but it was mostly bad, I would drink a lot, and then I’d be like, “I’m drinking too much, I gotta get sober.” It would just repeat over and over again. But I was desperately trying to finish the album, because I was broke. I had the deal with New West, but I still had to produce the album before anything could get rolling. It was just what I had to do, but I was also going insane at the same time, and really angry. 

Do you feel like making the record brought closure to any of that for you? I feel like I can hear a release of tension in this album, but I wonder where that comes from, because so many of the songs, individually, have these big, emotional releases. How does it feel to be at this point, looking back with the clarity you have now?

The second I wrote “I Got No Fight” I remember immediately feeling better. I made the demo, and afterwards it made me feel like I was just having a tantrum. But it was like I had to make the song to really understand what I was going through. After making the demo, I realized, “I am just freaking out, I think I’m having a panic attack.” After hearing this song, it helped me understand like, “This is not real, this is just a temporary feeling.” But I couldn’t really feel anything else until after that. 

I have spent so much time over the past couple years trying to teach myself that the point of feelings is to feel them.

Yeah, but they suck most of the time. [Laughs] I don’t want most of them. 

The line in that song, “Sometimes the end is the only light I see,” might be my favorite line on the record. There’s nihilism and existentialism in it, but it doesn’t feel hopeless or despairing. It’s kind of a cheerful, “Oh right! Nothing matters!” Where did that line come from for you? 

That gets me through the day, a lot. Sometimes I think of life as just a jail sentence and I always think like, “Well, I probably am only going to live fifty more years at the most.” Sometimes that helps me get through the day. [Laughs] I know that that sounds negative, but that can really be uplifting if you chose for it to be!

It feels a lot lighter, to me at least, once you realize that nothing matters. Suddenly you can laugh a little bit more, improvise more – like lately, I’ve been trying to accept that I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m trying to get comfortable with it. In my twenties, I felt like I was trying to make plans all the time, planning so far into the future and just getting disappointed with stuff. It’s better to [recognize] – which is almost like religious people – you’re just powerless. Just try to eat something, drink some water. [Laughs] 

Let’s talk about your guitar playing. I love your right hand so much. I think what’s entrancing about your guitar on this album is that it’s holding these songs together, but not as much as a rhythmic instrument or comping instrument, like in your past records. It’s more textural, to add depth and complexity, but your playing is still so hooky, melodically. Your personality comes through the guitar on top of all of these tracks. How did you accomplish that balance, having the guitar front and center and immediate, but it’s also not necessarily the centerpiece of these songs?

I think it’s because this is the first record where I knew how to use Logic, so my demos were almost full tracks already. I was adding keyboard and bass and programming drums to things before even going into the studio. A lot of the songs are all based on riffs that I’ve had for a while, that I couldn’t figure out how to use. Before, a lot of my other stuff, I was just writing a song. Now, I just collect guitar parts and I try to make them work in something, but I don’t really have a [plan for them, initially.] I’m basing it more off the guitar parts now. 

How do you like the banjo? Is this the first time you had banjo on a record? 

Yeah!

What do you think writing on the banjo leads you to that a guitar or keys or writing on another instrument wouldn’t lead you to?

Anything that’s tuned differently makes me have to think differently about stuff. I still don’t really “get” the banjo, it’s weird because I have had a banjo for over 10 years now, but it still seems like something I’m trying to learn about. I just recently got okay with being like, “I’m just going to make sounds with it.” I’m not going to try to “learn” it. [Laughs] I definitely want to make more songs with the banjo – and maybe even without a guitar, and see what that’s like. Some of my favorite buskers I’ve ever seen are just a singer with a banjo. I think it makes people sing different. I gotta get my banjos out now… 

Guitar culture – guitar shop culture, guitar show culture – it’s such a toxically masculine scene, and it’s so competitive and punishing, that I kind of have realized over the past few years that the people helping me realize I still love the guitar and guitar culture are all women and femmes. Like, Jackie Venson, Molly Tuttle, folks like Celisse and Madison Cunningham, or like Kaki King and Megan McCormick and Joy Clark – I can think of so many guitarists who aren’t just really good, but they’re also pushing the envelope, they’re innovating, and they have really strong perspectives and voices on the instrument, like yourself. So I wanted to ask you about your own relationship with guitar culture and the guitar scene, because as a queer banjo player who loves music, I kinda hate people who love guitar. But I’ve been so grateful that all these women are reminding me I can love guitar and it’s not just a patriarchal, toxically masculine instrument and scene.

I just try to stay out of it. Sometimes at shows, guitar guys talk to me and I just tell them, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” [Laughs] Because I don’t want to get into any discussion about it. I know a lot of people who can really play, but [guitar guys] make it so you have to be kinda crazy, kinda obsessive. And it’s so competitive. That doesn’t sound fun to me. I don’t get how that’s fun anymore. It’s not art, at that point. It’s almost like a sport. Which you can, go ahead and practice scales all day so you can play the fastest, but then a lot of times people can be really technically good, but there’s no soul in it. They’re just trying to cram as many riffs into something as possible. They take all the art out of it, they’re technically playing perfectly, but I don’t feel anything. 

I would much rather be listening to my favorite guitar player, who is Yasmin Williams. It’s not just because of technical ability, but because it’s progressive. I’m like, “That’s outta the box, I don’t know where that’s going.” That’s what I like about it. 

Photo credit: Joshua Black Wilkins