Sarah Jarosz is what happens when young women are taken seriously. A huge part of the mandolinist’s story is that she had supportive male mentors and that has added to her confidence. We all know the age old story of “Young woman shows promise, gets exploited by the patriarchy and it affects her work.” We need to hear stories like this. Starting in her hometown of Wimberley, Texas, just 45 minutes outside of Austin – the live music capital of the world – Sarah found the mandolin at 10 years old. Labeled a prodigy, and thanks to the encouraging spirit of folk music, she found mentorship with seasoned professionals like David Grisman, Ricky Skaggs, Tim O’Brien and Béla Fleck. Following her time at The New England Conservatory of Music, she moved to New York and would go on to collaborate with people like Chris Thile in the Live From Here House Band and her trio I’m With Her, featuring Aoife O’Donovan and Sara Watkins, and won four Grammys.
After making the move to Nashville, on her latest album, the very impressive and sonically expansive Polaroid Lovers, Jarosz collaborated with producer Daniel Tashian, which originally was just a low-stakes co-writing project. The success of her first co-writing experience with Daniel led her to pursue other songwriting sessions with Ruston Kelly and Natalie Hemby. The collaboration found on the record has opened Sarah up to new sounds and new experiences. In our conversation, we talk about Sarah stepping into her own voice with confidence on this record and knowing her musical self enough at this point in her life. She describes her experience with confidence using the Dunning–Kruger effect, in which people with limited competence in a particular domain overestimate their abilities. AKA “fake it till you make it,” AKA “leap and the net will appear.” She also talks about her parents’ influence on her early musicality and how her mom is doing with her cancer remission. An overall theme of this conversation is that Sarah never lost sight of her goal: Keep it all about the music and don’t let noise get in the way of your important work.
The songs of Sarah Jarosz have always been snapshots. Each, whether literally or obliquely, is a tableau – a window into a moment in time, an attempt to capture but never contain the intangible present. Whether demonstrable story songs or abstract, poetic text paintings, Jarosz’s catalog of material shows a ubiquitous skill – a writerly athleticism – for ushering her listeners into the scenes she inhabits or constructs. From her earliest release to her newest, Polaroid Lovers (out January 26 on Rounder Records), Jarosz’s point of view has been confident, relatable, and inviting.
Simultaneously, the expansive body of work she’s produced since her 2009 Sugar Hill debut, Song Up in Her Head, tells a tale as much of uncertainty as of skill and finesse and, within that uncertainty, a commitment to relishing the journey – rather than rushing toward an arbitrary destination.
A teenager when she first gained national notoriety, Jarosz was often compared to her mentor-peer-friend Chris Thile and her contemporary, Sierra Hull. While child bluegrass, Americana, and string band stars – proverbial and oft-mythologized prodigies – have a much more gentle route to adulthood than say, their Hollywood counterparts, it’s still a time hallmarked by experimentation, growing pains, exploration, and a prerequisite amount of floundering. Musically, Jarosz may have “floundered” a bit less than say, Hull or Thile or any kid whose teen years may have had a recorded, audio history. Nevertheless, you can trace a through line of angst, introspection, and finding oneself underlying the precocious self confidence of her early albums.
By the time Jarosz reached 2013’s Build Me Up From Bones, which gained her her first Best Folk Album Grammy nomination, that uncertainty was no longer an undertone, but a focal point in her music. On both Bones and the follow up full-length, Undercurrent, which then won the Grammy for Best Folk Album, Jarosz picks up and runs with those musical expectations, whether overt or projected. She plays with the dichotomy between the public nature of her growing up a heart-on-her-sleeve songwriter and bluegrass picker and the individual, private nature of seeking and finding her own agency within those paradigms. She purposefully built broad and appealing, commercial songs that are both assured in their sincerity and unconcerned with virtuosity or authenticity for their own sakes. She knows exactly what she’s doing, even – if not especially – when she does not.
Needless to say, the following projects World On The Ground and Blue Heron Suite feel like they are both indelible home bases built on the steady foundation of the albums that led to them. Each are distillations of Jarosz’s musical commitment to bringing her audience inside the turmoil and delight, growth and doubt, beauty and bittersweetness of life and song. Jarosz had arrived at her destination, hadn’t she? In her beloved New York City, a Grammy winning artist, picker, and songwriter who knows who she is and why she does what she does.
Ah, but remember, it’s the journey Sarah Jarosz is after and not the destination. Polaroid Lovers is a lens into the new growing pains, the new uncertainty, the new uprooting and, eventually, re-rooting Jarosz finds herself in the middle of now. She recently moved to Nashville, building a life with her new husband, bassist Jeff Picker. Polaroid Lovers, like its predecessors, brings the listener into how living in Nashville has reshaped Jarosz’s songwriting and creative and recording processes.
It may not sound like a Music Row album – it sounds, as all of her work does, exactly like Sarah Jarosz. Whatever that sounds like! – but it’s a collection that has the Row tangled among its roots and certainly in the water. Polaroid Lovers was recorded at Sound Emporium and produced by Daniel Tashian, plus it has many a credited co-writer, a bit of a departure for the songwriter who, besides in her work with Aoife O’Donovan and Sara Watkins in I’m With Her, rarely co-writes material for her own albums, preferring to pen most lyrics and tunes herself. Music Row and Americana hit writers like Ruston Kelly, Natalie Hemby, Jon Randall, Gordie Sampson, Tashian, and others each lent their own fingerprints and touches to this set of song snapshots.
Does Polaroid Lovers sound new? Does it sound like Nashville? Yes, it certainly does, but it doesn’t sound instant or ready-made either, and it always sounds like quintessential Jarosz. This is evidenced nowhere on the record as strongly as one of its lead singles, “Columbus & 89th.” Among more than a few masterworks in Jarosz’s catalog that center on her beloved, transplanted (former) hometown, New York City, “Columbus & 89th” is perhaps the best example of the form. Wistful and hopeful, with a tinge of bittersweetness from the wisdom that comes with age, it paints such a specific picture – of a literal street corner – but, as in all of her snapshots, this polaroid is not confining or finite, it’s resplendent and limitless. Following the photography metaphor one step further, it’s not difficult to see how the perspective Jarosz has gained by moving away from the city might have enabled her to render such a picture perfect homage to New York.
This is a vibrant, animated collection of Polaroid Lovers. This is Sarah Jarosz at her best– for now.
Watch for our Artist of the Month interview feature with Jarosz to come later this month, plus we’ll do a catalog deep dive and showcase plenty more content pulled from the BGS archives. For now, enjoy our Essential Sarah Jarosz Playlist:
Speaking to Yola over Zoom is way more fun than a video call has any right to be. From the time she dials in from the UK, she’s ready to chat. Good thing, because there’s a lot to talk about. About a week earlier, she picked up two Grammy nominations in the American Roots Music category of Best American Roots Song (“Diamond Studded Shoes”) and Best Americana Album (Stand For Myself), and she’s clearly still exhilarated by it.
“It’s very hard for it to even land because it feels really super surreal,” she says. “I don’t know how else to describe it. I’m endlessly grateful to the work that everyone puts in to get me to this point, and honestly, the faith that people have to let me lead at all. I wasn’t always in positions like that, ones that would let me lead.”
She’s speaking of a different kind of leadership style than, say, former British Prime Minister Theresa May, whose sparkly footwear worn during a speech about childhood poverty led to the idea of writing “Diamond Studded Shoes.” Although it does have a feel-good groove, you can’t miss its message of inequality. “And that’s why we gots to fight,” she sings.
To create Stand for Myself, her second album on Nashville-based label Easy Eye Sound, Yola reunited with producer-songwriter Dan Auerbach, and she also pulled in a roster of friends like Brandi Carlile (who sings on “Be My Friend”) and songwriters such as Natalie Hemby (who co-wrote five of the 12 songs) and Aaron Lee Tasjan (a co-writer on “Diamond Studded Shoes”). Still, the defining voice of Stand for Myself is, of course, Yola herself.
BGS: When I was listening to this record again, I was thinking that it does seem like a roots record in the sense that it traces your path from the beginning of your story. And as the album progress, here’s the blossoming at the end. Is that fair to say?
You nailed it. You got it. You felt it. You felt the emotions! It is. I was a bit of a doormat at the beginning and minimizing myself. Joy Oladokun and I were talking about when you grow up as a token Black person in an environment that there aren’t a lot of Black people in, and you’re trying to play guitar and trying to fit in, and you’re not fitting into a trope. … So, we’re in this minimizing, trying-to-fit-in phase. Trying to fit into Eurocentric life as non-Eurocentric people. That’s where we start the album, and then “Dancing Away in Tears” is a bit like a growing out of a relationship, romantically, but obviously it can be socially as well. When I’m singing it, it’s kind of both. It’s like growing out of an environment and just needing to be in another space.
And as you go through the record, “Diamond Studded Shoes” is about the idea of how the macro affects you. You might grow out of a microcosm, but the macro is going to affect how you interact. … Because I’m moving through that, I’m realizing the environment that I’m in and I’m realizing what I want from it, which is essentially connection. I think that’s why by the time we get to “Be My Friend,” you start to realize that I want to connect to people who want to connect to people! (laughs) That’s really what it is! And then I finally do, and as a result, I blossom. As I think humans do. Humans *like* humans, and when they feel seen, they blossom.
That’s really this record. It’s feeling seen, feeling loved, feeling allowed to grow and to do things without someone being like, “Oh, you didn’t serve me. Therefore I’m going to sabotage your existence,” which has been a lot of my life. Or people saying, “Oh, you outgrew me and I don’t like that, so I’m going to sabotage your existence.” It never seems to end, that idea. Or to sabotage people that are trying to help you get somewhere, so it’s not just you. It’s your friend or your squad or whatever. I’m dealing with that. I think “Whatever You Want” is about that, what I like to affectionately call the “bro”-tocracy, a top-down “bro”-tocratic system! (laughs)
This record is called Stand for Myself and not Stand BY Myself. You have surrounded yourself with important people here.
Yes! Just loving people. Big ol’ heart people! Softies! They might be badasses. Brandi and Natalie are some of my besties. Absolute softies of the highest order! That’s really what I’m looking for. I meet all sorts of people, and the people that will stick around in my life, that I will never outgrow, will be those big ol’ softies. Soft badasses! That’s my type!
When you are putting a band together, what qualities are you looking for?
Exactly the same qualities. A badass giant softie who can survive a five-hour brunch with me … and want more! (laughs) For real! Megan [Coleman], the drummer, is one of my best friends of all time. We’re doing Christmas together. She came around for a distance-hang in my yard during lockdown and we were like, “Oh, it’s so hot and disgusting!” We would be spraying water and fanning ourselves and trying to drink gin and tonic, just hanging out! We can spend hours — hours! — talking crap.
You’ve got to live with these people! Literally live in a box with these people. They’ve got to be your favorite people and they better be really amazing at doing their job, because you don’t want to micromanage them the whole time. No one wants to do that, but you want them to be excellent — excellent people, excellent at their job. So, that’s my type. That’s always the type of people I write with. Everything. When I can’t find that, I just wait. I’m patient until I can find that.
Let’s talk about patience. That seems to be a theme in your life. Can you talk about how patience has factored into your story?
Patience has factored into it. I wasn’t really aware of the time it was taking because I could always see the incremental steps, so I think that’s what makes it tolerable. If you were 19 and someone said, “Hey, it’s going to take this long,” you would say, “WHAT THE FREAK?!” It would be horrific! But you don’t know, and you only see every little step.
For example, from a young age, I was touring with DJ producers. We were opening for James Brown in Australia on this tour that this millionaire (now billionaire) guy would put on, just for his own personal entertainment. It was ridiculous money. … It felt like I was on my way because we were doing 20,000-plus natural amphitheater shows in Melbourne, Brisbane, Sydney, Perth … I felt like I was in it. I was in a band called Bugs in the Attic. They were signed and doing some things. But then it just took so much more time, and I got nodules and lost my voice. I had to quit all my jobs. My body wasn’t happy. I was internalizing all of this dissatisfaction instead of expressing it or dealing with it — or knowing how to deal with it or knowing anyone that would let me speak adjacently about what was on my mind.
I allowed people to clip my wings a little bit because I was of some use to other people. I had useful skill sets, so if I was in service, I was often making people a lot of money. And not myself! But other people. *Loads of money.* And loads of acts did good off the back of me. That was something that started becoming too evident. (laughs) I was like, I can’t have this! You know what? I’m going to have to be the master of my own identity.
You’ve been wanting to do this since you were 4 years old, right?
For real. One hundred percent, yeah, I have. I knew it. What I am doing right now is what my 4-year-old self said I should do. But I kept on getting talked out of doing what my 4-year-old self said, because I couldn’t possibly know at that age, right? Only I totally did! And they were like, “Maybe you should be a backing singer.” I don’t wanna do that. Or “Maybe you should be in a band.” Well, I’ll try it, but I don’t know if I wanna do that either. Or “Maybe you should just write for other people.” That sounds like fun, but I feel like I’ve got something to do myself. Or “Maybe you shouldn’t do it at all.” There were so many different options other than maybe just support you in being the artist. It’s a bit of a way around the houses, you know, but my 4-year-old self was dead-on. I should have just listened to her!
On your first record, Walk Through Fire, you’re pictured on the cover playing your guitar. Has that always been part of your dream, to be an instrumentalist as well as a singer and songwriter?
Oh, I’ve only picked up a guitar comparatively recently to most of my friends. I picked it up in 2014. I was a topliner before that – lyrics and melody, which is much of the song still. But I was very codependent. I was always reacting to people’s chords. It was harder for me to get something out on my own. People around me seemed very hellbent on making sure I couldn’t get things out on my own because if I wasn’t codependent, then all of a sudden they don’t have this topliner who can do all of the stuff. They’d tell me, “You don’t need to pick up the guitar. Don’t worry about it.” It’s really hard to play C, D, and G. I wouldn’t even look into it! (laughs) “I don’t think you have the inclination to play the guitar.” That’s what someone said to me. “It’s going to require a staying power that I don’t think you have, so you know, try something else. Everybody’s got things they’re good at. You’re good at loads of stuff. Just not that.”
Before you even tried it, people told you that you weren’t good at it?
Yeah! But when you’re in your early 20s, you don’t realize how much you don’t know. You think you’re real smart, and you’re officially an adult, and you managed to not die. You’ve put yourself in some sketchy situations and not died! There is something to that. We weren’t activists trying to save the planet. We were drunk! So, yeah, you’re naïve and you’re trusting, I suppose. But the 20s are for that. That’s where you make all of your mistakes. That’s what the whole decade is for: “Whoops! Oh no!” Then you get to 29 and you realize it’s not sustainable. And you have what I like to affectionately term “The 29 Panic.” (laughs) You purge a lot of weirdos and try to get it together.
You’re going into 2022 with these Grammy nominations and you’re going to be in a movie next year, too. And you have more things in store, I’m sure. What are you enjoying the most about this time of your career?
I felt like over the first cycle, we were all learning how to do what we’re now doing. I like to convert people. I converted people on my team from adjacent trades that I knew would equip them exclusively for what I needed them to do. (laughs) So, I’ve got this absolute team of badasses and we’re able to go into situations that look impossible and nail it. We convert situations that are way outside of our price tag. Way outside of all sorts of things! It’s exciting to know that you can handle something and actually have a plan. It may be somewhat ridiculous, and we don’t know how we’re going to do it, and we definitely can’t afford it, but we’re going to get it over the line, you know? It’s that fight!
Songwriter extraordinaire Natalie Hemby is drumming up interest in her debut record Pins and Needles with a slew of YouTube performances simply titled The Hemby Sessions. In these acoustic videos, the Nashville native is making her way through her impressive repertoire of original songs that have appeared on some big records from the likes of The Highwomen, Kacey Musgraves, and Lee Ann Womack, to name a few. In this fourth installment, Hemby offers “Bluebird,” a song about resilience and hope in the face of trying circumstances. “Bluebird” went on to be recorded by the inimitable Miranda Lambert (who co-wrote the song with Hemby and Luke Dick) and appears on her Grammy-winning album, Wildcard.
In Hemby’s straightforward, solo acoustic performance, the song’s poignant message takes on a new life. “Bluebird” is all about a mature sense of hope and optimism that doggedly persists even in the bleakest of situations. There is a gravity around the act of insistently finding light, and Hemby’s writing and performance capture that weight elegantly. Watch “Bluebird” below, and stay tuned at the end for a behind-the-scenes story from Hemby about writing the song.
Natalie Hemby’s new single “Radio Silence” puts her cunning sensibility as a songwriter on full display, while drawing on the strengths of co-writers Rosi Golan and Daniel Tashian. No slouches themselves, Golan is an accomplished songwriter whose music can be heard on countless TV shows and films, and Tashian is a writer and producer in Nashville with credits such as Kacey Musgraves’ Golden Hour.
With this dream team in support, Hemby’s weighty single encapsulates the anxiousness of being cut off from a friend — a true story that hits close to home. “This song is basically about being ghosted by a friend, only not because of a fallout, but because your friend doesn’t want to drag you into their struggles, so they shut down,” says Hemby. “I was the friend, and Rosi Golan was the one reaching out. We wrote the song with Daniel Tashian.”
An acclaimed writer and two-time Grammy Award winner, Hemby will releasing her first major label record as a solo artist, following her work with the Highwomen, the collaborative group with Brandi Carlile, Maren Morris, and Amanda Shires. “Radio Silence” and lead single “Heroes” precede Pins And Needles, an album that leans on her rock and roots musical influences, due out October 8 on Fantasy Records. “Pins And Needles is the record I never got the chance to make and I always wanted to,” she adds. “It’s the late 90’s sound, which is the sound of my young adult life.”
The Highwomen picked up three trophies for the Americana Music Association’s 19th Annual Americana Honors & Awards, which were revealed online today. The collective of Brandi Carlile, Natalie Hemby, Maren Morris, and Amanda Shires, joined fellow winners Black Pumas, Brittany Haas, and the late John Prine.
The Highwomen received the following awards: Album of the Year for their self-titled debut, produced by Dave Cobb; Song of the Year for “Crowded Table,” written by Carlile, Hemby and Lori McKenna; and Duo/Group of the Year.
Prine, who died in April, was named Artist of the Year for the fourth time since 2005. Black Pumas carried the Emerging Act of the Year category, while fiddler Brittany Haas won the Instrumentalist of the Year award.
For nearly two decades, the Americana Honors & Awards program has provided a unique platform for commemorating the best and brightest musicians in the Americana music scene at the historic Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, in an effort to preserve the safety of musicians, fans and other members of the close-knit roots community, the Americana Music Association chose to forego having an in-person ceremony this year.
Photo of Black Pumas: Lyza Renee; Photo of The Highwomen: Alysse Gafkjen; Photo of John Prine: Danny Clinch; Photo of Brittany Hass: Michael George
Artist:Yola, with Brandi Carlile and Natalie Hemby on backing vocals, Sheryl Crow on piano, and Jason Isbell on guitar Hometown: Bristol, England Single: “Hold On” Release Date: October 9, 2020
In Their Words: “‘Hold On’ is a conversation between me and the next generation of young black girls. My mother’s advice would always stress caution, that all that glitters isn’t gold, and that my black female role models on TV are probably having a hard time. She warned me that I should rethink my calling to be a writer and a singer…. but to me that was all the more reason I should take up this space. ‘Hold On’ is asking the next gen to take up space, to be visible and to show what it looks to be young, gifted and black.” — Yola
It was far from a given that Joy Oladokun would settle on her present path as a singer-songwriter of pensive folk-pop. She absorbed an array of musical models earlier in life — those that culturally linked her family to their Nigerian roots; reflected the rural pride of her peers in agriculture-rich Arizona; united her evangelical congregation in upward-aimed worship; and offered various styles of self-expression, emotional catharsis or social critique.
But on her texturally varied second album, in defense of my own happiness (vol. 1), much of which she self-produced, she sketches the distance between where she stands, sorting out her sources of pain, anxiety, and pleasure, and what she’s chosen to leave behind. Throughout, she’s exploring knotty interiority with warm yet watchful vulnerability. Oladokun paused her daily songwriting schedule to talk with BGS about how she made her way here.
BGS: After your parents immigrated to the U.S., did they maintain an attachment to traditional or contemporary Nigerian music and share it with you?
My parents came here in the ‘80s, so the Nigerian music they listened to growing up is definitely still a part of their everyday life today. I think one of my first introductions to the guitar was this Nigerian artist named King Sunny Adé, just these crazy, cascading, arpeggiated guitar riffs. They’re not as in touch with contemporary Nigerian music, but Nigeria had a pretty rich and interesting musical history.
You’ve said in past interviews that you grew up in an Arizona farming town that prized folk and country music. What role did that music actually play in community life?
There is not a music scene to speak of in Casa Grande, Arizona, that is for sure. My high school was big into Future Farmers of America. Lots of big trucks and dairy farms, that vibe is the vibe of my town. Some of the country I wasn’t very interested in, but I had a short fascination with ‘90s country. I mean, Martina McBride, Alan Jackson, Brooks & Dunn, it’s a lot, but in a good way. Everyone around me was listening to ‘90s country.
And my dad, for some reason, has an affinity for country-gospel music. He has all these records of Johnny Cash or Charley Pride, all these different people singing old country-gospel standards. So there’s this dusty, Southwestern country sound that I also grew up around that I think is the country that I gravitate to now, more than the big trucks and farms.
Along with hearing King Sunny Adé’s playing, you’ve said that seeing concert footage of Tracy Chapman with acoustic guitar in hand really caught your attention. What was it about those moments that moved you to pick up the instrument yourself?
I was always a really shy and reserved kid, and pretty smart, but had a hard time focusing or applying myself for long amounts of time. I think what I found in myself when I saw the guitar and decided to learn, and what my family saw in me, was a determination that hadn’t been applied to anything else ever.
I just know that the gift of self-expression that it’s given me has been pretty lifesaving. King Sunny Adé and Tracy Chapman, those are two very different expressions of how to use the guitar and how to make music, but they both took the inner workings of themselves and the world around them, and they expressed it through the music they made. I think that’s pretty dope and especially appealing to a kid who has a hard time talking.
Since you were so shy, how did you wind up playing music in front of a congregation?
If you wanted to get me to do anything as a kid, convince me that it would make God happy, or if I didn’t do it, God would be upset. That’s a pretty good motivator to any kid, but especially for me. I think I was so driven because I was so enmeshed in Christian culture. I was driven by this narrative of, “You need to do something big with your life and you can’t just spectate. You have to participate.” I honestly think had I been a little atheist in middle school, or had language been different, I maybe wouldn’t have ever done it or stepped on a stage. But I think it was the, “I feel this duty to use my gift for something bigger than myself.”
What did it take for you to leave behind what you thought might be a lasting career path in praise & worship music?
I often laugh at how much my adult life parallels my mother’s. Growing up, she would always tell this story about how her dad really wanted her to be a teacher. She spent a year or so teaching school and freaking hated it. So she became a nurse and she still does that to this day. I think I honored the thing that is spiritual in myself by working at a church and by falling in line and doing the thing for as long as I did. When I realized, “OK, I’m queer. There’s no getting around that. And I maybe don’t believe these things politically or theologically that I sometimes said on a day-to-day basis.”
I just got to a place where it became more important for me to live a life of integrity on all fronts than to keep up appearances or do what I thought God or my parents or my old boss wanted me to do. When I left, I made the decision pretty much on my own. And in circles like that, that is a no-no. I think the reason I did step into it by myself, though, is because I have to live this life. I would rather pursue something that feels more authentic to me. And once that decision was made, then the career decision was easy. I honestly tie it back to hearing my mom every day since I was born tell the story of how she made that decision for herself.
These days you’re signed to the Nashville office of a publishing company, operating in a world with its own customs and practices when it comes to being creative and collaborative. How’d you adjust to things like co-writing?
I honestly don’t think the worlds are that different, or maybe just people are the same. I do write a considerable amount by myself, so co-writing was maybe the biggest leap that I’ve made into discomfort. To me, even if I have a bad session, there is something that can be learned or gleaned or laughed about from it. If someone has a bad ego during a write it’s, “OK, I’m not going to work with that person again.”
You chose a loaded title for this album, in defense of my own happiness (vol. 1). What were you getting at?
Every time I post something on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook that someone from my past dislikes, I hear about it. I didn’t realize that that was a strange practice until I was talking to my girlfriend. She was like, “That’s so bizarre that people you worked with five years ago still feel the need to tell you that they’re disappointed in you, or say that they’re praying that you’ll become straight again one day.”
It is the source of a lot of my anxiety, to be honest. I don’t regret anything that I am or anything that I’m doing, but there’s this part of me that wants to defend that who I am is good. So many of the songs we ended up picking for the album speak to that. I think the idea of in defense of my own happiness is, it’s maybe an open letter to all these people.
Also it’s a letter to myself saying, “You deserve this life. You deserve to have a girlfriend who loves you and live in a beautiful house, and you deserve to be working a job that you enjoy. You’ve made mistakes, but none of that disqualifies you from what you found.” The album is literally just, “Please let me live.”
As much as I hear you insisting on your right to happiness on the album, I can also hear you sitting with your melancholy, and not hurrying past it.
I don’t know that there’s any other way to actually be happy or healthy without acknowledging how you’ve been hurt in the past, who you’ve hurt in the past, acknowledging the things that you don’t understand or the things that scare you, and sitting with them. I’ve been doing a lot of meditation, because it’s 2020 and the world’s on fire. I was reading a quote about how emotions and our thoughts, we should entertain them as friends, as opposed to treating them as these things that we can’t control. I do feel like melancholy is like a friend that I entertained on this record.
That definitely applies to your song “Who Do I Turn To?” Tell me about the choice you made to phrase the chorus as one long, uncomfortable, unresolved question.
I credit the open-endedness of it to Natalie Hemby, who I wrote the song with. I am a big fan of open-ended things, but I think I wanted an answer. I wanted to write a protest song. I think Natalie could see in my face just the heaviness and the sadness. I was, like, four months old when the LA riots happened, and the fact that we’re still marching for the same thing in 2020 is so bizarre. It’s so heartbreaking. Black people have been showing up for themselves from the beginning of time, countless Civil Rights leaders and movements.
Even to this day, you can point to people like Angela Davis that are alive and doing the work. But we are a minority group, so we cannot be the only people doing the work to protect and honor our lives, especially in this climate. It became open-ended because it’s like, “You keep saying that it’s not your fault, but you let your grandpa make racist remarks while I’m at dinner.” There’s all these little actions and behaviors that play into it. Leaving it open-ended just allows people to think and reflect.
For Black Americans, this day, Juneteenth, has long been a celebration of the momentous historical event of emancipation from slavery — and the nearly two and a half years it took for that news to reach all enslaved peoples in this country. Juneteenth is belatedly gaining wider recognition and arrives at a time of reckoning with systemic patterns of white supremacy, especially police brutality, that remain deeply entrenched.
Like many waves of national protest before it, the uprising in the wake of the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Tony McDade and many others has spurred the creation of its own soundtrack, and the following list spotlights the contributions of seven roots-savvy, Black music makers. Some draw on lessons learned from how songs gave spiritual succor to those on the front lines of the 1960s Civil Rights struggle, with righteously raised fists and declarations of passion and purpose. Others opt for expression that feels far more personalized or particular, articulating an adamantly complex range of emotions and letting profoundly unsettled, and unsettling, questions hang in the air. All of them are fleshing out their own vivid, timely incarnations of movement music.
Leon Bridges specializes in sophisticated soul, sometimes artfully retro in presentation and other times landing at the thoroughly contemporary end of that musical lineage. His new song “Sweeter” is an example of the latter, two minutes and 50 seconds during which his buttery vocals glide over a lean drum machine pattern, delicate, gospel-dusted bits of guitar, keyboard, piano and bass and Terrace Martin’s saxophone figures. Bridges’ words land with the devastated finality of a black man whose life is leaving his body, taken from him by police. “I thought we moved on from the darker days,” he sings, his cadence fluttery and tone ruminative. “Did the words of the King disappear in the air, like a butterfly?” The blame-laying next line arrives in a burst: “Somebody should hand you a felony.”
Then, Bridges elongates his phrasing with righteous indignation, before steadying himself to spell out the loss: “‘Cause you stole from me/my chance to be.” The elegance he chose gives his performance subtly striking, emotional heft. “From adolescence we are taught how to conduct ourselves when we encounter police to avoid the consequences of being racially profiled,” Bridges wrote in a statement. “I have been numb for too long, calloused when it came to the issues of police brutality. The death of George Floyd was the straw that broke the camel’s back for me. It was the first time I wept for a man I never met. I am George Floyd, my brothers are George Floyd, and my sisters are George Floyd. I cannot and will not be silent any longer. Just as Abel’s blood was crying out to God, George Floyd is crying out to me.”
Chastity Brown has been honing her ability to create space for emotional resistance within her songs for a while now. She draws on the pointed, confessional potential of folk and soul and the digital texturing techniques of contemporary pop and hip-hop, while depicting the patient pursuit and safekeeping of self-knowledge as a sign of strength — one that differs wildly from the sort of dominance modeled by systemic power.
In her new song “Golden,” created on her iPad in her garage studio and shared with the world this week, Brown sounds willfully unhurried singing over a skittery programmed beat: “I’ve got joy, even when I’m a target/If ya think that’s political, don’t get me started/You know I’m golden and I flaunt it.” That savoring of selfhood is in striking contrast to the furious question she circles around during the chorus: “Why have I got to be angry?”
In the artist notes accompanying the song, Brown explained that she began writing it when her nephew was beaten by four white cops while walking home in Harlem, mere weeks before George Floyd died in her adopted hometown. “This collective trauma that black, indigenous, immigrant, and queer/trans folk feel is real,” she spelled out. “It’s every god damn day. Yet, we still thrive and flourish in our nature beauty, we still have swag and songs for days. We still have wild and wondrous imaginations like we are all the children of Octavia [Butler]. …This is for me, my people, and the UPRISING to defund police here in Minneapolis and thereby set a new standard for how communities want to be protected.”
Shemekia Copeland, one of the brightest stars in contemporary blues, has been deliberate for years about broadening her repertoire and approach to encompass countrified styles, singer-songwriter song sources and statement-making folk and soul sensibilities and, in the process, positioning herself in the midst of roots music discourse. That’s the insightful perspective she brings to her just-released “Uncivil War,” whose string band style accompaniment boasts the contributions of Sam Bush and Jerry Douglas.
Coming from Copeland, and delivered with measured, dignified vibrato, the simple flipping of the name of the nation’s most notorious war to “uncivil” slyly strips a veneer of respectability from the racist and romanticized Lost Cause religion. She strikes a tone of weary but resolute optimism throughout. “It’s not just a song,” she clarified in a statement. “I’m trying to put the ‘united’ back in the United States. Like many people, I miss the days when we treated each other better. For me, this country’s all about people with differences coming together to be part of something we all love. That’s what really makes America beautiful.”
Kam Franklin, on her own and with her Houston horn band The Suffers, has the wide-ranging musical instincts, imagination, nerve, and ear for earthy verisimilitude to make big statements while zeroing in on small interactions. A couple of weeks back, she posted a brand new, self-recorded song fragment to SoundCloud, a platform well suited to off-the-cuff expression, and with it, this comment: “I saw a photo of Breonna Taylor with her homegirls earlier today, and it gutted me. I won’t forget her. I wrote this birthday song for her, her friends that wondered where she was before the news came out, and everyone that loved her.”
Titled “Happy Birthday Breonna,” it’s a pensive, sinuous bit of ‘70s soul that drives home the fact that Taylor was ripped from a web of close relationships. The first, and only verse, lands like a voicemail from a friend who grew worried when she couldn’t reach Taylor. Franklin’s graceful trills and softly insistent phrasing have an understatement that suggests fretful preoccupation. Then she moves into a point-counterpoint refrain, murmuring birthday wishes to Taylor in her breathy upper register and making a devastating declaration beneath: “You should be here.”
Singer-guitarist and actor Celisse Henderson began work on writing, recording, and filming a video for her song “FREEDOM” four years ago, following the slayings of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling, and watched as black deaths and protest momentum multiplied before she finally completed and released her project earlier this month.
In a message on her website, Henderson explained, “I, along with millions of people, watched video footage of these unarmed black men losing their lives in the most horrific ways. The truth that these unjust deaths revealed about our country, including the systemic failings of our criminal justice system, became my personal call-to-action. Then the 2016 election night happened, and the results added a whole new layer to the purpose of this song and project. Now, almost four years later, too little has been done, and the story remains the same. With the horrific and unjust killings of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd weighing heavily on our hearts and minds, it is time to release ‘FREEDOM’ as a rallying cry and a call to action to stand up and fight for our freedom.”
Historic footage of the March on Washington that opens the clip is a reminder of the buoying role that spirituals played in the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, and serves the narrative function of positioning Henderson to measure the too-meager progress for Black Americans since. The track is gospel-schooled and hard-rocking, powered by a thunderous, syncopated drum pattern and grinding electric guitar attack. With gospel fervor and a touch of theatrical flourish, Henderson summons a spirit of urgency and extends a broad welcome to all who are affected or disturbed by injustice.
Joy Oladokun, a Nigerian-American singer-songwriter who’s quietly carving out her place in Nashville’s professional songwriting community with introspective, melancholy warmth, steered a co-writing appointment with Natalie Hemby toward an expression of grief. The result was “Who Do I Turn To?” a naked airing of fear and distrust.
Oladokun’s reedy, plaintive performance is accompanied only by minimal piano chords. She spends the chorus adding up horrifying realizations that lead her to a resounding question: “If I can’t save myself/If it’s all black and white/If I can’t call for help/in the middle of the night/If I can’t turn to god/If I can’t turn to you/Who do I turn to?” Her voice subtly catches on the word “help,” as though knowing that life-giving protection is unavailable to her constricts her breath. Oladokun underscored the importance of the chorus lyrics to an interviewer: “[I]t’s illustrating that I don’t trust the police since I’m black. I don’t trust the police enough to know that they would think I’m not robbing my own home. I don’t think a lot of people understand what that is like. The feeling sucks.” In a separate statement she summarized her intent: “I wanted to write a firsthand account of how I feel and the question black people like me ask when this happens over and over again while nothing changes. I want it out now to help an already traumatized people cope, heal, and put words to their struggle.”
Wyatt Waddell, a young Chicago music-maker who’s been expertly, wittily, and self-sufficiently arranging home recordings of classic covers and singer-songwriter soul originals for the past few years, wrote “FIGHT!” as an anthem of admiration and uplift for young, Black Americans putting their bodies on the line in the streets and facing off against police force to agitate for change. “This song is me looking at what’s happening and what I’d tell the people protesting,” he specified in a statement. “I had to look outside of myself at what’s going on and how people are being affected. Hearing people’s fears, anxieties, and watching everything happening on TV really helped me write the song. I hope that it can be an anthem for my people as they’re fighting for a better America.”
Waddell begins with gospel-style repetition, creating a call-and-response pattern made up of his own layered vocals over a churchly foot stomp and hand clap groove: “There’s already so much pain/So much pain/So much pain/There’s already so much pain/And there ain’t nothin’ else we can do.” It seems like he could be building up to a confession of helplessness; instead, his funky refrain is bolstered by a sense of resolve and inevitability: “Nothin’ to do but fight.”
Photo credit: (L to R) Shemekia Copeland by Mike White; Chastity Brown by Wale Agboola; Leon Bridges by Jack McKain.
Della Mae have shaken up bluegrass and old-time stages for the better part of the last decade, with a mile-long resume that even includes a stint as cultural diplomats with the U.S. State Department. With Headlight, the Boston band’s first full-length album in five years, they’re providing their most powerful statement yet.
Written primarily on retreat at MOXE, a women-owned creative retreat outside of Nashville, the band taps into a more overt kind of activism than we’ve seen from them before, with lyrics that lift up victims of abuse, lend solace to the weary, and offer a single directive in the fight for change: to always keep moving forward.
Produced by Dan Knobler and recorded at Sound Emporium Studios in Nashville, the album features vocal powerhouses like the McCrary Sisters alongside instrumental heavyweights such as keyboardist Jen Gunderman and guitarist Molly Tuttle. Its tracks boast the fast picking and sublime harmonies that Della Mae fans have come to expect. BGS caught up with lead singer and songwriter Celia Woodsmith, discussing the new music and the band’s long record of working for equality in bluegrass and beyond.
BGS: The album opens with “Headlight,” a powerful song about standing up in the face of abuse. What drove you to write it?
Woodsmith: “Headlight” was definitely a hard one to write but it came out really quickly. I had been trying to write a song that could capture this feeling, the #MeToo movement feeling, and nothing was coming out. It really was after Christine Blasey Ford testified in front of Congress that it happened — the song came out in about twenty minutes, a very quick thing. I think I’d finally just had it.
As we [the band] have gotten older and more mature as human beings and as women and as musicians, it’s been easier and easier to not really care what other people think of us. [Laughs] It’s easier to say what we want to say, without fear that we might “ruin our career” or that the backlash will be too hard to handle. Truly, I didn’t write it as a political song, and I didn’t write it as something to divide people. I wrote it as an anthem, an ode to all the women in my life and the women I’ve seen all over the world who have stood up and been brave and been ridiculed for it.
Are there ways that you feel like your fans and your listeners could be “headlights” in their communities?
One of the lyrics is, “No need to be rude, just sit back and listen.” I think right now, especially, we really don’t listen to one another; we don’t want to listen to one another. There are a lot of takeaways that I hope people can grab from this song, but if standing up for women’s rights is beyond them, then I hope that they can just get through the song, just listen to it, just think about it. That’s all I can hope for.
As a listener yourself, what’s something in music in the last year or two that has made you particularly hopeful about what’s to come?
The first thing that comes to mind is the album by The Highwomen — Brandi Carlile, Maren Morris, Amanda Shires, and Natalie Hemby. That album, that project, really made me happy. First of all, that these women were badass enough to stand up and say, ‘This is a problem in country music. You don’t play our songs and you don’t play our albums, and we are absolutely going to stick this in your face.”
You have people constantly, your whole life, telling you that you’re “pretty good for a girl.” Believe me, Della Mae has gotten plenty of that. And it’s so frustrating. But when these high-profile women stand up for the rest of us, it elevates all of our voices. To have an album like The Highwomen do so well, be so well done — and by these four powerhouses — made me so hopeful for the future, hopeful that other young women are going to see this same thing and say, yeah, you know what? You should play our music. We are good enough.
Della Mae has been a presence like that for women all over the world, working with the State Department, performing in countries where women might not always see other women on stage. In your travels, were there times when you encountered a bluegrass community in places where people might not expect to find it?
Yeah, absolutely. We have found really amazing bluegrass musicians in Russia, and we’ve found them in the Czech Republic, and we’ve found them in France. Bluegrass is everywhere. It’s quite amazing to me, actually. We met a really amazing three-finger-style banjo player in Uzbekistan. This woman just learned how to do it from YouTube, and we were the first bluegrass musicians she’d ever jammed with.
Another time, these young Russian bluegrass musicians we sat down to pick with asked us to play [one of our songs] “Sweet Verona,” and they played right along with us. It was truly astonishing. That goes to show how small the world is. If you have an internet connection, you can listen to just about whatever you want, and you can learn. Bluegrass is a global thing, it’s everywhere. But it’s everywhere because it’s folk music, and I think that people can really relate to it.
I’ve seen quotes where Della Mae describe Headlight as the album you’ve always wanted to make. What were you enabled or empowered to do here that you haven’t been able to do in the past?
I think that kind of ties back into the “not-giving-a-crap-anymore” thing. We had always been afraid to have drums on an album, we’d always been afraid to plug in, use effects. [Because] we were in bluegrass, and kind of cornered into that genre, it felt like we couldn’t expand our musicianship, because we didn’t want to anger our fans.
We obviously care a lot about our fans, but [now] we think that we can take our fans with us, take them along for the ride. We’ve been playing for ten years. Our fans know that we can play a fiddle tune, and that we can play bluegrass standards. But we can also plug in and rock out and really perform songs that have meaning behind them, and do it with a lot of flair.
Do you think the pressure to adhere to tradition can be an obstacle for bluegrass musicians today?
I think that’s a problem being faced by bluegrass musicians, I think especially young musicians, but I think it’s getting better. Alison Brown, an absolute legend on the banjo, said it last year in her IBMA keynote speech: Change is coming to bluegrass, whether or not they want it. We have to start opening our arms more to different expressions of bluegrass.
There can be traditional bluegrass — that’s fine — but if someone has drums, or someone plugs in, or someone plays in an untraditional way, that doesn’t mean that we have to eliminate them completely from the genre. If we do that, then bluegrass music will slowly start to die. People won’t want to play it when they can’t play around with it, when they can’t give to it their own expression and their own creativity.
Recently I think there’s more openness to what bluegrass is, as opposed to what it isn’t. People will always say, “Well, that’s not bluegrass, they don’t have a fiddle,” or, “That’s not bluegrass, they don’t have a banjo.” More often lately, though, it’s been more like, “Oh, these musicians can play bluegrass, but they can also play a bunch of other stuff.” It’s better to celebrate that than to distance yourself.
Your new song “The Long Game” tackles the idea of temporary sacrifice for an ultimate goal. What are some of your challenges in playing the long game, and what keeps you looking forward?
We’re very lucky that this is our career, that we can travel around the world, meet people, write songs. But the day-to-day stuff is really hard. You’re kind of coaching yourself — “Just drink another cup of coffee and you’ll be fine.” When you’ve been a band for ten years, a lot of interpersonal stuff comes up. You may lose members over the years. We’ve had members turn over, and each time it’s difficult. It’s always the closing of a chapter, and then moving on a new way of thinking about Della Mae.
I love this band, and I love the women I play with, and I feel so grateful that we’re able to do this together. We’re really a family and a team, so I think that’s part of the long game, too — accepting change and learning to deal with it in a positive way, as opposed to a negative way. You’re always going to have surprises along the road, and you’ve just got to, well, keep playing the long game.
Photo credit: David McLister
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