Anne Harris is having a moment. Though many people (this writer included) are just finding out about this Midwestern violin virtuoso this year, she has been making records since 2001. With her new album, I Feel It Once Again (released May 9), Harris decided, in her words, to “bring things up a level.”
Not only is the disc getting rave reviews, it marks the first-ever violin commission in America between two Black women – Harris and luthier Amanda Ewing. The 10 songs on I Feel It Once Again range from traditionals like “Snowden’s Jig” and the closer “Time Has Made A Change” to originals like “Can’t Find My Way” and the project’s title track. Throughout, Harris remains impressive in both her vocals and her violin playing. The album was produced by Colin Linden who has worked with Bob Dylan, Rhiannon Giddens, Bruce Cockburn, and many others.
Harris is currently based in Chicago, but was actually born in rural Ohio. She took to music at a very young age, inspired by her parents’ record collection. After attending the University of Michigan’s School of Music, Harris moved to Chicago, where she delved into the city’s theater and music scenes. Now, she is about to tour with Taj Mahal and Keb’ Mo’ this summer. BGS had the pleasure of catching up with Anne Harris for a conversation about the new album, her Amanda Ewing-built violin, her influences and inspirations, and more.
To start, tell me where and when I Feel It Once Again was recorded.
Anne Harris: I did the record in Nashville. Coming out of the pandemic, I had been writing and I felt like I had a collection of songs – a pool of things that I wanted to be on my next record. I wanted to work with a producer, [but] I wasn’t sure who to work with. All my prior records had just been basement records, basically. Nothing wrong with that, but I wanted to bring things up a level. A friend of mine, Amy Helm – who is an amazing singer-songwriter in her own right – recommended Colin Linden to me.
Colin is Canadian born and raised. Incredible multi-instrumentalist [and] producer that’s made Nashville his home for many years now. Anyone [Amy] recommends I’m gonna listen to. So I started listening to some of the records he made. I got in touch with Colin and sent him, in really rough form, a big basket of songs I was considering. He really loved them and wanted to work on the record. We got the basic core of the record laid down in about a week of intense recording in Nashville and finished up with a few things remotely after that.
Is it true that you first picked up the violin as a kid after watching Fiddler on the Roof?
Yeah! My Mom took my sister and I to see the movie version of Fiddler on the Roof when we were little; I was around three. I was born and raised in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I remember being at this movie theater in Dayton for a matinee. I remember the picture of the screen – you know, this opening scene where Isaac Stern is in silhouette on a rooftop playing the overture. And [my mother] said I stood up, pointed at the screen, and yelled – as loud as I could – “Mommy! That’s what I wanna do!” She was like, “Okay, you gotta sit down and be quiet.”
She thought [it was] maybe a passing thing and that I was caught up in the drama of the music. [But] I just kept bugging her about it. So she let me do a couple of early violin camp kind of things here and there. I just had this intensity about wanting to really study it. So when I turned eight, I started studying privately with a teacher. Suzuki and classical training was sort of my background.
Tell me about the title track, which is also right in the middle of the album. What inspired “I Feel It Once Again?”
A couple of years ago, [my] friend Dave Hererro – who is a Chicago based blues guitar player. Sometimes he’ll come up with a little riff and send it my way and say, “What do you think of this?” He sent me this guitar riff, which is kind of the through line of that song. I heard it and immediately the whole song and story unfolded in my head. I wrote [it] around that guitar riff in, like, one session. I did a demo and I played it for Dave. I’m like, “Dude! I love this so much.” He’s like, “Well, do whatever you want with it!”
Writing is an interesting thing. I’m not super prolific. I’m not one of those people that’s like, “I journal every day for 13 hours!” [Laughs] You know? [I don’t] have a discipline or method other than trying to stay open to inspiration and committing to it when it happens.
[That] was the case with that song. I had the story and a picture in my mind of what that song about. Somebody musing over a loss. You know, it’s twilight and they’re finishing a bottle of wine and mourning the loss of this great love. One part of you is fine when it’s daytime and you can put on a face and you’re going about your business. But then when the curtain comes down, behind that curtain is this loss and this mourning. That’s what that song is about.
Everything looks different at 4am, doesn’t it? [Laughs]
I [also] wanted to ask you about “Snowden’s Jig.” That’s a type of music I know virtually nothing about. I know it’s a traditional.
Yes. “Snowden’s Jig” is a tune that I learned from the Carolina Chocolate Drops record Genuine Negro Jig. It was my gateway into the Carolina Chocolate Drops. I was doing errands somewhere and I had NPR on and [they] were a feature story. And it was just this mind-blowing thing.
Joe Thompson [has] been deceased for a while now. But he was one of the last living fiddlers in the Black string band tradition. They would go to his porch, learn tunes from him, and learn the history of Black string band tradition. That’s sort of how they started their group. [“Snowden’s Jig”] was on that record and they learned it from Joe.
Part of my mission as an artist is to be a bridge of accessibility through my instrument, the violin, to the Black fiddle tradition. There was a time during slavery days when the fiddle and banjo were the predominant instruments among Black players. Guitars were sort of a rarity. That was when string band music was really at its height. North New Orleans was the sort of center of Black fiddle playing. Often time, enslavers would send their enslaved people down to New Orleans to learn how to play fiddle and then come back to the plantation to entertain for white parties and balls.
You’re based in Chicago. It’s a big music city. How has living in Chicago informed your music?
Chicago is known as a workingman’s city, a working class city. There’s something very grounded about Chicago in general and that’s the reputation it has. I’m a Midwestern person [anyway], from Ohio originally. There’s something about us in the Midwest. You know, we’ll never be as cool as New York or LA! But we work our asses off. I feel that translates into the artists in this town. It’s really a place where it’s about the work.
This album apparently marks the first violin commission between two Black women. Yourself and Amanda Ewing?
Correct. Amanda Ewing. It’s the very first professional violin commission that’s been recognized in an official capacity. Amanda has a certificate from the governor of Tennessee – she’s a Nashville resident – citing her as the first Black woman violin luthier in the country.
When I first saw Amanda, it was online. The algorithm basically brought her to my phone. I saw a picture of this beautiful Black woman in a work coat, holding the violin and I about lost my mind. I was so blown away and inspired. I read her story and got in touch with her and told her, “I have to have you make a violin for me. I have to own a violin that was made by the hands of somebody that looks like me.” It never occurred to me, in all my years of playing, what the hands of the maker of my instrument might look like. That’s not an uncommon thing, but it’s sort of sad! It would never occur to me that a Black woman would be an option.
So as soon as I met her, we embarked on a commission that was funded by GoFundMe. She decided she wanted to make two [violins] so that I would have a choice. They were completed in February, a couple of months ago. [One violin] will make its official debut for a public audience on the 23rd of May. I’m gonna be playing at the Grand Ole Opry with Taj Mahal and Keb’ Mo’. I’m going on tour with them.
It’s funny, I was gonna ask you next about that tour! I noticed you had some upcoming tour dates with Taj and Keb’. I wanted to ask your thoughts on that and maybe what people can look forward to on this tour.
A friend of mine is Taj Mahal’s manager and she’s also good friends with Keb’. She said that Kevin [Keb’] had approached her looking for a violinist player for this upcoming tour. They have a new record out as TajMo called Room On The Porch. It’s their second under that moniker and it’s an amazing collaboration. Two iconic figures making beautiful music together. So she recommended me and [Keb’] had seen me before – I think when I was touring with Otis Taylor years ago. He called me and you know I’ll keep that voicemail forever!
As far as what to look forward to, it’s gonna be amazing. The opportunity to work with luminaries… I’m gonna be the biggest sponge, soaking up all of the knowledge from these giants. Taj has been influential to just about everyone on some level. He’s one of those people who’s worked with everybody and done so much. I’m just over the moon.
Ever since she was a child in Arizona, Kassi Valazza has battled crippling stage fright. While that fear has lingered in the years that have followed, on her journeys touring, and living in Portland, then New Orleans, and (soon) Nashville, she’s been able to conquer it with intention, introspection, and consistency.
“I need to be alone for at least 10 minutes before I go out [on stage] so I can relax and do my breathing exercises,” Valazza tells Good Country. “More than anything, just getting into the groove of playing shows helps, because eventually your brain does turn it off a little bit. The nerves never fully go away, but at a certain point things just start to become muscle memory and you’re able to tune the other noise or inner thoughts out.”
Those three pillars also make up the foundation of her third album, From Newman Street, released May 2. On it Valazza spins her most personal web of songs yet, her vintage and Emmylou-esque warble taking listeners on a cosmic Americana journey that pulls back the curtain on vulnerability and universal struggle, forging a soundtrack of triumphant growth.
Songs like “Roll On” and “Your Heart’s A Tin Box” are ripe with melancholy, wisdom, and a bit of hindsight – plus bed-ridden humor – all of which is also reflected in the album’s artwork. It depicts a pensive Valazza in a staring contest with a breakfast-in-bed platter captured by friend and longtime photographer, Kait De Angelis.
“I wanted to capture exactly what I was going through when I was writing this album – I was really depressed, I was in bed, and I wasn’t getting up or going out a lot,” explains Valazza. “There’s also a funny and comedic side to that too where depression and anxiety are very real feelings that a lot of people have that I wanted to present in a playful, but still real way.”
Ahead of the release of From Newman Street, Good Country spoke with Valazza about the solitary environment the songs within it were born from, nature’s influence on her work, how she’s poised for a move to Nashville, and more.
Like the previous installments in your catalog, From Newman Street was self-produced. What’s your motivation behind that?
Kassi Valazza: It started out more from necessity, because then – and even now – I don’t have a ton of money, I’ve just been working with friends. I’m also a little bit of a control freak, too, though. Ultimately, I really trust the people I work with and think we’ve been able to make some great stuff without having to bring in an extra person. It’s made just as much sense to do things that way financially as it has from a creative sense.
Maybe not as much a financial decision, but certainly one that benefited on a creative level, was the move to record in Portland despite leaving there for New Orleans a couple years ago. What was it that took you down to the bayou?
I’d just been to New Orleans a lot and had a solid community of people I knew out there. I spent a lot of the summer on tour before I moved and was seeing a lot of those people, which gave me the idea of giving life in New Orleans a go before trying out Nashville. I’ve really enjoyed my time here, but funny enough I’m actually moving to Nashville in November. I had my little moment here and loved every minute of it, but Nashville is where I see myself ending up.
Why is that?
The thing I like about Nashville is that it’s so open genre-wise. There’s not just country, there’s also a ton of indie artists doing everything from psychedelia to jazz. I also have my booking agent and a lot of good friends there. New Orleans has been really fun but I’m just gone all the time, so I needed a home base that’s a bit more calm and easier to wind down in.
There’s also a bunch of nature [around Nashville]. I really love to hike and be outside, but in New Orleans you’re kind of just stuck there – there’s not a lot of space to leave. There’s a lot more diversity in both landscape and music in Nashville. It makes New Orleans feel like an island by comparison.
Speaking of nature, how does it inform your music and creative process?
On [2023’s Kassi ValazzaKnows Nothing] nature was a major influence, because when I was living in Portland I was always outside. I even lived out in the country for a while in a yurt house and wrote a lot of songs there. But on this new album a lot of it was written from my bedroom – or at least somewhere inside – and I think it shows in the lyrics. There’s just not a lot of imagery of the outdoors, which is what makes this project stand out against my others. That being said, I miss having nature as a reference, so it’ll be nice to get back to hiking and camping again soon.
You just mentioned From Newman Street being mostly written in isolation, from your bedroom. Does that mean this is a pandemic record or were these songs born more recently than that?
It’s actually not related to that at all. It’s all pretty recent from the past two years. I went through a weird phase where I was a little bit depressed and shut in and wasn’t going out as much, because my mental health had hit a low. These songs are a reflection of where I was physically and mentally during that time.
With that in mind, tell me about the song “Your Heart’s A Tin Box,” which seems to be a rumination on the sacrifices of being a working musician. Was there a specific moment that inspired the song, or rather an accumulation of many?
It’s a mix of both and definitely a wrap up of my last year. The opening line (“Walking through the airport/ With no money I can spend…”) was written in the airport when I was walking around after just getting back from my European tour. There’s this thing that happens when you play overseas where they don’t pay you right away, because they have to go through all the venues and booking agents first. I had been there for almost two months and had no money, not even enough to buy water in the airport after I landed.
It’s one of those things where I don’t know whose fault it is, but it’s not set up to benefit the musicians at all, which has been really hard to cope with. A lot of friends have been dealing with it, too, because in general there’s not many people or organizations out there protecting musicians these days – it’s kind of like the Wild West.
Nobody should have to beg for money they earned. Due to the touring associated with my work I have all kinds of expenses – from plane tickets for my band and I to hotels, gas money, rental cars, and more – that quickly pile up. You end up having to put it all on a credit card hoping you can pay it off when you’re all done and the timing of it just never quite adds up.
The repetitive cycles and costs associated with touring that you touched on there remind me of another song, “Roll On,” which I understand is about repeating patterns, but in the context of a relationship rather than the music business?
Yes! I had been in a relationship that wasn’t working for me, but kept trying and trying to fix it. It felt like I tried 13 times to put a Band-Aid on it, which led to the song coming along very easily almost as soon as I sat down to write it. It was a scenario where I loved the person so much and wanted to make it work before realizing that I just had to let it go.
Listening to it and “Time Is Round” – which directly precedes “Roll On” on the album – I couldn’t help but think of the two as sister songs where you’re trying to chase time only to realize what’s meant for you will come back around eventually?
I’ve never thought about it like that, although they are both about different relationships with people and myself. “Roll On” was about a relationship that wasn’t working and “Time Is Round” is one I wrote at the start of a new relationship and trying to gauge the situation to assess whether I was repeating the same mistakes. Now that you mention it, maybe there is some kind of correlation there.
Glad I could be of service!
One last song I wanted to ask you about was “Birds Fly.” I love everything from the trance-like arrangements on it to the lyrics, which seem to be about sitting around and marinating in your own thoughts as the world moves around you. Is that what you were trying to convey there?
A lot of that song is just me disassociating from my feelings, which is captured in the vibe of the music. It just reflects me laying in bed and avoiding conflict and the various issues in my life.
Erik [Clampitt], who played pedal steel on the album, really leaned into that with the bird sounds he created with the pedal steel. Then you’ve got Sydney Nash playing vibraphone, which is such a calming, comfortable instrument to listen to. Then Tobias [Berblinger] is doing all the synths behind her. I wanted to create a little pad for somebody to lay down on and listen.
Well, mission accomplished! What’s your songwriting process look like – from what I understand you almost exclusively write on your own?
I do, but the process definitely gets changed up a lot. Oftentimes I’ll find something that works and keep doing it until it eventually runs its course before finding something else. Lately it started a lot with the melody first and struggling to find lyrics to put with it. A lot of Knows Nothing – and this record too – came from poems I’d written down in my journal and added a melody on top of. When I hiked a lot they’d sometimes come up at the same time, and other times they’d pop into my head unexpectedly. It’s always different – I’m not capable of relying on one specific process.
Whether it’s sitting with your thoughts in bed, journaling them, or putting them to song, what’s something that music has taught you about yourself?
I have a lot of big feelings and go through waves of depression and anxiety, which can make it hard to know what’s real and focus on the present. The beautiful thing about art and songwriting is that you get to capture a moment that you can look back on later. Sometimes things aren’t very clear, whether it’s confusing relationships or not being your best self.
I try to write as honestly as I can, even if it makes me look bad. The ability to do that, look back on it, and learn something about yourself so that you can grow is such a huge privilege and something that’s been wildly beneficial to my mental and physical health. If I wasn’t making art I’d be a much unhappier person, that’s for sure.
Joy Clark and Ani DiFranco connected over something unexpected: a Christmas song. Slated to perform at the same benefit show in 2022, the two singer-songwriter-guitarists were grouped to take the stage together and needed a holiday tune, ideally an original one. Clark’s “Gumbo Christmas” made it to DiFranco before the show, and the legendary artist and founder of Righteous Babe Records heard a hit. Once the pair synced up, they felt an instant musical kinship, and it wouldn’t be long before DiFranco signed Clark to her label.
Last October, Clark released her critically acclaimed debut album, Tell It to the Wind. Informed by her experience as a side player and imbued with a deep reverence for her craft as a solo artist, the record was one of 2024’s finest releases, announcing Clark as an artist with a keen sense of who she is and what she wants to create. The album sonically pulls from Clark’s roots as a Louisiana native and thematically from her experiences as a Black and queer woman making her way through the world. Highlights include “Lesson,” a bluesy, groovy reminder to keep your head up in the face of struggle, and the record’s vulnerable closing title track.
Before the holiday break, BGS caught up with DiFranco and Clark over Zoom to chat about Clark’s signing to Righteous Babe, her album Tell It to the Wind, and what she and DiFranco admire most in one another – as they prepare to hit the road together on tour next month.
Let’s start by having you share how you met and what drew you to one another.
Joy Clark: Well, it started with a Christmas song. It was 2022, and we were both on a Christmas show. There was a big lineup, with Big Freedia, John Goodman, and a lot of other people. So, they tried to group the performers together and I got grouped with Ani and Dayna Kurtz, and I happen to have a Christmas song called “Gumbo Christmas.” My agent contacted me and said, “Hey, can you make a recording of your song and send it to Ani?” He sent it to Ani and I heard back that it was a hit. She liked the song. So, they grouped us together and we performed it.
Ani DiFranco: It’s a total hit, this song. I mean, I don’t understand why people are not holding hands all over America singing this song right now.
JC: I wrote about my grandmother making gumbo every Christmas, it got to Ani, and I think that’s how I got on the radar.
AD: From my perspective, I’m asked to do a benefit and it’s just tons of New Orleans usual suspects involved, like she said. Then, I found out a little later everybody had to play Christmas songs for this thing. I was thinking I’d just show up and play a song or two of my own. I’m like, “Oh, man, Christmas. What the hell?” So, I’m combing through Christmas songs, and I’m like, “I don’t know.” And then I thought, “Oh, I’ll just write one. I’ll write a Christmas song.” I pounded my head against that wall for a few days and discovered that it’s harder than you think to write a Christmas song that anybody ever wants to hear.
Finally, somebody rescued me by saying, “Well, you know, Joy’s got a Christmas song. Maybe you could sing with Joy Clark.” And in comes this little video of Joy singing. I was like, “Oh, my God, that’s the best. That’s the best.” Now I know how hard it is to write a Christmas song, so my respect for this woman is already right up here for making this sweet, soulful Christmas song. And then [Joy] came and recorded it.
You don’t hear many artists getting signed off a Christmas song or even having that be their entry point to meeting their eventual label. That’s a great story.
AD: It was also just hooking up, you know, in person, doing a little rehearsal at Joy’s house, and then going and doing the gig. We got to hang out. It’s not just like I heard the song somewhere. I got to see firsthand that Joy can play and sing her ass off and was an artist in the world doing her thing. I always say that we’re not really a label with tons of resources that can create something out of nothing, or market somebody into existence or something. But what we can do is support working artists and try to get behind them and help facilitate what they’re already doing.
JC: I think that’s the cool part, because I’ve been a working musician for a long time. And not just being Joy Clark, just writing my songs and performing – I played in a lot of different bands, playing guitar, singing harmony. … I’ve really just been working, been doing the thing. I played as a side person for a long time, which is how you learn. That’s how you learn to just be a musician. I feel like that’s been a gift for me. So, now to be able to just to step out up front and write and put out music, I feel pretty lucky. But it also feels really right.
It sounds like you came into the picture with a fully realized sense of who you are and the kind of music you make and what you want to do. And it sounds like the label is a great home for artists like that, who already have strong senses of self and don’t necessarily need, like you mentioned, Ani, a lot of development and marketing.
AD: Certainly at Righteous Babe, you’re not going to have some pencil pusher telling you what you should do with your songs. The thing about an artist-run label is the artist has to follow their heart. That much is clear at Righteous Babe.
Joy, I’m going back to what you were saying a moment ago about being a side player and the opportunities that provides – or sometimes forces – for you to adapt and learn and be able to do things on the fly. How do you feel that those experiences have shaped your solo work?
JC: There’s pressure in it, but then there’s not really pressure, too, because it’s not about me. I think it allows me to just be and not think about, “What do I look like?” or “How do I feel about this certain thing?” It’s giving somebody else space to do their thing. And that gave me a lot of confidence, actually. It gave me a lot of freedom. … I think that helped me step into my work, because when you do need people, when you do need support, you get both sides of it. I think it’s made me more compassionate. I hope I’m not an ass. I don’t think I’m an asshole. [Laughs] I understand what it is to support somebody’s work.
AD: I can really relate, too. I remember the first time I worked on somebody else’s record that wasn’t my shit, and I was like, “Whoa. This is all the fun of making music without the crushing emotional baggage of exposing your guts and putting yourself up for judgment.” So, I completely hear what you’re saying about how it’s a different experience to make music when you’re not on the hot seat, when it’s not you being judged. I love working on other people’s music for exactly that reason. It’s so freeing emotionally. … And now we’re about to go out to make some live music together. That will be fun times.
I wanted to ask about that. As you get ready to hit the road together, is there anything you can share about your plans, or what you’re looking forward to, in particular, about getting to share a bill with one another?
AD: Another thing that is always in the back of my mind with Righteous Babe, if we’re considering releasing a record, is whether this is an artist we could have the means to help. Somebody came to us with a very different genre of music recently and it was a super cool record, but I just thought, “I don’t know how to get to the right audience and get this project where it needs to go.” But from the minute I met Joy and saw her play and interact with an audience, I thought to myself, “My audience will love this person.” So, that’s always in the back of my mind, like, if we put out a record on Righteous Babe, could we do shows together? That’s a really easy way for me to assemble a bunch of people and then point, “Look at her. Check this out.” I just know that they’ll eat you up, Joy. And I haven’t told you yet, but I was hoping to ask you if we could play a song or two together.
JC: Of course! Just let me know what you want. I’ve already been listening. You know it.
AD: I’ll text them to you.
JC: One thing I’m looking forward to is being on a bus. My dates have been fly, pick up a car, then drive, you know? And it’s not like I have a right hand. It’s me and my guitar, driving. When I’m driving, I can’t do anything.
AD: And it’s exhausting. Most of your energy is zapped when you get to the gig.
JC: Yeah, it’s like, “Can I just sit in the green room? Can I just recover from that?” I’m looking forward to having that tour experience of being on a bus and chatting it up and maybe even writing. We’ll see if I can actually write on the road.
AD: Yeah, you need a certain amount of space just to do that, like your own dressing room and your own hotel room. It’s so hard when you’re just out there driving around, doing all the things. Funnily enough, Joy and I were just at another benefit the other night, both playing a tribute to Irma Thomas, singing Irma Thomas songs and benefiting the New Orleans Musicians’ Clinic. We were joking and I was like, “You got to be careful because once you get on that bus, it’s so hard to get off.”
JC: I can feel that coming. I’m looking forward, too, because I’ve really only seen Ani perform once, at French Quarter Fest in 2023. Now, I get to check out the show night after night.
Ani, you mentioned a moment ago that feeling of knowing that your audience will love Joy’s music. I see a lot of connection points in what both of you do. There’s a lot of vulnerability there, for one – I think you described it as “exposing your guts” earlier, Ani, and that feels true for both of you, at least from my perspective as a listener. What points of connection do you see in one another’s music?
JC: I think Ani is a badass guitarist. I respect that, because it takes a lot to be able to play with the band and then to just be a person on stage with a guitar. I think I really connect with that fingerstyle picking. I prefer fingerstyle because it gives you a lot of different textures and it gives you different choices. Instead of strum – a strum is great, it’s just when you can pick, there are these other things happening. These little flavors and lines that I connect with, because that’s the type of player I am. I don’t have the picks on my fingers, it’s just my fingers. But I think that’s how I connect [to the instrument].
AD: Ditto for me. Keep those naked fingers, because it sounds so much better. I put on these plastic nails, but that’s just because I get so violent with my guitar and I bloody myself if I don’t have them. But the sound is so, so great with the real finger and the real nail. I’m really more of a rhythm player, and I just sort of play by ear, but you can play solos. You know what key we’re in and what the notes are supposed to go with that – all the things that I don’t actually freaking know. [Laughs]
I’m just super impressed with anybody who can legitimately play guitar like you do. There’s knowing how to play or knowing how to sing or this or that, and then there’s knowing how to stand there alone on stage and hold an audience. And Joy can do that, too.
I’m glad y’all brought up each other’s guitar playing, because there’s clearly so much passion and care there for both of you. And I don’t think we ask musicians about their instruments enough. People ask a lot of questions about songwriting and lyrics but not so much about, say, devising chord progressions. How does incorporating guitar into your songs work for each of you?
JC: It’s always different. When I write, there is no one way that it comes. But there is a feeling. There are colors that appear. Sometimes, there are sounds that come out. But one thing that I can say, for me, is that [writing] happens simultaneously with messing around on a guitar. I often sing as I play. I’m not usually writing. I do write, but the core of it is a feeling. If it’s something sentimental, then sentimental lines appear. Sometimes it happens if I’m driving, then I pick up my phone and I hum, and then when I pick up the guitar, I’m flowing. There’s an improvisation that happens and it’s a little bit mysterious. I don’t really understand it. It’s just mystery. But I love chords and I love to pick out cool shit. Then, I just put words to the thing that I’m picking.
AD: I can basically relate to everything you’re saying. Same for me. It’s different all the time. There’s no, like, set process, of course, and each song happens in a different way. But generally, it’s just being able to hang out with your instrument and just be with your guitar, hang out, and process your feelings with it. I miss that myself in life these days. I’m older and at a different point in my road than Joy. And I, many moments, wish I could put myself back where you are, Joy, just embarking on something and being really focused and having that guitar by your side all the time. Now, my kids are in the way most of the time, you know? [Laughs] … But that’s really what it is, having a relationship with the guitar that deepens and deepens. The understanding between you and this instrument deepens, and the guitar starts finishing your sentences.
JC: You can find some really pretty jewels in something that didn’t really feel good [while] writing it. But I want something to grow on me. Maybe it doesn’t fit so perfectly, but in time, “Oh, yeah, that does make sense.”
AD: I feel like that’s what you want for other people, too. It’s not necessarily to always be making songs that are instantly like, “Oh, Skittles! It’s sweet and fruity.” But, something that, maybe, on repeated listens, it takes its time to get under somebody’s skin. Then it really lives there. … What I’ve learned over many years and many albums and hundreds of songs is that, even after you get back to your disillusionment or you sour on something that’s not new anymore, you just have to have faith that somebody out there in the world is still going to have that first experience that you had with it. Somebody is going to feel that way about it, even if it’s not you anymore.
That feels like a lovely place to wrap. Before we sign off, do you have any parting words for one another?
JC: I’m really freaking grateful. I’ve been doing my work and I feel pretty lucky that people want to hear what I have to say. And I feel really lucky to have an album out on Righteous Babe, on your label, Ani. I feel like it’s right. I just turned 40 a couple months ago, and I think it’s pretty fantastic to feel like I’ve just started.
AD: Well, I would say – in a way that’s not weird, in a way that [reflects] that we’re on the same level – that I’m proud of you. It makes me so happy to see you stepping into yourself and your music and stepping out there in the world. You’ve paid a lot of dues and you completely deserve this moment. I can’t wait to see what’s next.
Photo Credit: Joy Clark by Steve Rapport; Ani DiFranco by Shervin Lainez.
Stelth Ulvang is a storyteller, but as he shares in our conversation, if it hadn’t been for a broken mast on a famous sailboat years ago, his stories might have found a different outlet than music.
Since then, his musical life has unfolded from one wave to the next. From playing with established bands like The Lumineers or his own projects like Heavy Gus to finding pick-up bands in different towns, he is fast and prolific. His latest effort, Stelth Ulvang and the Tigernips, is a ten-song opus, cut in New Orleans by The Deslondes (a band he indeed met through a friend). A self-declared autumnal record, Ulvang grapples with death with a lilting cover of Echo & the Bunnymen’s “Killing Moon” and guides the listener along his travels in “What Three Dogs.” The (mostly) live recordings lend themselves to the raw emotion of the storytelling.
BGS spoke to Stelth Ulvang over Zoom from his home in Bishop, California.
How’s your life?
Stelth Ulvang: Well, we just got back from a family vacation, and our 3-year-old hates us for trying to explain jet lag to him.
It sounds like you were on a real adventure. Where all did you go?
Greece, Turkey, and the Republic of Georgia. We have a friend there that is a wild, wild, Wild West woman.
She won this great horse race, and she’s really into cooking over big fires. She won the Iron Chef competition there. She’s a pretty versatile human, but pretty wild. So it was fun to have a friend in these places. We had friends in Greece and we had friends in Turkey. But we didn’t have instruments. My wife and I play a lot of music together, so we’ve always traveled with instruments, and this time we refused to.
I’ve just been recording all last year. I’m sitting on three records of recordings and trying to just put out one of them right now.
Nice. That’s awesome. Do you write alone, or do you and your wife write together sometimes?
I normally write alone. I have a hard time writing with others. I just haven’t had enough practice with it. With our other project, Heavy Gus, we will bring songs to the table and then we’ll intermingle and edit them together. But for the most part, it always comes from one voice or another. We haven’t sat down and said, ”Let’s write a song.” I find it harder. It’s more vulnerable than the other parts of a relationship, I find. After like sexual or intimate vulnerabilities, I found writing music together was like by far the last tier.
Well, not to make it about me. But I write music with my husband. Co-writing and the kitchen are the only places we fight.
Oh, yeah, totally. It can get really impassioned. You are just opening yourself up on the table in this way, and it can just go so quickly to feeling under attack about this very personal thing.
You’re very prolific. Sounds like you got a lot of stuff in the pipeline to release.
When The Lumineers stopped touring, I kind of just rallied and tried to get everything done. I did a lot of the writing on the road with the band. There was a lot of downtime in hotels. For a long time, I was recording in hotel rooms with my phone on voice memos and stuff like that. But then I got into using Garageband on my cell phone and making more produced tracks. I released a record like that.
Ultimately, I found that my favorite thing to do was to find a band. If we have a few days off in a town, I find a band and go into a studio somewhere and see if we can just record five tracks. So that’s what I kept doing around the States during this Lumineers tour for the past three years. I had written all these songs over COVID. So we’d be in Cincinnati for three days and I’d find a band and record five songs.
When you say “find a band,” what do you mean?
I mean whip a band up. Ideally, find a band that plays together and they’re down to just like learn a song of mine.
Are you meeting them at a show or are these people that you’re like friends of friends with online?
Yeah, sometimes friends of friends, people that I’ve never played with. But for this record, Stelth Ulvang and the Tigernips, this is all people that I had never met. A friend who was going to be on the record but then left for a tour was like, “Well, they’re good people, you’re in good hands.”
It was fun to just use real old gear, old vintage mics and run it all through tape. We recorded everything live. Singing it live, that’s something I’m not as used to. But with this band from New Orleans, the magic was quick to come.
Did you know you wanted to cut it to tape before you headed down there? Or was that circumstantial?
That was circumstantial. It’s funny with tape right now, because obviously, everything just gets digitized. I was trying to think, “Is there a way that we can keep this off of ever touching digital?” And it’s almost impossible. You know it’s possible, but it feels impossible.
With the record I made on my cell phone, I only released it on cassette tape for a while, which was the reverse. So I should have tried to be true to form and release it just on vinyl and tape in analog form. But it’s 2024.
Well, tell me about self-releasing music. What does that feel like in 2024?
It’s like I finally figured out the releasing stuff. I’ve had help through Emily Smith, with the Alt-Country Show. There was a lot of logistical stuff that I was getting new anxieties about – a lot of social media.
You think you have it all figured out and then it’s just all about being a content creator. I feel like an old man. It’s so complex, but it’s true. I finally kind of figured out how to self-release and self-book shows and now that almost feels like an obsolete skill set. I’m doing a whole tour around the Northeast on this record for a few weeks and booked everything myself. Amazing that it like came naturally, just writing people and asking for help. But yeah, the content is a skill set that I forgot to put my 10,000 hours in on.
I feel that. For the tour, is the band that played with you on this album from New Orleans going?
No, they’re all gonna be in Spain at a sick residency that they do every year. The band goes to Spain once a year. They’ve done it for 3 years. Now this will be, I think, their fourth year. And there’s a huge following in Seville of American country and folk.
It’s interesting that country music is getting big. But in Europe right now, it’s getting huge and friends who do country tours in the States are having much more success in Europe right now.
It also feels like the genre is broadening. There’s obviously the stuff at the top of the pyramid that, depending on your ears, can be exhausting. But there’s more room for more kinds of country.
In that realm, I don’t know that I like the song for what it is, but “Old Town Road” by Lil Nas X – to have a gay Black man put out a track at the top of the country charts, I think opened up the the floodgates to be like, “Anything goes.” I think that is an extraordinary gift to any realm of music, to do something so left field and find success for it. So bless Lil Nas X for that and maybe only that.
What’s a Tigernip?
What is a tigernip? I don’t know. I forgot. … I was just trying to think of something that wasn’t a Google trope. But I wanted the combination of very quick, ferocious, and sweet. We recorded half of the album in the space called the Tigerman Den so I was starting to call it “the Tiger Men.” But there were women in the project. I think I said “Tiger Dicks” at some point, and everyone was like, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
But then, something about a tigernip kind of sounded like a tiger lily or catnip.
I wanted it to be clear that the band that recorded on this record was actually a band and it wasn’t me just doing like solo songs. And how much the album was influenced by these relationships that we had over a very short few days. So, that’s why I was really set on trying to find a band name for us.
There’s a frequent revisiting in the songs on this album to the theme of water. And I read that at one point you sailed from Hawaii to Seattle. Since you have this connection to water, I’d like to know about that sail and if you have an everyday connection to water?
It’s funny, I don’t necessarily buy into astrology, but being an Aquarius, I am appalled that it’s not a water sign. I feel completely more watery than airy. [My birthday is] the very last day of Aquarius before Pisces, which is a water sign. So maybe that’s why I’m compelled to lean into the water sign. And my Chinese zodiac is the tiger.
Back to the sailing trip! I did not want to play music before this time in 2008. I met this musician who invited me on this sailing trip and I just wanted to go on an adventure.
Meaning you didn’t want to play music in your life, or you needed a break from it?
I was playing in high school and I tried to go to college for it. I didn’t like it and I dropped out. I just wanted to travel. I had gone on a bike trip, I was hitchhiking a lot, and I was riding trains everywhere. If music could help me travel, I was open to it.
I traveled to Hawaii to pick up this boat that was famous in National Geographic because of this teenager, Robin Lee Graham, trying to sail it around the world in one go. He left his boat in California and it got moved to Hawaii. I had somehow signed up with a buddy that I barely knew to travel with this boat from Hawaii up to Bellingham, Washington, where it was going to sit in a boat museum for its historical significance.
At the time, this was the youngest boy ever to sail around the world alone. The record has since been broken by a young woman. [The boat] had so much repair work that had to be done on it. So we’re in Hawaii for like five weeks, during which I got arrested for shoplifting some food at Sam’s Club, because we’d run out of all of our money that we had saved up to do this journey. I decided, “Screw it. We’re we’re just gonna skip the court date, I’m gonna get on this boat and we’re gonna sail.” So we bail on this court date, establishing a nice bench warrant that I had to deal with much later on. We make it a week out and the mast busts, and we had to get rescued. And I have never sailed extensively since then.
While we’re at sea my buddy had this mandolin. We sit there, and we’re just trading verses back and forth, writing this kind of silly song as this joke idea that we’re these stranded pirates. We’re just coming up with lyrics. We get towed back to Hawaii; I was really nervous about going to jail. We go to the airport and beg these flight attendants to basically put us on standby to get us back to the States. The only flight that they could put us on was one that went up to Seattle. We’re like, well, “We can hitchhike home from there.”
So, we go up to Seattle and we have no money, not even bus fare, to get to my friend’s house that lived in North Seattle. So we sit in the airport and we play this song, making up words on this mandolin with a little hat out [for tips], just for bus fare. As soon as we get the bus fare, we leave and we’re at our friend’s house. We tell him the story and he’s like, “You know, we’re having a show tomorrow night. You guys should play your song at this show that we’re having in our basement.”
That was the first show essentially that I ever played. By the end of the trip, we traveled for another couple of weeks back to Colorado, we’d written an entire album’s worth of stuff. As soon as we got back to Colorado we already had a band name. We had all the songs ready to record and all of a sudden I was a musician again.
Wow! All because of a broken mast. That’s wild.
SU: The boat was called the Dove. And the book that was about the boat is called Dove. So we called our band Dovekins. Never looked back.
Chris Smither has been Peter Mulvey’s mentor since back in 1993, when a young Mulvey opened for the already seasoned Smither. The blues and folk legend liked what he heard and enjoyed their similarities in creativity and quirks; he took that young man on the road with him. Their musical partnership has survived the digital age, the pandemic, parenthood, and the indictment of a former president. Along the way each has worked to influence their best habits and life lessons on the other. As far as mentor-mentee relationships go, this one is for the history books.
In this rare joint interview on Basic Folk, we address the important questions: Why do they delight in calling each other by their last names? Smither shares that he was first called by his last name in Paris when he was in school. The two debate who has the better hometown, Milwaukee or New Orleans. Actually, it’s not so much a debate as a reflection on New Orleans music, since that is clearly the better spot to grow up as a musician.
Mulvey reflects on their musical differences, citing some of his main inspirations to be Kendrick Lamar and Ani DiFranco, versus Smither’s affinity for Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan. There are nods to David “Goody” Goodrich, Jeffrey Foucault, Kris Delmhorst and the woman behind it all, Carol Young (AKA Smither’s long-time manager, AKA his wife). We break down how each feels about fatherhood and try to get Smither to spill his secret to longevity. Spoiler alert: It’s not from remaining still.
Smither’s 20th album, All About the Bones, is out now. Peter Mulvey’s latest is the acoustic retrospective, More Notes From Elsewhere.
Photo Credit: Chris Smither by Jo Chattman; Peter Mulvey by Paul Reitano.
Sun Without the Heat is Leyla McCalla’s fifth solo album, but it is different from past efforts and she brings the listener through the transformative process with her. Produced by Maryam Qudus at Dockside Studio in Louisiana, McCalla dug into her personal history, primary sources from Amistad Research Center at Tulane University’s archives, world musical influences, and her creative trust in her long time bandmates to bring forth a bright, kinetic, and meditative project.
The studio, nestled along the Vermilion Bayou, offered an insular, bucolic setting for the nine days McCalla and band were recording; a place where friends and children could visit and local fishermen provided fresh catch for dinner. Qudus’ direction provided McCalla with space and vision to piece together her research and personal edification, while her relationship with her band allowed a deeply creative process to unfold. McCalla spoke wistfully about the experience, “It was very luxurious to have that kind of space. And it’s just really a very nurturing environment.”
Traditionally a cellist, on this project, McCalla explores her relationship with the guitar. She delves into West African and Brazilian polyrhythms flowing underneath lyrics that, at times, feel like a repetitive prayer or mantra. She balances the seemingly unanswerable aspects of life with the sometimes illusive, but simple notion that many contradictory feelings can be true at once.
BGS spoke with McCalla via Zoom from her home in New Orleans earlier this month. McCalla discussed the experience of researching, writing, and recording, her relationship with fans and supporters, creative freedom, and trusting the process.
I’ve been listening to all your music the past couple of days and I’ve noticed that the sonic palette of this album is somewhat of a shift for you. It seems like there’s a transformation theme running through it, both lyrically and musically, and it seems like even in the process of recording it. So I wanna talk about that on multiple levels, but can we start with the process for this? It sounds like you went into the woodshed and didn’t come out until the record was done.
Leyla McCalla: This is an album that was mostly finished in the studio. I had a pre-production session with Maryam Qudus, who produced the record. It was also just this really crazy time in my life. I was on tour a lot and coordinating with kids’ schedules. We really only had 36 hours of workshopping songs. Maryam was really amazing at being like, “Okay, let’s play with this idea, and come up with a verse and a chorus.” So I think we came out of that pre-production session with about 7 different demos that were just these rough sketches and we sent them all around to the band. When we went into the studio, everyone contributed what they were hearing to the songs. I’ve been working with my band now for about six years. I think that we have developed fluidity in our process of coming up with parts and talking about music. And so I knew that I had these sort of vague notions of delving into psychedelia and Afrofuturism and mining, this incredible music from Africa, ultimately. I think that that’s been a consistent through line in all my work is connecting my music through the ancestral lines of the sounds themselves.
I played a lot more guitar on this record than any other record. For me, it was really about delving into the songwriting and figuring out what I wanted to say. I’d been doing a lot of reading of Black feminist thinkers, and contemporary thinkers like Adrienne Maree Brown, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, and Octavia Butler. I think this record for me was really about, “How am I going to survive life? What does it mean to be resilient? What does it mean to transform and change? And give myself the space to grieve and also to hope and to dream.” There are a lot of things that I was meditating on when I wrote these songs.
I remember feeling very vulnerable, because I was really going back into this more beginner’s mind. I’ve never gone into the studio and been like, “I don’t know what it’s gonna sound like on the other side.” I’ve always had the band pretty well rehearsed and gone in. This time it was like, “These are the things that are emerging in real-time.”
Did you feel nervous about it? It seems like you have a lot of trust with your band, which is a great starting point. And you had the 36 hours of workshopping and all the ideas that you came up with. But were there nerves about it walking in to record?
Oh, yeah. It was not nerves about, “Can I trust my bandmates to be awesome?” It was more nerves of, “Do I suck?” Which is classic imposter syndrome that artists have as part of the process of writing. You get an idea. It’s a good idea. You question whether it’s a good idea.
I’m trying to do a new thing. I’m trying to break new ground in my creative life and in my sonic expression. Within that, I think that there’s a lot of room for self-doubt. That’s why for this album it was critical to have the support of my bandmates and of Maryam, who didn’t have that kind of attachment to any of the songs. They were just there to help execute what I wanted. I think this album really has strengthened my trust in my songwriting and in my creative process. And just knowing that you don’t always have to know what’s gonna happen to know that it’ll be good.
Absolutely. I was just going to say when you said it was a sort of meditative for you, I think that really comes across, lyrically and sonically. There are these phrases that you repeat that are meditative and it seems like you’re asking questions, you’re answering the ones you can, and you’re submitting to the ones that you can’t. What you are saying you wanted to happen comes across.
Yeah, I think so. I think that there is, on a spiritual level, deep healing for me in writing these songs. I was calling that in. I was navigating single motherhood, divorce, breakups, and big deaths in my family. It was like, “How do I call myself back to myself, what is gonna guide me through that?” I think for me, doing a lot of sort of ancestral healing work and meditating on the the gifts and the things that I’ve inherited from my ancestors, those made their way into the songs.
Speaking of process, you mentioned in your liner notes that you are grateful for creative freedom on this project. And I’d love to know what creative freedom looks like for you and how it impacts your work. And maybe what a lack of creative freedom has felt like in the past for you.
I think creative freedom, for me, was kind of twofold. I have a label that is mostly doing stuff outside of the commercial realm. Obviously, we’re part of the music industry, but I never felt like I needed to make a particular album. I felt like the question from the label was, “What kind of album do you want to make? What is coming through right now for you? What do you want to say?” Being able to come from that place is very different than, “Try to take over this part of the market,” or something. It’s a lot more empowering experience. Also, not being afraid to go in different directions. Not being afraid to use weird pedals on my guitars, experiment with synths, have a freaking psychedelic freak out, or have piano on the songs or organ. It was just sort of intuitive, “Yes, this belongs.” And not feeling like anyone was going to disapprove of that.
I never felt that there was a particular agenda outside of the agenda that I wanted to fulfill. That has been a really empowering experience for me, coming off of my previous record where it was like, “Okay, these are these ancient rhythms that are Haitian and African, and this is a mapping of where Haitian people come from.” I felt empowered by that, but in a very different way, almost like I wanted to serve this music. For this record it felt like, “Okay, how can this process really serve me and serve my creative genesis?” Returning back to like a more beginner’s mind, “What are the things that really I love about music? What are the things that make me wanna write songs?”
I didn’t have as much of a mind for that with Breaking the Thermometer, because it had been such a longstanding collaboration that I had been working on for five years with a crew of theater makers and different musicians and then going into the studio.
I always felt like that project was like a garden of weeds that are growing out of control. It could be a book. It could be a theater project. It could be a dance piece. I explored the intersection of all those things together. Whereas this was like, “Okay, I’m just returning back to this one format. We’re making an album.”
It meant connecting with some of my earliest influences. That’s why I went back to listening to a lot of artists from the tropicalismo movement in Brazil, in the ’60s and ’70s. There was all this experimentation with traditional music forms and rock and roll and psychedelia. I love that music. There’s something about it that just really speaks deeply to me. And I think that it’s also because of my generation, who I am, and where I am. I’m drawn to things that are out of the box. And I’m also drawn to really solid groove and feel and deep emotional content. I never had an agenda other than to figure out what I want to sound like and being able to have that space. A lot of these songs were about like, “How do I get out of my own way?”
When you started thinking about making this record did you know that you’d be playing more guitar than cello? Did you write on guitar? What was the relationship with that instrument like?
I was writing a lot on guitar. I wasn’t like, “I’m gonna play guitar and not cello.” I didn’t have an agenda in that way. I really wanted to explore different shapes in my fingers and try different rhythmic structures. Guitar is exciting for me in that way. I’ve done a lot of finger-picking in my work and there’s plenty of that on this record. But I’m like, “What about this inflection? What about this texture? And what about this feel? What does that conjure?” That was really fun for me.
Fun was also really central to the process. I was like, “I want to heal, I want to be creative, I want to expand my sonic palette, and I also want to have fun.” I do this work to have fun. I don’t do this work to be the “king of the capitalists” or something. I want to have a good experience with it and find it enriching. I feel like the guitar is the ultimate symbol of liberation and freedom. It has a different meaning to me than the cello. With cello, I know the notes. I am thinking about technique and I have to think about how I’m holding my body. Guitar is just like, “This is who I am.”
For sure. Partly because the guitar is so mobile. You can walk off into the woods with it.
Yeah, totally. You should see me walk through an airport. I’m carrying my guitar, my banjo, and my cello, and I’m always like, ”Man, life would be so much easier without this cello.” But it’s such a powerful thing. When I’m playing cello, it feels totally like, “Wow, this is also home.”
Cello moves so much air. It can completely change the vibration of a room.
Totally. I always tell my bandmates, “Oh, we gotta be careful with that cello. It’s like melting a dark piece of chocolate on stage.”
I think a lot about sense of place and how a place can affect the creative process. Since you were sort of in a “lock-in” at Dockside Studio, I want to know if that studio and that place had an effect on this record.
Oh, yeah. Dockside is an incredible place. There’s a house with a pool and then a whole other house with a studio. The grounds are beautiful and well-kept. You’re right by the river.
There was a sense of deep relaxation for me there, because it is kind of separate. If it were in the middle of a city, there would be so much more distraction. But because there isn’t, I felt like it really helped me to focus and to tune in. We burnt candles there every day. We were calling in a lot of spirits and support. I did a lot of just sitting by the river and writing and reading in order to write.
And Maryam is amazing. If it had just been me producing the record, it would have been way more disorganized. Maryam was amazing at being like, “Okay, Leyla, we don’t need you in the studio right now. What we really need from you is to go and write.” I feel like I do best in those sorts of relationships, when someone is gently nudging me in the direction of what’s gonna be most productive for me. I was really able to get to a place of being productive and feeling quiet enough to actually hear whatever was coming through. If we had made the record anywhere else, it would have probably sounded completely different. We are all pretty well versed in the different styles of Louisianan music, so we kept thinking, “What is this sound that we’re coming up with?” And we were like, “This is Louisiana tropicalia.” It’s a fun construct.
Tell me a bit about what your relationship is like with fans and supporters of your music and the impact that they might have on your creations or your career.
For my first record, I did a Kickstarter campaign and I asked for $5,000, because I didn’t know how expensive it is to make albums. I ended up making over $20k. That whole process of doing the Kickstarter was such a boon to my career. At that point, I had been touring with the Carolina Chocolate Drops. No one really knew who I was, but I realized that there was support and space for me to be doing these projects that combine research and intellectual pursuits with making music. That’s the line that I have been toeing this whole time. And it is incredible, over the years, the number of connections that I have made from pursuing two things at once and growing this academic life within my body of work as a recording artist.
People have brought me, over the years, limited edition Langston Hughes, Haitian Creole poetry from the 1800s, translations of Zora Neale Hurston books that are in French or German. Those are the kinds of connections that feel so sustaining creatively for me and really enriching. The music industry is so inundated with artists, and everyone’s trying to stand out. That kind of symbiosis, I think, is really critical not only to me as an artist but to me seeking support.
That’s wonderful. There’s something sort of clinical about the traditional record label rollout of material in the past, but now it feels like, because of social media, because of things like Kickstarter and house shows, a wall has broken down.
Totally. And I feel people really connect to that, even sometimes more than the actual songs. Which may be problematic in one way. Everything is kind of about more of this “cult of personality” thing. Not that I’m super invested in developing that, but I do feel like the fan base is invested in me as a person, and wants to want to support the music as a result of that.
Can you talk a little bit about the collaboration with the Rivers Institute and the Amistad Research Center at Tulane, and how that might have informed this project, or what you’re working on in general?
I was invited by the Rivers Institute to be their first music fellow. They have this incredible artist-in-residence program that is in concert with the Amistad Research Center at Tulane University, which is an incredible archive of stuff from all over the South, particularly Louisiana Black culture. There are so many oral history interviews. I discovered writers that I didn’t know about, particularly a guy named Tom Dent, who feels like he’s kind of like the Langston Hughes of Louisiana.
I’ve always known how important archives and libraries are, but it’s just so much information. There’s a woman named Jade Flint who works there who helped me. She was like, “What are you interested in?” I’m like, “I like poetry. I like organizers. I like movement work.” I found myself down this path of discovering letters that Fannie Lou Hamer had written to her best friend. She was from the Delta in Mississippi and in the ’60s was really active in registering Black voters at the height of Jim Crow. She was attacked. She was beaten really badly for that. She just kept on fighting her whole life for Black people to have the right to vote and for political participation for Black people at a time where that came at a great cost to her mental, emotional, and physical health.
There’s an organization called Core New Orleans, which actually did a lot of COVID testing during the pandemic, but they were also working on voter registrations. I was reading their pamphlets that were like, “This is how you deal with potentially violent situations. This is how you approach people about trying to get them to vote.” I was doing that and concurrently reading things about emergent strategy and pleasure activism and comparing notes like, “These are the activists of yesteryear and the organizing principles.”
And then I was reading Adrienne Maree Brown’s books. She’s like, “You’re gonna need to masturbate before reading this chapter, because otherwise you won’t be connected with your pleasure center. That is essential to this activist work.” You could see this sea change in the attitude about what is actually going to aid our collective liberation the most.
During this time, my grandfather passed away and he [had] started a Socialist Haitian newspaper called Haiti Progress. Both of my parents are activists. I’ve been immersed in a lot organizing and activist stuff my whole life like going to protests throughout my childhood, especially regarding Haitian immigrants and human rights issues in the United States.
All of these things just really filled me with this feeling of, “Wow! It’s taken so much bravery to be able to fight the good fight and keep these conversations moving forward.” I think we still have a long way to go. I did a lot of reflecting on that. And that song, “I Want to Believe,” was written during that residency. It’s a simple song, but I wanted to write something that was almost a song that could be sung at a protest, something that was not quite gospel and not quite protest music, somewhere in the middle.
I love a library, I love an archivist, and I love being in that space and finding things that feel like a secret. How you process that as a person in the present, feeling the history in the present, and how it comes across – that is reflected in your lyrics. We have access to so much information today, but that information is very much filtered by these multinational corporations. There’s search engine optimization and all that, and we can’t really dig down until you go into a place like that where those regional details exist, like in an archive or library.
It just is incredible to me, because there’s so much to keep track of. And you know, even the different categories like oral histories or audio interviews or drafts of books or poems. There are unpublished pieces that may only be read by five people every year. Those five people then know about this thing and can share it with their community, and make work from it, or include it in their research papers. There’s there’s endless ways to see the world and then filter this information.
I feel like my job as a musician is looking for those bits of information that feel like the diamond in the rough, like the thing that I’ve been looking for my whole life. That’s really the chase. It really keeps me in the archives.
Can you talk specifically about the title track, “Sun Without the Heat?” In your liner notes, you dedicate the song to Susan Raffo and Frederick Douglass. I’d love to know more about that.
Susan Rafo released a book called Liberated to the Bone: Histories. Bodies. Futures. I went down this rabbit hole of progressive thought. Her book is written for healers, people working within the medical industrial complex, and anyone who’s engaged in healing work, whether that be on a community level or on a one-on-one basis. I read that book, and it was really fortifying for me.
She has this theory of the original wounds of our society, which are the genocide of Indigenous peoples and the enslavement of African people through the transatlantic slave trade. It’s about our inability to grapple with the harm that has been perpetuated and is being perpetuated from those original wounds. It is holding us back from larger systemic change. There’s a chapter where she references a speech that Frederick Douglass gave in 1857 to a room full of white abolitionists. He said, “You want the crops without the plow. You want the rain without the thunder. You want the ocean without the roar of its waters.” I was immediately like, “Those are song lyrics.” I just heard it immediately. Those were just such beautiful words and and phrases and concepts, and I kept on singing that.
It occurred to me, “You can’t have the sun without the heat.” I was like, “There are only three phrases, and I need that one other thing.” I was also thinking about how so many of these songs to me are about transformation, and are about what change really requires of us. And it felt like those phrases spoke so well to that theme.
I read a book called Undrowned by Alexis Pauline Ghums. It’s a Black feminist study of marine mammals off the coast of South Carolina and Georgia and the things that we can learn from them about survival, resiliency, living on this planet, and our inherent connection to nature — you know, how to thrive on this seemingly unsustainable planet. It is also about our connections to each other and community.
For a long time, I think in my own personal life I was like, “I just can’t help but feel like I’m drowning.” But I didn’t want to just make a record about that feeling. I wanted to make a record about getting through that feeling: about breaking through the overwhelm.
Since her solo debut in 2014, Vari-Colored Songs: a Tribute to Langston Hughes, multi-instrumentalist, composer, songwriter, and thought leader Leyla McCalla has routinely and consistently expanded her own sonic universe. But these have not been gratuitous or ambitious artistic reinventions. Instead, the cellist and multi-instrumentalist intentionally and organically brings in new and exciting textures, influences, stories, cultural touch points, and text paintings into her work. On April 12, she’ll continue in a similar vein, once again broadening her own endless musical horizons with a brand new record, Sun Without the Heat, available via ANTI-.
After Vari-Colored Songs, a collection of thoughtful, dense, and engaging adapted Hughes poems, Haitian folk, and originals, the critically acclaimed and “fan favorite” collection, A day for the hunter, a day for the prey (2016), brought in still more French, Haitian Creole, and bilingual material, underpinned by string band sounds that recalled her days performing and recording with the Carolina Chocolate Drops – but with many iconoclastic wrinkles and touches uniquely her own. At no point has there seemed to be any floundering or self doubt, musically and otherwise, in McCalla’s releases, but still their progression points to a growing confidence, an indelible sense of self, and an unwavering commitment to telling often untold stories. Time and again, she plumbs the depths of her own soul, her family, her lineage to discover and honor narratives regularly left in the shadows.
Sun Without the Heat certainly finds McCalla – who is based in New Orleans – covering exciting, tantalizing new ground that neither feels entirely new or, again, like any sort of attempt at frivolous reinvention. Instead, this album is a re-distillation of the personal journey – whether inward or outward – that McCalla has invited us to join her on since Vari-Colored Songs. Over 10 tracks, Sun Without the Heat is fiery while inviting, with limitless sparks and an intractable gravity. Building on her Haitian roots, which remained front-and-center in 2019’s incredible TheCapitalist Blues and also anchored her theatrical sort-of-concept album, Breaking the Thermometer (2022), on Sun Without the Heat McCalla again subverts antiquated ideas around “world music” and global folk by grounding Afrobeat, Ethiopian music theory, Brazilian Tropicalismo, and more in her American folk and string band expertise.
The result, like on TheCapitalist Blues and Breaking the Thermometer, is as charming as it is dense, crave-able and nutritious, entirely one-of-a-kind while obviously interconnected with so many constituent musical traditions. There are clearly lessons learned and perspectives gained from her time collaborating with supergroup Our Native Daughters – with Amythyst Kiah, Allison Russell, and Rhiannon Giddens – here, too. On the new album, with her arm-length resumé at her disposal, McCalla remains the industrial-strength adhesive holding together all of these seemingly disparate parts. Sun Without the Heat’s current singles, “Scaled to Survive” (listen above), “Tree,” and “Love We Had” are a perfect aural triptych to demonstrate McCalla’s deft combination of inputs to create a singular output.
It’s nearly impossible to overstate the impact the Carolina Chocolate Drops and its now legendary alumni have had on American roots music and global folk. Giddens, Dom Flemons, Rowan Corbett, Justin Robinson, and more each continue to increase their audiences’ scope of understanding well after their time in the Grammy Award-winning group. But the niche McCalla has carved out and built a home for herself within since branching out from the band is truly her own.
Sun Without the Heat is timeless while Afrofuturist, essential but never essentialist. This is folk music crafted in the spirit of folk musician activists the world over since time immemorial. When you listen to McCalla, whether Sun Without the Heat or Capitalist Blues, or any of her five studio albums, you can rest assured what you’re hearing is truly idiosyncratic, while she never lets her listeners mistakenly assume she and she alone is the sole arbiter of these sounds, genres, and traditions. It’s a deft balancing act that perhaps only she can execute with such ease and such entrancing music.
All month long, we’ll be celebrating Sun Without the Heat and Leyla McCalla as our Artist of the Month. Enjoy our Essential Leyla McCalla Playlist below and stay tuned for our AOTM interview to come later in April.
For nearly a quarter century, North Carolina-based Chatham County Line have pushed the boundaries of American roots music, but with their new album, Hiyo, they’ve finally knocked them down.
Released January 26, the album contains some of the band’s most far-flung soundscapes to date, as they introduce synths, drums, and other sonic elements to their repertoire for the first time ever. The resulting creations sound more like synth-grass than bluegrass, with everything from drum machines to stretched out harmonicas, harmoniums, and other oddities guiding the way. According to guitarist, vocalist, songwriter and founding member Dave Wilson, the drastic shift in direction stems in part from the departure of banjo player Chandler Holt, who stepped away from the band following 2020’s Strange Fascination to spend more time with family.
“We listen to all kinds of music so I wanted to make an album that reflected that,” Wilson tells BGS. “We knew when Chandler left that we didn’t want to just do the same thing we’d always done with a different person on banjo. That’s not how artists grow in the world. You instead look at something as a springboard for change, which is exactly what we did in moving toward a sound that more closely resembles the music we enjoy playing when nobody’s watching.”
The experimentation on Hiyo was further encouraged by its producer, Rachael Moore, who the band met during their time portraying George Jones’ backing band on the Showtime series, George & Tammy. Both the opportunity to be a part of that show — which manifested itself through a friend of a friend — and meeting Moore were complete happenstance, with the latter seeing the two parties build an instant rapport.
“Anybody that works in the studio with T. Bone Burnett that many times and has been a part of records like [Robert Plant & Alison Krauss’ Raise the Roof] is alright by me,” praises Wilson. “That’s the kind of music I listen to, so us making that connection to Rachael made us realize how hard a worker she is and how much she understood the sound we were going for. We knew then she was who we wanted to record our next album with.”
Speaking with BGS from his home near Raleigh, Wilson further touched on the band’s connection to George & Tammy, the similarities between the recording process and being on a film set, Phoebe Bridgers’ influence on one of Hiyo’s songs and more.
Who are some of the bands you’ve been listening to that helped inspire the sonic shift of Hiyo?
Dave Wilson: That last Sarah Jarosz record really blew me away. She’s just a phenom. There’s also two radio stations that I listened to religiously throughout the writing process for this album. Whenever I’m messing around with a guitar or building a tube amp in my basement I listen to the radio, and one of the stations I tune into is called “That Station” here in Raleigh. They play everything from us to Mipso – and a bunch of other local acts – in addition to bigger Americana artists making waves. That’s where I heard the Sarah Jarosz stuff.
Being tuned into what people are doing today is very important to me, because I’m a part of this too. If I’m asking people to listen to me instead of Led Zeppelin then I need to listen to Sarah Jarosz instead of Led Zeppelin, because she’s a living, breathing artist that deserves that respect. I take a lot of joy out of not only buying modern albums, but listening to radio that supports those artists as well.
On the flip side, I love WWOZ 90.7 FM in New Orleans. That’s on constantly and is full of crazy, disparate sounds, old songs, funny blues stuff and more. I never get bored of DJ Black Mold down there.
How did the rapport working with Rachael Moore on George & Tammy translate to the studio with these songs?
I’ve listened to a million records and I really wanted this one to sound like the ones in my head. In the studio we tracked three or four songs per day, then at night I’d lay in bed in disbelief at the way the music sounded better than I had ever imagined us doing. We demoed the songs, so we had an idea of what it was going to sound like, but with the additions of [Jamie Dick and John Mailander] there was a huge leap forward that outpaced my wildest imagination. I’m so glad we were able to capture that, and it wouldn’t have happened without Rachael’s knowledge and connections.
Did you notice any similarities between your experience recording this album and time on set for George & Tammy?
It was really about seeing how hard all these people work, plus the whole concept of down time vs. on time, where you have to deliver an emotional performance before sitting around for 20 minutes as the cameras get moved around before jumping right back into your role like you didn’t miss a beat. It shows you that that is the job. It’s more about sitting around mentally preparing yourself and managing your emotions between those two extremes.
That rubbed off, because in the studio it’s a lot like that, too. In most cases the songs are written long before you go to record them, so when the time comes to get in front of the microphone you’ve got to deliver it with an intensity like it’s still brand new. That’s how George Jones delivered a vocal. He left no doubt that he was the character in his songs, not just the person singing them. That’s the approach we’re trying to take so we can deliver the goods when it matters most.
One of my favorite songs on Hiyo is “Heaven,” which I understand is somewhat inspired by Phoebe Bridgers, of all people. How’d that come about?
I live about three hours from Charlotte, which is where I grew up. My father, who’s in his early 90s, started going through some Alzheimer’s stuff during COVID that had me driving back and forth often to take care of him with my mom. During those trips I got to listening to Phoebe Bridgers to the point I’d have one [album] on repeat each way of the drive. I really dig her style of writing and think some of that influence rubbed off when piecing together “Heaven.”
The song was actually more of a country shuffle in the beginning, so in the weeks prior going to the studio I got my drum machine out of the basement to make some demos for Jamie, so he’d have a template of it to reference. One day I decided to try the Fender VI on it, hit the drum machine, and got playing. Something about those sonic elements, how the words came out and the harmonica completely shifted my perspective of it.
That’s another way we approached this record when we added a drummer. We went back through our catalog and redid a bunch of old songs entirely different as if we were covering ourselves. So with this album, I approached it as if I were covering these songs and how we could change them up, because my favorite cover songs are completely different from the originals except for the story and melody.
You mentioned earlier the influence of New Orleans’ WWOZ on this record and I feel like no song better embodies that than “B S R.” Would you agree with that assessment?
It was a huge part of that song. I actually also play banjo on it in open G tuning. One day I also tuned my Stratocaster to it and began playing the opening riff, which isn’t necessarily what the song is built around, but did help it to pop when we first brought it to the studio. Since then, I began playing Stratocaster in open G with super heavy, flat line strings on it and it’s become one of our favorite songs to play.
I also have family in Mississippi and my mom’s from Alexandria, Louisiana, so I traveled there a lot as a kid and have a general knowledge of the area. To be honest, New Orleans is the coolest city in America. It’s the one that’s got soul. There’s other towns with soul, but none that can match New Orleans. There’s live music in literally 40 places every night!
I’m also fond of the change of pace provided by the instrumental “Under the Willow Tree.” How does your approach change when writing songs with lyrics vs. composing an instrumental piece like this one?
I think some songs just lend themselves to having a story told over them and some, instrumentally, can tell a story from their melody alone. When Chandler left the band it was a sign to me to up my game and dig in a little harder, because until then I’d deferred to banjo and mandolin for most of the solos and heavy lifting. I’m a huge fan of Leo Kottke and other guitar virtuosos, so “Under the Willow Tree” is my homage to players like him.
Despite not being an instrumental, another song that gives me the same feel of “Under the Willow Tree” is “Stone,” both for the wisdom it imparts and its ballad-like feel. What was the motivation behind it?
That is the one song that I wrote during the pandemic. It was informed by all of the protests that were going on and the idea that when it comes down to it, you have the ability to change not only yourself, but you can change those around you with whatever power you have at hand. That can come from a deep conversation and from exchange of ideas and respect for the other person’s opinion, but in this case it comes from our music.
Music has a way of bringing people together in a way that few other things can match — just ask Taylor Swift fans! At the end of the day, we’re all gonna be a piece of dirt that a tree grows out of, so just relax. “Stone” was born out of a simple riff and that idea questioning what is permanent in this world, because all want something positive to persevere when you’re done and your story is getting told.
One thing that I regret about the advent of recorded music is the families that used to sit around, everyone playing an instrument and singing. There’s a therapy in that that went long overlooked. It’s just really positive and healthy for everyone included to sing a bit and let the world go for a minute.
Farewell 2023 and hello 2024! While we all relish the week that doesn’t exist – that delightful no-man’s-land between Christmas and New Year’s Day – there’s perhaps just one activity beyond abject laziness that’s appropriate for the turning of the year: Music! Whether you’re still in “pajamas hermit” mode or you’re antsy and ready to go back out into the world, we’ve got songs and shows to recommend for your New Year’s Eve/New Year’s Day festivities in this special edition, final week of BGS Wraps.
Thank you for spending another stellar year with BGS! We can’t wait to enjoy all that 2024 has in store with all of you. Celebrate safely and enjoy the holiday, we’ll see you in the new year.
92Q & Analog Soul 2024 New Year Bash, Hutton Hotel, Nashville, TN, December 31
There are seemingly wall-to-wall parties, concerts, and happenings in Music City for NYE, and one certainly worth spotlighting is 92Q & Analog Soul’s 2024 New Year Bash, happening December 31 at Analog at the Hutton Hotel. From 8pm to 2am, guests will hear production, songwriting, and music-making duo Louis York, roots-tinged girl group The Shindellas, Shae Nycole, and more ring in the new year with performances, DJ sets, food and drink, and a champagne toast at midnight. Tickets are available here.
Ruby Amanfu, “Winter”
A dreamy and gauzy neo-folk song from singer-songwriter Ruby Amanfu feels frosty and magical, but warm and enveloping, too. It finds joy in often gray and bleak winter landscapes and vignettes we all know so well. The pulsing piano gives the track a forward-leaning energy, even while it relaxes into its groove and builds to a tender, energetic and lush sound.
The Felice Brothers at Colony, Woodstock, NY December 30 & 31
Spending your New Year’s Eve in upstate New York? Don’t miss the Felice Brothers’ two year-end shows at Colony in Woodstock! Both dates appear to be sold out, but you can join the wait list here. Based in the Catskills – so this is something of a holiday homecoming for the group – the Felice Brothers put out a Bandcamp-exclusive album, Asylum on the Hill, earlier this month. Celebrate ushering out the old and in the new with the Felice Brothers in Woodstock.
McKowski, “Auld Lang Syne”
Mark McCausland – AKA McKowski, also of The Lost Brothers and formerly of The Basement – released an album of ethereal and contemplative holiday instrumentals for guitar this month that features a gorgeous rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” that’s perfect for your NYE playlists. The album, Winter Guitar Hymnals from the Boneyard, certainly listens as a kind of guitar-centered ecclesiastical service, featuring a handful of Christmas carols alongside original arrangements and compositions, too. It’s a lovely collection, one we just had to spotlight for this final BGS Wraps.
Nashville’s Big Bash on CBS and Paramount+, Nashville, TN December 31
If you love big crowds, bright lights, and stunning pyrotechnics, Nashville’s Big Bash is for you! Or, stay home and avoid the crowds by streaming the show on CBS and Paramount+. See and hear Parker McCollum, Brothers Osborne with Trombone Shorty, Jon Pardi, Carly Pearce, Kane Brown, and many more. Hosted by Elle King and Rachel Smith, the five-hour production will feature more than fifty artists, bands, and performances. Oh and of course there will be the music note drop – Nashville’s version of the famous ball drop – over the stage at the Bicentennial Mall at midnight! More info available here.
Nefesh Mountain, “More Love”
What better to take with us into the new year than “More Love”? A Tim O’Brien cover by Jewish bluegrass string band Nefesh Mountain, the track was released with a mission of supporting organizations working to end the violence and ongoing war in Israel, Gaza, and Palestine while supporting Palestinians and Israelis impacted by the conflict. In a press release, Nefesh Mountain made a commitment to “donate a quarter of proceeds from ‘More Love,’ the ‘Love and Light’ Tour, and their forthcoming EP to charities and foundations that are dedicated to promoting peace, coexistence, and a way forward for Israelis and Palestinians.”
With more than 20,000 killed in Gaza and hundreds and hundreds more killed in Israel, the West Bank, and the greater region, we certainly believe the world could use “More Love” – and far, far less war – in 2024.
The Nields, “New Year’s Day”
We’ve been “saving” “New Year’s Day” from the Nields’ new album, Circle of Days – which was released in June – for more than half a year, just for this moment! It’s a truly perfect song for this point of transition. The feeling of helplessness we all feel at the inevitable march of time is captured like lightning in a bottle, with feelings of regret, despair, and exhaustion. But ultimately, they find hope in these lyrics, even while they explore emotions often opposed to hope and its regeneration.
Old Crow Medicine Show at The Ryman, Nashville, TN December 30 & 31
It wouldn’t be New Year’s Eve without Old Crow Medicine Show at the Ryman! It’s a long tradition, this year bolstered by supporting acts like former Old Crow member Willie Watson (30th & 31st) and Kasey Tyndall (30th) and Harper O’Neill (31st). Tickets are somehow still available – so grab yours while you can! You never know what special guests Old Crow will trot out at these rollicking, rowdy, joyous shows. Though it’s probably safe to bet there won’t be a Belle Meade Cockfight either night, don’t rule it out entirely.
Portland Cello Project, “What Are You Doing for New Years?”
The Portland Cello Project is joined by soloist, vocalist Saeeda Wright, for an epic, jazzy rendition of “What Are You Doing for New Years?”, perhaps the only generally accepted New Year’s “carol” besides “Auld Lang Syne.” (We’re open to argument on that point, of course.) The track is from their holiday EP, Under the Mistletoe, a collaboration with Wright and drummer Tyrone Hendrix. It certainly demonstrates the broad contexts in which chamber music such as this can thrive.
Amanda Stewart, “One Hell of a Year”
A thought we have had every year since 2020 – and, honestly, since long before, too – is this: That was one hell of a year. If you’re feeling that same exasperation, mixed with fatigue and pride and a sense of finality, as we turn the page on the calendar, Amanda Stewart has a bluegrassy send off to 2023 and the holiday season just for you.
Billy Strings at Lakefront Arena, New Orleans, LA December 29, 30, 31
A New Orleans New Year’s extravaganza helmed by bluegrass shredder Billy Strings feels like an apropos way to ring out the old and ring in the new. For the past few years Strings has defined bluegrass music, with his skyrocketing fame, mass appeal, and ever-growing fan base. During that time, his shows around New Year’s Eve have been unparalleled. Now, they have grown into multi-night runs in arenas and stadiums – like the Big Easy’s Lakefront Arena. As is usual for Billy’s shows, there are no openers, so buckle up for nothing but rip-roarin’ Billy Strings each night as we say a final goodbye to 2023 and bid good morning and good day to 2024! Tickets here.
Photo Credit: Billy Strings by Christopher Morley; Ruby Amanfu courtesy of the artist; Old Crow Medicine Show by Joshua Black Wilkins.
This week, the show is back in New Orleans for a special talk with Sam Doores, one of the talented founders of well-traveled roots-rockers The Deslondes. We dive into their newest LP Ways & Means and how California-born Sam — who plays various instruments from electric guitar to keys, and sings in seven bands and counting throughout the Crescent City — collected many of its slow-burn soul-adjacent songs like “Five Year Plan” while holed up in a storage unit studio squat, questioning his place as an adult with real responsibilities who also happens to be a soul-searching artist criss-crossing our beautiful (or crumbling) almost-post-pandemic world.
Imagine if you will, you walk into a saloon lost somewhere between 1930 and 1975. The band onstage has three distinct lead singers, and the songs feel like hard lived-in tales that could live in a TV western or the soundtrack to Boogie Nights, with vibes that would inspire both Ray Charles and Woody Guthrie, Tom Waits and The Beatles. If you’re confused, good. Algorithms can force music upon you at any time these days and I’ll admit, Spotify wants me to listen to The Deslondes, at all hours. They’re not wrong. If I have one job in this podcast it’s to share the music that lights a fire in me as a fellow songwriter and has me grasping for genre-descriptor straws. I have no idea, clearly, how to describe this band. I will say, songs like “Howl at the Moon” make me feel like I’m somehow still proud to be an American, plying my trade somewhere in the still kind of Wild West.
Starting with their charmingly ramshackle and bluesy self-titled debut in 2015, the band, which formed in New Orleans’ Lower Ninth Ward, has always made a point to write democratically and spread songs around to their singers. Sam for one, Dan Cutler (bass) for another and notably the always compelling Riley Downing, whose ancient deep drawl sounds like it should be its own character in Yellowstone — and all harmonize gorgeously together. Downing and Doores also both have duo and solo albums which are lovely, but what they create here in The Deslondes — especially in timeless story songs like “South Dakota Wild One” about Riley’s wandering youth — are special in the way accidental supergroups make music that somehow shouldn’t exist.
It was a pleasure getting together with Sam for a rare in-person chat just off Frenchmen Street. If there’s one thing I love most about New Orleans, it’s that it creates new artists that seem to follow the beat of their own drummer, genres be-damned. Give Ways & Means a spin — it might transport you somewhere you need to go.
Photo credit: Bobbi Wernig
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