Tag: non-binary

Out Now: Sage Christie

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Sage Christie (formerly known as Siena Christie), is a modern folk artist known for their pure voice and captivating story songs. In both 2022 and 2023, Sage was a finalist at the Kerrville New Folk Songwriting Contest. They also won a handful of other songwriting contests including the Great River Folk Festival songwriting contest in 2021, Portlands Folk Fest Song Contest in 2022, and the Walnut Valley Festival NewSong Showcase in 2023.

Sage has spent much of their time in the past year touring the Southeast, Midwest, and Pacific Northwest. When they’re not on the road, they’re now based in Asheville, North Carolina. They moved to Asheville last year, eager to connect with Appalachian music, folk traditions, and the vibrant local arts community.

Our interview covers their dreams to tour full time and their ideal day on the road filled with beautiful landscapes, new towns, and deep connections with both good friends and strangers. We also explore their passion for music, their favorite LGBTQ+ artists, and their experience as a nonbinary artist navigating a recent name change.

Why do you create music?

Sage Christie: I don’t. Music creates me.

Okay, but for serious, I don’t really know; I just always have. I can’t go a day without making up pieces of songs in my head. That’s been true since I was 5 years old.

Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?

I might be slightly biased, because I’ve seen these people in person (and they absolutely wowed me off my feet), but I would definitely include Olive Klug, Emily the Band, Spencer LaJoye, and Flamy Grant on that list.

For anyone reading this who might not be out of the closet, were there any specific people, musicians, or resources that helped you find yourself as a queer individual?

Listening to Jimmy Somerville, the Communards, and Bronski Beat helped me get through high school. I was deeply moved by Jimmy’s heartbreaking songs about searching for belonging as a queer person. But I couldn’t explain why I was so particularly entranced and comforted by the music of a gay man, since, at the time, I thought I was a bisexual cis girl. The better I get to know myself, as a masc-leaning enby, the more sense it makes. To anyone who’s in the closet or questioning: you don’t have to know who you are today. You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t feel safe. Your feelings are a hundred percent valid and okay. You matter, and you are enough.

What are your release and touring plans for the next year?

In September, I plan to release an LP called Little Deaths, a storybook concept album that traces the arc of a short-lived romance from start to finish. I have always been fascinated with fairytales, so I decided to write one myself. I feel like I grew up a lot while writing it. This album is basically me trying to explain love and death to myself like I’m in kindergarten. Once Little Deaths comes out, I’ll be celebrating its release with a two-week tour, visiting Chicago, Eureka Springs, Arkansas, St. Louis, and some other cool places as well.

You’ve been touring all over the Southeast, the Midwest, and the Pacific Northwest. What’s that been like for you to organize these tours and be on the road so much as an independent artist?

Touring is my favorite thing ever. I love traveling, seeing new places, making new friends and fans, and playing shows night after night. Booking tours is a lot of work – from researching and contacting venues, to planning safe tour routes and lodging, to promoting the shows and practicing for them – but the payoff so far has been amazing. If I could tour full time, I would. That’s a dream for the future.

Tell us about your recent move to Asheville, North Carolina. What drew you there and how are you liking it so far?

I knew I wanted to move to the southeast U.S. because of the rich Appalachian music heritage and continuing folk traditions here. Leaving the Northwest was tough emotionally, because most of my family and friends still live there, but luckily, they’ve all been supportive of my decision to chase my own adventure. Now that I’m in Asheville, I’m inspired by the community of songwriters, poets, and visual artists that has welcomed me with open arms. To be fair, I’ve only been here half a year, but so far, as a creative person and as a queer person, I feel like Appalachia is a good home for me.

How has your recent name change influenced your personal and professional identity?

I changed my name to Sage recently. I was born with the first name Siena, and it always felt like someone else’s beautiful name. Naming myself Sage has felt like an empowering step in my journey as a queer and self-defining person. Many fans and venues still know me as Siena Christie, so I’m doing my best to spread the message about my new name.

What would a “perfect day” look like for you?

Being on tour with dear friends and partners. Driving through gorgeous natural areas and towns I’ve never been in. Playing a backyard concert with string lights and fireflies and stars and lemonade. Getting to cry and laugh with people I’ve just met because of music. Staying up late with friends eating chilaquiles while watching planes go by. Seeing my loved ones’ shoulders relax and eyes sparkle.

What’s the best advice you’ve ever gotten?

A year ago, a good friend said, “You’re kind, to a fault. You should be more mean to people.” That might sound weird, but it’s helped me realize that failing to put on my own “oxygen mask” first actually hurts people – not just myself, but ones I love. Listening more closely to my own suffering has made me a better listener in general.

Photo courtesy of Sage Christie.

Adeem the Artist’s ‘Anniversary’ is a Complex, Deeply Moving Homecoming

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

In the press release for their 2024 album Anniversary, Adeem the Artist, the non-binary, self-described “cast iron pansexual” singer-songwriter, mentions that the album is queer country – as a genre, not simply as music made by queer people, but as a whole new thing. They also mention recording and creating with their child, their partner, and their tour manager, in a week off from touring in semi-rural Texas. The album is a deeply moving, hauntingly specific, and profoundly sophisticated look at the interweavings of family and a (literally) hostile landscape.

This is queer country – queer as a sexuality and gender and musical identity, but also as an indication of being a little askew, not really fitting plumb, as a political and personal identity. Here, a genre, Adeem notes, is a way of working against expectations or histories:

“Country music is important to me, because it’s so much tied into the dirt of where I grew up. It feels like a place I can comfortably speak from, in the authority of my testimony as a Southerner and a child of Confederates. That’s my responsibility, my calling. That’s why I’m making country records right now. It’s where I need to be, to be processing the things I’m processing.”

One of the ways of keeping safe in this landscape, while acknowledging and trying to make amends, is to move inwards, to lean on the “cast iron” of “cast iron pansexual.” This album moves from the outside – a world that is toxic and violent – toward one that is domestic. In the coruscating rock breakdown of “Plot of Land,” with its minute-long, Tom Petty quoting coda, Adeem sings:

And the politicians cast their lies like street craps,
And they sweep up every time
So baby I’m gonna find us a plot of land
With a little home to put a family in …

The plot of land is a long term plan, but there are moments in this record where you can see possibilities – of a loving home, of a rock and roll life, of a genderqueer Southern utopia, of the perfect dive bar meetup – falling out of an ambitious set of recordings. The too muchness of the album can be understood given it was made in a week, in a hostile place.

Adeem talks about how they made “Nightmare” in Texas, incorporating all the elements in their surroundings including “Isley’s laughter [their daughter], Kyle’s gentle presence [their tour manager], Hannah’s bouncing energy [their wife] as she pitche[d] hymns we could reference irreverently. That week away from the internet and the news cycle was a little insulation bubble that gave us so much room to breathe and feel safe. I don’t think this song could’ve been delivered with a different midwife.”

The midwife analogy is especially relevant to understanding some of these songs, particularly “Carry You Down,” where Adeem writes gorgeously about having and raising babies. The song is so gentle, so respectful of the autonomy of the child, but also filled with the details of domestic life that have become rare in country lately. In an album about adult pleasures and pains, it is a rest song, about carrying a child down the stairs when they ask to be carried, even if that interrupts “chorin’,” doing dishes or work in the garden.

If “Carry You Down” is a waltz, then “The Socialite Blues” is a romp about “staying up to the break of dawn/ making out of tune songs with you” – another kind of domestic, with “out of tune” its own kind of queerness. These songs have a sweetness, a refuge from harm, a way to escape not outside, but within.

The invocation of “out of tune songs” is a euphemism, but there are spaces on the album where Adeem is explicit about desire, as explicit as a country song has ever been, like in “Nancy,” which expresses exactly how difficult it is to fuck while on pharmaceuticals; or “One Night Stand,” about relationships that happen between last call and sunrise, but whose memory might, out of mercy and grace, stay on for “a lifetime of nights with him;” or “Part and Parcel,” where they sing, in gentle but urgent tones:

Take it all apart, it’s part & parcel
I came here with a strange and honest feeling
Chase all of these contradicting versions
Childhood perversions, & dreams that never steered
Let them drive a little while so that I can disappear

Those “contradicting versions” include being a child from the South, so the history here is not only personal, but social and political. There is a cluster of artists working out the history of the South right now – Justin Hiltner’s “1992,” Miko Marks’ Race Records, Willi Carlisle’s recitations of the failures of Appalachian and rural drug work, the entire career of Jake Xerxes Fussell, all of the ancestor work in Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter. It might seem like Adeem’s work is personal, but all of this historical work flows from the personal to the corporate, an understanding of history that includes both last week and last century, trauma and joy twisting into a complex homecoming.

Homecoming for Adeem also includes the history of Knoxville, Tennessee; on the album’s last song “White Mule, Black Man,” they begin by asking if it’s too much to do one more, but after the end of the track, it’s clear that nothing could be more proper. Here, Adeem telling stories of the South, from Confederation onward, means taking racial politics seriously.

In almost exactly three minutes, they tell the story of a white mob rioting after a foiled lynching, the eventual coverup of that lynching, and the layers of myth-making and storytelling to prevent the truth from being revealed. Moving from talking to singing, somewhere between Peggy Lee’s “Is That All There Is” and Dylan’s “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” the story in this final song laments, “But if the Tennessee River runs red with blood/ ‘Til the city runs white again/ Well, a white mule’s curse means more round here/ Than the last words muttered by murdered Black men.”

Adeem has been blunt like this before, tearing down the charnel houses of violent American racism and its myths, and this song is a deepening and extending of that practice. By ending the album on this note of violence, not as a lecture but as a moral accounting, that history work is ensuring that everyone is seen and known, their family is known, and the origins of their family’s prosperity is known.

Such knowledge is the necessary, sometimes haunting, sometimes delightful, attraction of Adeem as a person and “the Artist” – earning that sobriquet.

Photo Credit: Hannah Bingham

Out Now: Joh Chase

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

This week, we’re excited to feature Joh Chase in Out Now. Joh is an artist from Seattle, Washington now rooted in Los Angeles, California. They’ve spent the past two decades developing their craft as a songwriter and performer and they’ve opened for artists like Noah Gunderson and David Bazan. Joh’s music steps outside the lines of any single genre and blends influences of blues, folk, pop, and indie rock.

Joh Chase’s brand new album, SOLO, was released today. It features diverse sounds, intimate lyrics, and an exploration of love, loss, self-discovery, and independence. Our conversation touches on why they create music, their greatest fear, and their process of self-funding tours and crowdfunding albums.

Why do you create music? What’s more satisfying to you, the process or the outcome?

I create music because I am lucky to have claimed music as something that I do. I just do music as much as humanly possible, because it makes me feel alive and helps me know who I am and how much I love the world and life and others. Both the outcome and the process are satisfying. The payoffs for showing up always feel rewarding, but the long game reward of gaining muscle memory around showing up when it feels like the last thing you wanna do, is its own kind of reward.

Do you create music primarily for yourself or for others?

I’m very “Oliver Sacks” about music. I unabashedly create music for selfish reasons – coping, pleasure, and connection. And then I love playing music for people or hearing the music of others because everyone has a “secret public song space” in their bodies and minds and they want to be there as much as possible.

Your songs cover a wide range of genres with traces of blues, pop, folk, and indie rock influences. How do you navigate genre diversity while maintaining a cohesive sound throughout the album?

I think the genre diversity and how that comes across in the different sounds is a reflection of the kinds of music I used to make and the sounds that have stuck with me throughout the years. Using the baritone saxophone, finding a way to express some soul music as well as some Americana licks amongst folky tunes indie folk/rock sounds are endemic to my musical expression. Over the years people have said, “Oh your voice would sound good singing… country, bluegrass, blues, soul…” and in this record I found a way to fit the genres to my voice, a bit. The surprising Flaming Lips-sounding party that is “Daniel” or the more jammy “Smoother” with its less Western sounding scale, are consequences of me feeling 100% happy with creating and releasing music that genre melds, as opposed to making sure I stay in some sort of shape, genre-wise.

The lead single, “Avalanche,” is both explosive and personal. What is the inspiration and significance of this track?

I honestly cannot remember the exactitude of where or when I wrote “Avalanche.” It was in the same set of songs as “Gone” when I first wrote it, but I can’t remember that session as well as I can remember the writing of “Gone.” The song centers itself around the powerful polarity of belonging and loss. Love is not just the “hot fire sex flame” of pop bangers, but also the unexpected mountain shelf of love that you didn’t know you had until it was gone.

This album, SOLO, reflects your do-it-yourself perspective as an artist. Could you share the challenges and rewards of self-funding tours and crowdfunding projects?

One of my favorite books that I was reading around the time that I decided to do the crowd funding that led to this record is the book Real Artists Don’t Starve. The book inspired me to go back to school while I was making this record. The record business is tough and very uncontrollable, but I will never stop making music. So it’s not a question of “do I want to keep making music”, but rather how and at which costs? I think some artists or bands are in a place where they feel comfortable sharing the financials of their music business with fans and some do not for many valid reasons. I feel comfortable sharing with my fans, I need $x to do this, will you help me make it happen. It’s much more acceptable now to have folks follow your Patreon or Substack or subscriptions than it was, so I feel grateful that there are things like Kickstarter and Patreon etc.

What would a “perfect day” look like for you?

Eating a Berliner from Black Forest Bakery in Los Feliz with my coffee, going home to the studio and making music or playing out with my band.

What’s your ideal vision for your future?

I’m sitting behind some tape machine or TEAC-2A, coming up with my next record and building more beautiful songs. I’m walking my dog and going to queer line dancing and the LA women’s soccer games with my city and then touring and meeting wonderful people and getting to play music for them. Definitely going back to Europe for more shows – I’d really love to do that.

What is your greatest fear?

My dog dying when I’m on tour.

What’s the best advice you’ve ever gotten?

Get pet insurance.

What is your current state of mind?

I’m so deeply excited about playing these new songs for people this year and for people to hear this record. I couldn’t sleep last night after doing my taxes, ’cause I was so buzzed from the band rehearsal.

Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?

Brittany Ann Tranbaugh. Brennan Wedl. Bitch. Melissa Ferrick. Perfume Genius. Hand Habits. Sasami. Rhett Madson. Rachel Mazer. Ryan Cassatta. Brittany Howard. Sinead O’Connor. Jonnie Reinhart. Hurray for the Riff Raff.

For anyone reading this who might not be out of the closet, were there any specific people, musicians, or resources that helped you find yourself as a queer individual?

Willie Nelson’s “He Was A Friend of Mine” – I think struggling to come out of the closet or living in it or the aftermath of coming out revolves around loss of community and friendships. Nelson’s version of this song helps me still deal with some of the sadness around that loss. I was lucky enough to get sober and it was through the 12 step community that I met lovely, strong, vulnerable queers in LA who showed me the beauty and joy of what it’s like to be out and to be sturdy in your own way. I’m also spoiled with LA’s LGBT center – it’s an incredible organization with so many resources and events. Find the queers you want to be when you grow up. And then be the queer you want to be when you grow up.

What does it mean to you to be an LGBTQ+ musician?

I think it means that my music gets to be a safe LGBTQ+ place. That my shows and my music centers the queer experience.

What are your release and touring plans for the next year?

After touring this summer to promote the record on the West Coast, I’ll head east later in the year and jump into some Folk Alliance conferences. No release plans on the radar yet after SOLO.

How do you find a balance between the business and artistic aspects involved in your career as a musician?

I honestly don’t totally know. It’s intuitive and chaotic and intentional and has been part of my personality or my way of life for so long, now, that I don’t know if I can pinpoint one precise center of gravity. I have to protect my creative time, nurture my playfulness in life, let myself ditch friends or ditch overworking or ditch over-cleaning to let those creative moments remind me of who I am. I am lucky to have a manager, a team at Kill Rock Stars and friends who support me and my music. Inside of community, the glaring nature of the music industry is dulled out quite a bit.

Photo Credit: Shervin Lainez

Country’s Genderf*ck Tradition

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

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Country music’s gender politics have always been, well, kind of fucked up. The genre itself is rooted in class-based declarations of authenticity and individualism, all while negotiating assimilation into urban life. Like any other large group of people, country music artists are by no means monolithic, and the genre’s approach to gender – especially femininity – is diverse. But for all the treacly love songs and mincing breakup songs, the ones where country divas’ lives are at the mercy of men, there are songs that flip that dynamic right on its head.

Stephanie Vander Wel’s Hillbilly Maidens, Okies, and Cowgirls illustrates how this dichotomy has existed since the genre began. Country music has always sold the story of rugged individualism, and that sense of individualism has paved the path for women who present themselves as more rugged than the “Pollyannas” they’re expected to be. That tradition continued well into the classic country era; Loretta Lynn’s “The Pill” and Tammy Wynette’s “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” masterfully display centering women’s agency, while couching that drive in humor and a catchy tune.

It’s no coincidence that if you ask someone on the street to name a country music artist, they’re most likely to list a woman. Dolly, of course, or the ‘90s run of divas like Shania, Faith, or The Chicks. As has been oft-discussed, this generation of country stars tapped into the ‘90s exuberance for individual freedom while questioning the traditional ties that bind us to our scripted gender roles. Faith Hill’s “Wild One” and, of course, The Chicks’ “Not Ready to Make Nice” portray a femininity that is self-confident: there will be no more shrinking behind men in too-large ten-gallon hats.

Marissa Moss and Dr. Jada Watson have extensively documented the decline in women’s presence on mainstream country radio since the aughts. But that doesn’t mean women are shutting up, and we are starting to see queer women, as well as nonbinary and trans artists, use their inspiration from the ‘90s to continue using country music to challenge gender norms. Roberta Lea’s “Too Much of a Woman” is brash, rejecting any sexist norms that would expect her to dim her light. Jessye DeSilva’s “Queen of the Backyard” and Paisley Fields’ “Periwinkle” are touching tributes to young people who know they don’t fit in and never will. Desert Mambas’ “Buzz Cut Blues” is a nod to Leslie Feinberg’s legendary no novel Stone Butch Blues, making good on country music’s promise of non-normative gender performance with a meditation on moving through the world as a transmasc person.

Throughout the century’s worth of country music canon, there is one throughline: this genre that celebrates outlaws and misfits must always celebrate women, femmes, non-men, and others who are doin’ it for themselves.

Photo of Dolly Parton from the Michael Ochs Archives.

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