Tag: North Carolina

Earl Scruggs Music Festival Honors a Bluegrass Banjo Hero

Posted on by Editor

The sheer beauty and alluring magic of the Earl Scruggs Music Festival is akin to the film Field of Dreams. That adage of, “If you build it, they will come.”

Why else would one of the premier bluegrass gatherings be held at an equestrian center in the middle of nowhere, just off a rural highway, surrounded by vast farm fields in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina, and work to absolute perfection year after year?

Well, it does. And for its fifth anniversary, the festival, held at Tryon International, once again invited a slew of the marquee names when it comes to the “high, lonesome sound” and those arena acts orbiting the genre itself: The Avett Brothers, Greensky Bluegrass, The Del McCoury Band, Béla Fleck, Rhonda Vincent & The Rage, Alison Brown, Mountain Grass Unit, Lindsay Lou, Della Mae, East Nash Grass, The Earls of Leicester, and more.

“He was my gateway. If it weren’t for Earl, I wouldn’t be me,” says Brown, a world-renowned banjoist and co-founder of Compass Records. “Earl was a traditionalist, in the sense that he created this style that we all play, which we consider to be the cornerstone of bluegrass. But, he was an adventurer. He was not afraid to take the banjo to places it hadn’t been before.”

Born just down the road from the festival grounds in Cleveland County in 1924, Scruggs revolutionized the banjo when he perfected a three-finger approach to the instrument. With clawhammer banjo using down-picking (using the thumb and middle or index finger), “Scruggs Style” utilized the thumb, middle and index, resulting in a rapid picking tempo known as “rolls.”

“When I was first starting to learn [banjo], I was playing out of the Earl Scruggs book,” says Michael Bont, banjoist for Greensky Bluegrass. “And I’ll never forget, there was this morning where I had been practicing the rolls and trying to play the songs, and it was ‘Little Cabin Home on the Hill.’ That’s the song [where I went], ‘Oh my god, I’m doing it.’ It never ceases to amaze me [how Earl developed] this new style of playing an instrument.”

At age 21, Scruggs joined Bill Monroe & His Blue Grass Boys. On Dec. 8, 1945, Scruggs found himself on the Grand Ole Opry at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium when Monroe debuted his new sound to numerous standing ovations. Although Monroe had built this “muscle car” of a band that would showcase a whole new genre of music, it was Scruggs who was the gasoline that put Monroe’s vision into motion. Not long after, Scruggs would form the wildly popular Flatt & Scruggs with his Blue Grass Boys bandmate, guitarist Lester Flatt; when that duo broke up, he created the groundbreaking Earl Scruggs Revue with his sons Randy and Gary. A third son, Steve, later joined the group, too. In 2012, Earl Scruggs passed away at age 88.

Behind the festival is a partnership between the Earl Scruggs Center in Shelby (in Cleveland County), Isothermal Community College and WNCW 88.7 FM (both located in nearby Spindale). Coming together to share the story of Scruggs and expand his legacy in the 21st century, the trio built this annual gathering from the ground up, where it’s now become a bona fide bastion of bluegrass music and camaraderie.

“When you go into the first [festival], you never know if it’s going to be successful, and you always hope the next year is bigger,” says Mary Beth Martin, executive director of the Earl Scruggs Center. “But, then to be crossing this milestone of year five is pretty amazing — people are marking it on their calendar every year.”

Since its inception, the festival has showcased some of the biggest names in bluegrass and beyond: Alison Krauss & Union Station, Marty Stuart & His Fabulous Superlatives, Tanya Tucker, Yonder Mountain String Band, The Wood Brothers, Peter Rowan, Old Crow Medicine Show, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, etc.

“Honestly, just the love that people have for the music and for the acts we’re bringing in is really touching and inspiring,” Martin says. “Because, at the same time, they also have that same love for Earl, and we’re continuing to put his legacy front and center.”

Friday afternoon. Heading backstage, I approach the green room trailer for The Earls of Leicester, a Grammy Award-winning bluegrass group that exclusively performs songs from the Flatt & Scruggs repertoire. Knocking on the door, dobro legend Jerry Douglas answers. As someone who personally knew Scruggs and spent decades getting to interact with the man himself, onstage and off, Douglas can’t help but be proud of what the festival is cultivating from both sides of the microphone.

“Every little niche of [Earl’s] musical life is being explored here,” Douglas says. “And, like Earl, the festival is doing [what he did] — staying open-minded and taking the music forward. There’s room for everybody, and we’re just pushing the envelope a little bit more.”

For Douglas, he remains in awe of Scruggs and the music he created.

“Every time I go away from it and come back to it and listen to it again, I’m amazed all over again that it even happened the first time,” Douglas notes. “And how a guy like him played this kind of music, and was able to push a whole band, a whole idiom that far.”

Before I exit the trailer, Douglas pulls an antique red bow tie out of his travel bag. Placing it on the table, he looks at it, then looks at me. “That was Cedric’s,” Douglas says.

“Cedric Rainwater?” I reply in amazement.

“Yep,” Douglas grins. “I’m letting our bass player wear it tonight.”

That evening, EOL bassist Daniel Kimbro is sporting the bow tie, this incredibly powerful symbol of Howard “Cedric Rainwater” Watts, a first-generation name etched into the bedrock of bluegrass, a musician who played bass in Bill Monroe’s Blue Grass Boys, the “Original Bluegrass Band” when Monroe debuted his new sound alongside Scruggs in the mid-1940s. Watts would later become a member of Flatt & Scruggs’ Foggy Mountain Boys and Hank Williams’ Drifting Cowboys.

Right after the whirlwind performance ends, Kimbro walks sidestage and tracks down Douglas. He hands the tie back and thanks him for letting him wear it, if but for a moment. “Keep it, it looks good on you,” Douglas says with a smile. Kimbro is rendered speechless by the poignant gesture.

Following EOL was Béla Fleck, who closed out the Flint Hill Stage on Friday night with his project, My Bluegrass Heart, which has been the banjo wizard’s highly successful return to his musical roots in recent years.

“I didn’t know I was a banjo person. Then I heard Earl Scruggs play the banjo, and suddenly I was a banjo person. He was the spark, and he’s that for a lot of people,” Fleck says backstage. “Something about Earl has that sound that makes people go, ‘Well, I don’t know what that is, but I’ve got to hear more, and I’ve got to figure out what it is’ — he had that effect on me.”

Featuring a rotating cast of stellar musicians, Fleck presented fiddler Michael Cleveland, bassist Mark Schatz, guitarist Jake Stargel, Dobro player Jeff Partin, fiddler Maddie Denton and mandolinist Harry Clark (the latter two of East Nash Grass) to a raucous audience soaking it all in.

“The part of that [musical] language that all banjo players always come back to is Earl Scruggs,” Cleveland says. “It doesn’t matter what else I’m doing, I can always turn on Flatt & Scruggs and it’s like hearing it for the first time.”

The festival grounds also showcase an endless sea of bluegrass activities and educational opportunities to immerse oneself in the history and lore of not only the genre itself, but that of Western North Carolina, too. There were numerous musical workshops and live audience Q&A sessions with artists, and even the “Spirits of Bluegrass,” a cultural collaboration and tasting area sponsored by The Bluegrass Situation and featuring local/regional distillers.

Saturday evening. The Del McCoury Band is headlong into its Flint Hill Stage set. Nowadays regarded as the elder statesmen of bluegrass, the 87-year-old McCoury represents the finest in traditional sounds. He also remains this sponge of curiosity, this open-minded, kind heart and carefree, welcoming soul that mirrors the ethos of Scruggs in more ways than just the music.

“If I hadn’t heard Earl Scruggs when I did, I wouldn’t be playing today,” McCoury says in a humble tone. “There’s something that just struck me about him. He was a genius. All of those great banjo players learned from Earl.” (To note, although McCoury is well-known for his guitar playing, he originally started out in the bluegrass realm as a banjo picker.)

“High on a mountain oh, wind blowin’ free/Thinking about the days that used to be,” McCoury’s high, powerful tenor voice rings out, his signature tone ricocheting around the arena and across the nearby fields. “High on a mountain oh, standin’ all alone/Wondering where the years of my life has flown.”

Sitting sidestage watching McCoury intently was 19-year-old Murphy Campbell. Performing earlier in the day as part of the Blue Ridge Music Trails presentation, Campbell, a native of Western North Carolina, is a rising old-time banjo player/singer. For her, music is not only tradition, it’s life, and to see McCoury in all his glory was something she was grateful for, and inspired by.

“We all have this common goal of preservation, and to see people do it on such a large scale is deeply encouraging,” Campbell says. “I’m not used to stuff like this, it’s crazy to watch it from [sidestage]. I never thought that me playing the banjo would get me here to sit and watch [Del] play.”

As of late, Campbell is in the midst of recording new renditions of old ballads that were cherished and collected by her ancestors over a century ago in Mitchell and Yancey counties in North Carolina. Those tunes were cataloged in the book English Folk Songs from Southern Appalachia, with Campbell’s relatives writing down their ballads back in 1918, on a date that coincides with Campbell’s exact birthday.

“We’re all grasping onto something that has roots, because no one feels like they [have roots] anymore” Campbell says when asked about the massive revival in string music in recent years. “And they hold on hard, real hard.”

And when it comes to North Carolina musical roots, you’d be hard-pressed to find deeper ones than those of The Avett Brothers. Tying a bow on the weekend with the honors of playing the Sunday finale, the Avetts roared across the stage with their mesmerizing blend of Americana, bluegrass and folk stylings, the culmination of which being this incredibly vibrant tone of heart and soul.

“Three words that became hard to say/I, and love, and you,” Scott Avett howled to the heavens, an audience of thousands of joyous faces in the grandstands completely mesmerized and singing along to every single word. “What you were then, I am today/Look at the things I do.”

“Earl Scruggs used to be the model for a technique when I started [playing banjo],” Avett says. “And the more I learned about Earl, followed what he did, and paid close attention to his creativity, I realized he was a pioneer in more than just a technique, he was a pioneer in being an individual.”

For Avett, “being an individual” is a core value of the band’s ethos, and something that genuinely reverberates throughout the festival and the artists taking the stage. All of this circling back to Earl Scruggs and what it means to be original and authentic, whether it’s in reference to one’s music and art or simply the way one interacts with the world at-large — this deep, intrinsic sense of curiosity and camaraderie, passion and purpose.

“Doc [Watson] told us personally, ‘You’re on your path. Stay on your path. You’re not on Doc Watson’s path,’” Avett says. “Tom T. Hall told us the exact same thing, Willie Nelson would say the same thing now. I think Earl would say, ‘You guys need to do what you do,’ and we take that to heart.”

See photos from the Flint Hill Stage at the 2026 Earl Scruggs Music Festival.

All photos courtesy of Earl Scruggs Music Festival. Lead image of The Avett Brothers: Bain Stewart.

River Shook Is as Disarming As Ever

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

After more than a decade fronting various alt-country bands – most notably the Disarmers – River Shook is now breaking out on their own.

The new chapter officially launched June 26 with the release of Shook’s self-titled debut. It’s stripped back instrumentally, but still features the same blunt songwriting and gritty vocals that longtime fans of the singer have come to know and love. As such, its 10 songs take listeners on a rollercoaster of emotions balancing equal parts sorrow and joy, ultimately reminding that we’re all stronger than we give ourselves credit for.

“This album is extremely dichotomous,” says Shook. “One constant is a theme of being able to hold two very contrasting emotions at the same time, which can be hard for many people and takes a level of self-awareness that I think we should all aspire to.”

Bringing the record to life was Shook’s bandmate and life partner, Blake Tallent, and together they produced the project inside their North Carolina home. That decision came after unsuccessfully shopping demos to record labels, then leaning on the guidance of friend and esteemed producer Brad Cook (Bon Iver, Waxahatchee, Mavis Staples), who stressed to them the need to build everything around the vocals.

“When he said that, my brain immediately went back to the times where we’ve made Disarmers records where I felt like vocally I was competing with the band and had to force my singing overtop of everything else,” explains Shook. “But with this album we wanted to figure out the vocals and build everything else around them. When we started recording we acted as if it was a demo, just me with an acoustic guitar, a mic and a click track in my ears. There’s still the rock ‘n’ roll people know me for, but it’s a lot more nuanced because we really wanted to make the vocals the North Star of this project. When I listen back to it now, I’m amazed at how natural my voice sounds – there’s no straining to break through the noise like before.”

Ahead of the album’s release, Shook caught up with Good Country to talk about disbanding the Disarmers, recording the new project exclusively at home with Tallent, why they opt to be so up front with pain in their songwriting, and more.

When did you first start planning for this solo project, and why was it important for you to effectively “kill off” the Disarmers before doing so?

River Shook: The Disarmers were together for about 10 years, but the last couple years of it we were dealing with the situation where we had all of these tours booked and my guitarist at the time, Eric Peterson, had to take a leave of absence because he was having some arm issues that were preventing him from being able to play. That started this weird cycle of having to bring in sub musicians and soon after everything fell apart. Our bassist ended up leaving followed by our drummer, leaving us in this mode of band-aid fixes since we had so many shows already on the books. We were so busy that we didn’t have time to even really be intentional about who we were bringing in, it was just a matter of “can they play the instrument well and are they available?” – there wasn’t any time to reflect.

I was also getting really burned out, and on top of that I’m a very introverted person, so it was really hard for me to get used to new people. Couple that with the fact that sometimes we would have people in the band that we just weren’t meshing with made it start to feel weird. I was constantly trying to hold together this thing that was determined to fall apart. Then in December of 2024 my other longest-running band member, Jack Foster – who had drummed with me for three or four years at that point – called me shortly after Thanksgiving and told me he could no longer commit to the band. Instead of the knee-jerk reaction that we’d all been having every time a band member left, I just decided to let go and move on. It wound up being a massive weight off my shoulders.

At the same time, I knew I [was] not quitting music, because it’s such a huge part of who I am, I just realized it was time for that chapter to come to a close. Immediately I began thinking about what’s next, not in a hectic or frantic way, but in a way that felt extremely liberating and inspiring. [I was] immediately inspired – like, I can take this wherever I want to.

You talking about feeling liberated has me thinking of the album’s opening track “Free At Last.” Was that your way of declaring you’ve broken free of what has weighed you down?

That’s absolutely what it felt like. That song is actually a reference to sort of a parallel storyline that was occurring at the time. I had to cut my parents off for a while, which is very hard to write a song about. Most people can’t relate to that, but I felt like if I can write this song about a divorce, that is something that so many people can understand. That – coupled with the fact that the Disarmers ending was very much a divorce in its own way – made this a song that I wanted to use to remind people that getting out of your shit is really hard to do. However, the freedom to do and pursue what we want on the other side is absolutely worth going through that heartache.

Speaking of your parents, you also sing about your up-and-down relationship with them on the record’s closing track, “Loving Me Is Like Rolling A Big Old Rock.” What was it like rehashing some of those memories and examining how your relationship has evolved with them over time?

I was working through a lot of stuff with all the songs on this record and trying to be more honest with myself about my childhood and my teen years, which were rough. I know my parents meant well and were coming from a good place, but it was a very controlling and authoritarian household where I experienced a lot of religious and gender-based trauma. In their minds I was born a girl, so I was only supposed to exist to be a wife, mother, and housekeeper. They’ve since come a long way with their beliefs and don’t think like that anymore, which I’m grateful for, but the damage had already been done.

More recently I was at a point where I [was] grappling with all this stuff as an adult and going to therapy to try to come to terms with it all. Therapy is a great tool, but it can only get you so far. There’s so much work that you have to do yourself and that’s part of what writing this record was, it was me therapizing myself. It was me having very honest and frank discussions with myself about what happened and what I need to do to have a healthier perspective of all of the bad things that I’ve dealt with.

So “Loving Me Is Like Rolling A Big Old Rock” is supposed to feel kind of mischievous and fun because it is touching on such heavy topics that unfortunately I think a lot of people can relate to. When most people become parents for the first time they’re not prepared, because their parents weren’t prepared to be parents either – it’s a tale as old as time.

You and your partner Blake Tallent produced this album yourselves inside your home studio in North Carolina. What led to that approach, and is it something you’d ever done before?

The first four Disarmers records were studio albums, but with my side project, Mightmare featured the only other record that I’ve made at home, although that was a completely different situation. That entire record was me, a MacBook with GarageBand, and a Scarlett Focusrite [interface] – it was very DIY. When I wrapped up the Disarmers, I had demos that our manager was shopping around. We were getting some interest but nothing more, and it got to a point where the timeline that I had with our touring schedule required that we release this in spring of 2026. That’s when we started making the record at home between just the two of us.

Blake is a killer multi-instrumentalist, so much so that it blows my mind. He lived in Nashville for a long time and still has a house on the east side. When he lived there he was producing records, playing instruments, and even mixing – he’s a fucking weapon! Our original goal with this record was to have a whole band on it and to capture it at Sonic Ranch, since that place has been on my bucket list for several years. When the things that you want don’t work out, you can get lost in the defeat and your emotions or you can notice it as an opportunity to do something else, and that’s how we chose to approach it. I’m so grateful that [Blake] was fully on board.

The Disarmers had a couple fly-out dates at the end of June 2025 and by July 1 we were hunkered down in the house and started making the record using Pro Tools. Blake taught me the basics of Pro Tools so that while he’s playing drums or bass, I can be running the session and he doesn’t have to multitask. It was also nice not running into that “too many cooks in the kitchen” issue, because both of our creative visions were 100% aligned. I can’t think of a single disagreement we had in the studio, which simply does not happen. Having a creative partner who’s also your life partner and being in alignment together on a project of this magnitude was incredible, and I think because of that our synchronicity really shines through on this record. It sounds very cohesive without any kind of dissonance or struggle.

How long has Blake been playing with you?

He joined the band as a sub in June of 2022, then we were seeing each other by August and fell in love on our first European tour together, completely unexpectedly. The story of how we met is told in “Running to Georgia.” It was a combination of crazy coincidences and planets aligning for us to have even met in the first place.

That’s funny, because the first time I listened to that song I assumed it was about you trying to get away from someone. How exactly did y’all find each other?

The Disarmers were playing the El Rocko Lounge in Savannah in October of 2021. When I walked in the venue I saw him across the room and immediately thought, “That’s my person!” It wasn’t like it was love at first sight or a sexual thing, it was just this acknowledgment and recognition. Then he walked over to me and held his hand out and said, “Hey, I’m your sound tech” and I was so embarrassed. [Laughs] I thought I’d made a terrible mistake, but then I ended up going out to a bar after the show to meet another friend who happened to be in town on tour and Blake was there. We wound up having this great night of hanging out with friends and talking, but the next day I was so depressed because I thought I’m never gonna see this person again.

Then a few months later we needed a guitar sub and my manager emailed me out of nowhere saying there’s this guy named Blake Tallent who knows all the songs and is available for all the dates, and my jaw hit the floor. It was destiny.

That’s lovely. I’m so glad you found your person!

The next song I wanted to ask you about is “Wildlands,” which was your first single as a solo artist but isn’t included on this album. Why is that?

“Wildlands” was a separate thing. When we made the record, the only instruments that Blake didn’t play were banjo and pedal steel. But immediately after we made it, he got a pedal steel and stated that he wanted to do it himself next time – which he did when we eventually recorded this song. At the time we were talking with a label and everyone involved was 99% certain that we were going to sign with them, but it ended up being an absolute fiasco. Initially we planned for the song to be a single leading up to the album singles, but when this label deal fell through I realized we had no option other than to self-release unless we wanted to move the album to the fall. At that point I’d already put a band together and promised people jobs so that wasn’t going to happen, but I still really wanted to get the song out since I knew fans were hungry to hear what this new project is gonna feel and sound like.

In that sense it was like revenge putting this out. I didn’t know if we were going to find another label or distribution partner – or what-the fuck-ever – but [“Wildlands” was] going to be a standalone thing, which I think was very symbolic. In the end, that single is 100% independent – I own the masters, the publishing, and the songwriting. We were very fortunate to find a distribution partner for the record, but I think that song is really special and has its own thing going on.

In lieu of not landing a record deal you released the album under your own imprint, Blackberry River. Mind telling me about the origins of its name?

I’ve been working on a memoir … When you’re having to really rethink your childhood and the things that occupied your time– one big thing for me was summer, because winters in Western New York are absolutely brutal. It’s like six months of winter and gray sky, so spring and summer have always been my favorite seasons. My favorite thing about summer was our backyard, which was pretty big and had these amazing blackberry bushes that my older sister and I would go out to with baskets to fill up while also eating them right off the bush. The wild nature of blackberries – not as a thing that’s an agricultural commodity, but something that is just literally wild and free – is something I relate to so deeply. So Blackberry River is just a nod to my 8-, 10-year-old self that was barefoot running through the yard with purple blackberry hands. [Laughs]

What has bringing this record to life taught you about yourself?

I learned that less is more sometimes and that I can be a very hyper-focused type of person, which sometimes means I need to step back and take in the bigger picture. I’m just now developing the ability to step back and see things more as a whole than as individual parts. Doing that gave me a lot more perspective on how to make this album really shine.

Photo Credit: Jillian Clark

Tift Merritt and Lawrence Rothman In Conversation

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

In the nine years since Tift Merritt released Stitch of the World, she settled back into her hometown of Raleigh, North Carolina, where she is raising her daughter, Jean. Along the way, she stepped away from touring and began serving as a Practitioner-in-Residence at Duke University in Durham and renovating The Gables, an 18-room travelers’ retreat in Raleigh, set to open in July.

Merritt’s new album Sugar (released June 26 via One Riot Records), her first album of all new material in nearly a decade, was born out of the quiet moments of creativity off the road. Community, motherhood, and the wisdom that comes with age are prevalent throughout the stellar record, which was produced by singer-songwriter Lawrence Rothman, a longtime fan of Merritt’s singular lyricism.

“Before I made this record I was looking at the world and thinking, ‘I don’t know what to do except try to put some love out there.’ And for me, singing is the most honest, immediate way to offer love,” Merritt said in a press statement.

Merritt shares her joy through songs like “Finest Feelings,” about the possibility of new love, “Sugar,” an ode to the simple pleasure of using your voice to sing, and “Everyday Singing,” which features a women’s choir largely made up of educators and scientists who’d lost their funding due to cuts to federal research grants.

Merritt and Rothman met with BGS via Zoom to discuss creating Sugar, their immediate bond, finding sweetness in starting over, and the beauty of the second half of a brilliant career.

How did you first meet?

Tift Merritt: I first met Lawrence in France

Lawrence Rothman: The most exotic of locations.

TM: I was like, “Who’s this really nice, really well-dressed person?” I don’t generally do a lot of co-writing. I mean, writing is a really way down sort of personal thing for me usually. But this was in France and I was immediately put into a session with Lawrence and they were so fun, dancing and singing… I just figured that I would be the older person at this thing that nobody had ever listened to. I was like, “Lawrence is really nice and likes me.” They were so enthusiastic and so full of love. I was like, “I think that’s what I need if I’m going to come back out of my little hiding place.”

LR: We had a wonderful time our first time creating together, because we were parked in this beautiful hotel in the middle of the South of France. And we were all sort of disconnected from life and we were able to freely create. And Tift did a performance at the end of the stay there. We were there for five days and she did a performance with herself and a guitar and a looping pedal. There was a song that she played and I was just blown away by it. I asked her afterwards, because I didn’t recognize it, and it was a newer song.

That song – I believe it was “Pilgrim” – that you played on the looper pedal? That song just haunted me. It was in my head for weeks. I was hoping that I could get in the studio with her and record just that looping pedal song, at least, if not a whole album. Then she invited me to do a whole record and obviously that was a complete honor.

I’m a person who loves lyrics first, really. I’m kind of the opposite of your average Beatles fan. Melody is cute and fine and everything, but lyrics are, for me, what separates an amateur from an icon. Tift’s lyrics throughout her entire career have always blown me away. She’s, for me, a poet – a poet and a singer – but you never know what the next thing is going to sound like. When Tift started showing me this record in its very infant form – voice memos and things like that – and sent me the lyric sheet, I was blown away by how much her writing has progressed, too. I don’t even think about her past music now. For me, it’s almost like it’s a new era. It’s almost like part two of her career.

This person that she is today and the lyrics that she’s writing today and the story she’s telling today, I can’t wait to hear three albums of that. Maybe it’s the age that I’m at, maybe it’s just the life that I’ve lived now, but it just resonates to me in a way that I don’t find in a lot of singer-songwriters today. The stories that she’s telling. I don’t see it from the perspective of an older person. I see it in a lot of younger people and they tell it in a way that, I guess, is relatable if you’re 22 and going through something like that. But I want to hear what’s the heartbreak in midlife and what does that feel like? And what does it feel like to be alone without a lover and be over 40? And what does it feel like to raise a child over 40 as an only mother?

TM: I appreciate that so much. I just want to add, I think one of the things that’s really special to me about Lawrence and what we’ve captured is that I feel like Lawrence really understands that vulnerability is very rock and roll and sexy. Whereas in a lot of people’s hands, writing as vulnerably as possible or as honestly as possible or in an unguarded way, women end up being framed as fragile flowers and that they really understand that the vulnerability is very rock and roll.

Did you discover any similarities in how you both create?

TM: There was one thing I wanted to coda the last conversation with, which is that Lawrence has really made me feel like I was at the beginning. I did not feel like I was at the beginning, and [that’s] where you should be as an artist, [where] you feel like you’re just getting started. You just got to the good stuff, and I feel that way again. So thank you for that, Lawrence.

Similarities in terms of working, I just find that Lawrence is a very soulful, kind, warm person, and that we could talk about writing, first of all. Then in the studio, we really work the same way, which is fast. You can’t talk about what being in a band is like until you’re in a band. I think we’re both very free in the way that we love music and we just want to get in there to that place, so that was such a joy for me. Sometimes people make things much slower and piecemealing… and I just want to put it all out there right now with my voice. We had this amazing crew of musicians that were right there with us. I mean, I don’t think there was more than one song we did more than four takes of.

LR: I would say 80 percent of it, the take that you’re hearing is the take that Tift sang with the band. Either she’s at the guitar or at the piano singing, the band’s cutting it, and that’s the performance. The live energy of a snapshot of a performance at a specific time in somebody’s life are the records that I love. It’s hard for people to do those. You have to be in a mature, artistic state of mind to be able to be that vulnerable and also be that brave with going like, “You know what? We’re not going to patch it up. It’s just like this is the soul of what it is.”

I feel like over time when you listen back to records like that, you end up enjoying them a lot more. And with Tift’s record, I was so happy that we were both aligned with that. It was like, we’re going to go in there and we’re going to track this thing live. We’re really going to capture a moment in time that’s honest, that has all the imperfections and the realness of age, of soul, and heart and love and heartbreak–

TM: And process.

LR: And process.

TM: Why are we practicing? We’re practicing for these moments. It was very charged for me to be back in the studio and surprised by… I mean, I just felt so safe and so encouraged. I mean, Lawrence, the warmth was really a huge piece for me. I felt so safe and I felt like I could just throw myself in. A couple of times I thought my heart was just going to bust out of my chest singing like that. That’s what you want to be feeling.

LR: Tift and I – what’s great is when you meet a new friend and you have so much in common. We love Terrence Malick. We love the visual of what Terrence did visually. We love the same types of poetry, and the Stones, and Dusty Springfield. So it’s great because sometimes you’re working with somebody and you might have the same musical taste, but you don’t have the same visual taste. So there were a lot of things that we had in common. We even liked the same hotels and landscapes. We got to visit – whose grave did we go to behind the studio? George Jones. His grave was about 10 steps from the studio door. We had to go check that out.

TM: That was good juju. Lawrence.

I’m just loving your jacket. We’ve got to go shopping. I want to go shopping with you.

LR: We’re definitely going to do that.

Tift, I know you’ve spoken about this album being an offering of love and being a way of putting love and joy out into the world. How has creating this album helped you find joy in difficult times?

TM: I think at a certain point, I’d really made peace with being off the road, because my creativity was finding lots of other things to do, but– just looking at the world, the impulse to have a creative response is something that I feel almost with a sense of responsibility. As we all have, I’ve tried many different things in response to now, and I just kind of got to a point where I was like, “The only thing I can do is put love in the world and live my values and put as much love in the world as I know as possible.” Singing is the most direct way I know to do that. So, in one sense, it was very much a reason why to come back to the studio. I like that “why” for making art and for singing.

I think it’s very important to write about the messiness of being a human, the inefficiency of being a human. To inhabit that and live into that as much as possible right now seems also a political thing. I think writing personally is also a political thing. Living your life to your values and to the fullest and feeling as much as possible is a political thing too. So as much as I think this record is a creative response to the world we live in now, part of that creative response is intensely personal and intensely joyful and how thrilled I am to be here and to be alive in my good life, right? That’s an act of resistance in and of itself. Hopefully singing love into the world is too.

LR: One of my favorite songs on the record, “Mad Mad World,” I think sums up a lot of what Tift just said. A lot of the songs on the record address the anxieties, the heartbreaks, the loneliness of the culture of 2026: a lot of lonely people, a lot of isolation, a lot of disconnection. It’s hard to stay positive and stay alive in this era. Nothing that any of our grandparents saw in their lifetime – I mean, they went through World Wars and things like that, but we might as well be going through a World War right now. I mean, the amount of disconnection and non-loving vibes that are in the world is at a height. To have a record like Tift’s where it’s like, “Okay, I’m not alone. There’s other people that feel this.” I’m always connected to records as my way of dealing with sadness or loneliness or problems that I’m going through. My shrink is a good album. I get more out of that than actually going to a shrink.

I love the song “Everyday Singing.” I’d love to hear from each of you about creating that one.

TM: I’ll give you a little bit of the backstory about that song. That song is based on some letters that a woman named Rosetta Rietz – who was a Bohemian, downtown New Yorker, second wave feminist – wrote to her friend Dachine Rainer, who was an anarchist poet who had left New York City and upstate New York when her marriage fell apart and moved to London. I do an archival project with Duke University in a collective where we are looking at [Rosetta’s] papers from lots of different directions. She basically dedicated a good portion of her life to tracking down the erased foremothers of jazz and blues. And in this moment of second wave feminism in the ’70s, she’s looking at everything going like, “Why is that a male domain?” And she looks at jazz and she gets really angry that it’s a male domain and she goes, “I’m going to go find the women.”

And she did, and she joined these sort of circles of record collectors, which were all white jazz critics, and she was like, “Do you have anything by women?” and they didn’t want it, because they thought that the first period of recorded music from 1920 to 1927 – which Rosetta called the women’s reign – because 87 percent of the records that were released were by Black women. I know this because she counted them. They thought that was vaudeville. They thought it wasn’t “Integrity Blues”… They thought “Oh, these multitasking women, that’s not real blues, and we want the Robert Johnsons.” They weren’t making the jump from 33 and a third to LP – that’s a whole other story that I didn’t mean to ramble on about.

But in her letters back and forth with Dachine Rainer over a period of 20 years, she’s talking about being a single mom, she’s talking about being broke, she’s talking about making her own way. They’re talking about their ex-husbands, who are all depressed because they’re anti-nuke. They’re in the anti-nuke movement. They’re talking about Reagan and fascism and fascism moving around the world, because it’s happening in America. Then they’re like, “You’re divorced, you’re a phoenix and you’re going to rise from the ashes.”

I was like “Oh my God, this is like me and my friends.” It was so comforting. A lot of the verses are really taken from these conversations, inspired by the conversations that they were having. Then, of course, the idea of everyday singing, which is what my daughter and I do every day. The singing that comes from our houses and from living lives and showing up with love every day, that kind of singing is definitely a kind of resistance, and nobody can take it away. I just believe 100 percent that it’s the most important thing we can do.

LR: Wow, that was amazing. I knew some of that, but it’s nice to hear it again. For me, “Everyday Singing,” as far as my experience with it in the studio, was one of the [most] exciting songs I’ve ever tracked in my life. Because I love a challenge and I love when I’m thrown into the fire and I got to just be a grown up and make it work.

That day, our great drummer who we were using had a personal thing and could not come to the studio. So at the last minute, we were scrambling to find a drummer the morning of, and everybody was booked. We found an amazing person, but he was new to the group. We had already gotten into a roll and the way he played was very different than the previous drummer, and the way he played was very different than any drummer I’ve ever recorded. So it was a bit of an adjustment to my brain as far as like, “Hey, we have to deliver this song right now.”

The higher angels that put us in this situation to figure it out and to make some great art, and we did. It’s some of my favorite drumming on the whole record, actually. The sound of the drum set is actually a lot different, too. From the sound to the playing of it, it is just … I love it. It’s one of my favorite songs on the record too, and favorite production. Tift added the group vocals from remote from where she lives and we flew that into the final mix. Everything about it was not what I’m used to. I loved the challenge of how we did it. Sonically, it sounds like one of my favorite pieces on the whole record.

TM: I had this idea that it needed women’s voices on it. I said to some folks I work with, “Do you think that we could get educators and women who have lost their science funding and women who need to get together to do this?” and my friend said, “Oh yeah.” I mean, everybody who I asked came. There’s a friend of mine named Peter Askim, who is a conductor who lives across the street, and he came and he conducted it and we recorded it in The Gables. All of the women beforehand were really nervous and they were like, “We don’t know how to sing.” I was like, “No, no. You know how to sing.” We just had this amazing party. There was so much love in the room and everybody was laughing and dancing around and it was a wonderful night. I get a little teary every time I hear it.

Tift, one thing that struck me about this album is how you weave artifacts and history into your songs. I would love to hear from you about how your work in archives has inspired this album.

TM: My process really underwent a change when I started working more with material culture and archives. I mean, you don’t plan these things, it’s not transactional. I didn’t know that it was going to hang around with me, but I started collecting objects from site-specific places and really and truly listening to them like, “If you had a song, what would it be?”

There’s this real world context that material culture has. It has provenance, it has ingredients, and usually those things are really rich in language, and this context that they have brings a landscape of its own. Then the juxtaposition of that with more of what I call lyrical presences, but the more spiritual reality of the thing. That tension is a really interesting place to enter a song. It’s also just a really rich way to get out of yourself. I think there’s a real value of writing from a deeply personal perspective, but we are also deeply personally involved with the world as a collective and as a larger place. Spending time with objects is a really fun, rich way to get out of your own naval gaze.

Lawrence, does that resonate with you in how you write songs?

LR: Gosh, I’m such a researcher with things and really obsessed with people like Mark Twain and William Burroughs. I’ll go to people’s childhood homes and immerse myself in tactile things about the great writers that I love or the great songwriters or singers. So I can relate to that a lot, maybe more so than I would care to admit.

TM: Well, you and I have a … researcher bent in us that we share.

Do you have a favorite song or lyric on the album?

LR: Mine’s easy. Mine’s just the entire lyric, every line in “Finest Feelings.” I get very obsessed with certain things and that song is like my 2026 obsession. I forget that it’s even Tift and I. It’s just a song that I listen to – I’m going to cover it at my concerts. I mean, to me, it’s like when I heard Jeff Buckley for the first time. So every lyric in that song for me.

TM: Well, that’s so kind.

I have a hard time choosing, because I am really proud of the writing here and I think I’m proud of it as a writer, but I’m proud of it personally too. I uncovered some new spaces in me in writing this. I feel like just the song “Sugar” itself is earning my own respect from myself in a way… or holding my own space or power in a way that I probably could not have as a younger woman.

Do you have a favorite memory from recording the record?

TM: I think “Look What Love Just Did” was my favorite, because I tend to say, “Okay, let’s do the hard one.” We had saved [that song] for the end and it surprised me that it became this swagger. I was having so much fun. I didn’t see it coming. We were just dancing and throwing it out there and just feeling so free. So that was such joy.

LR: I think maybe my number one favorite moment was when Tift had her father come in [to the studio] and he’s got a big personality – the type of personality that I love. The first day [he was] telling stories and laughing, but there was a point on – maybe it was day two – we were playing back mixes and he was standing there and it almost looked like he was about to cry, but not in a dramatic way. I could just tell he was getting a little bit choked up. He was hearing his daughter’s music. I think he was a little overwhelmed, maybe he didn’t expect what he heard.

It was a really honest, amazing moment for me, because I come from a family where my parents are very involved with the music. They want to know what’s going on. They want to listen to it. They want to be in the studio like how Tift’s father was, but I never let them in the studio. After that moment, I was like, “You know what? Maybe I should allow them to come sometime,” because there was just sheer joy that you could tell was going through this man. It was just a beautiful moment. It was one of the most beautiful moments I’ve ever had in the studio, really.

TM: My dad taught me to play guitar and he has lots of opinions, as dads do. I remember thinking, a couple of days in, “I don’t want to jinx anything, but I better call my dad, because I don’t go in the studio that often and he needs to see this.” It’s really special.

Is there anything I didn’t ask that either of you’d want to add?

TM: When do we get to go back in the studio?

LR: Yeah, that’s what I can’t wait for. Like I said, a lot of great artists get part one of their career and part two, and Tift now has part two – like Leonard Cohen, like Nick Cave, like Lucinda Williams. I mean, the list goes on and on. Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave and Lucinda’s records that they made after they were 50 are my favorite ones. Leonard didn’t have his first hit, “Hallelujah,” ‘til he was 50 years old.

I love second-act careers because all that life that was lived, now you can hear it through a whole set of new songs and records. I just need people that I can relate to. I don’t know if it’s my age that I’m at – I love all sorts of music, but I just need to be able to have a group of records that I can listen to that are new, that I feel like I can find myself in. I feel like there’s a lot of other people that will feel the same way I’m feeling. So we need the Tifts of the world to keep putting out music.

I can’t wait to get [back] in the studio.

TM: I know. I’m trying to open a hotel right now. So I’m like, “Oh shit, I’m really going to have to write myself. I’m going to really have to write after this one.” When am I going to see you, Lawrence?

LR: God, I don’t know. I hope soon. … We gotta go shopping and have fun.

TM: I know! I need a suit. I need your help.

LR: C’mon. Let’s do it.

Photo Credit: Tift Merritt by Ebru Yildiz; Lawrence Rothman by Mary Rozzi.

Caleb Caudle Has Learned to Trust Himself

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

For nearly two decades North Carolina folk singer Caleb Caudle has traveled the country bringing his music to fans wherever they’ll listen, but on his forthcoming eighth studio record he adds a new role to his repertoire – producer.

Released June 5 via his newly launched imprint Hand Plow Records, Heavy Thrill looks to be his most ambitious work yet, as it melds his personal evolution and artistic journey into one singular vision. Whether he’s ruminating on a bumpy road to self-improvement on “Slow Growth,” analyzing self-doubt with “Anxious,” or examining how people deal with adversity on “Path of Desire,” Caudle’s words tell the story of his individual journey through a world that’s changing too fast for him to keep up with.

Although the bulk of the record was recorded at Johnny Cash’s former retreat-turned-studio, the Cash Cabin, Caudle actually recorded his bits for the album at a friend’s studio in the Pocono Mountains – before returning to Tennessee to wrap things up at the same place he captured his projects Better Hurry Up (2020) and Forsythia (2022). He says that the familiar setting not only helped him hone in as a producer, but also helped him to tap into the building’s history as continues chipping away at perfecting his retro modern sound.

“I feel like I’ve started to develop my own sound over the past 20 years that marries traditional elements with more modern sounds,” Caudle tells BGS.

“Because of that I’ve never been afraid to try new things. In many ways I think of what people like Sturgill Simpson, Tyler Childers, or myself are making as modern country music, but in a different timeline where people aren’t as focused on songs about pickup trucks and shaking your ass,” he continues, laughing.

Caudle spoke with BGS about learning from other producers, fatherhood, artificial intelligence, and more.

This is your eighth studio record, but your first time self-producing one of those projects. What motivated you to finally take the plunge?

Caleb Caudle: It’s been one of my end goals for a really long time. I’ve always wanted to produce my own records, but I wanted to go and work with people first that I could learn from. Each has brought different things to the table I’ve picked up on. I’ve also always been involved in the process and have a good idea for how I wanted things to sound. Then after talking with some of my past producers and telling them my plan they all gave me their votes of confidence.

Once I jumped in I wound up doing a lot more pre-production than I’d ever done in the past. I also had great mixing and mastering engineers – Jacquire King and Pete Lyman – who were my safety net in case anything went off track. It turned out to be a really fun experience that even has me thinking about producing records for other folks someday.

While producing the record was new for you, the place you did most of it at – the Cash Cabin – was not. Tell me about what drew you back there to record for the third time?

That place is like my second home now. I’ve done several video sessions there and written with John Carter Cash a bunch. This time around I also kept the band leaner there than I had ever done before. It was just five people total, with no features or guest vocalists like some of my past records have had. I instead wanted to make something that was more self-contained. I knew I could make a record the other way, so I wanted to see what it’d feel like if I took some of those pieces out and really relied on my own instincts above everything else.

It’s also a place with so much history that I’m able to tap into even though I’m writing mostly about my own modern-day experiences. At the end of the day, I love Ralph Stanley just as much as I do Big Thief. They all come from a place that’s honest to that person, which is what I’m after, too. I love what indie rock bands like Bonny Light Horseman do with melodies, but I also love Flatt & Scruggs. It’s all music to me – I’m just trying to take bits and pieces from all of it that I feel would suit my sound.

With that in mind, I also think it’s important to listen to music outside or your own genre. Sometimes when I’m struggling with songwriting I’ll start listening to a ton of jazz to provide that spark that gets me writing again. Other times I’ll go a month listening to music with no lyrics before I grab the pen again. Whether it’s a playwright, actor, poet or songwriter, I always find myself drawn to folks that are passionate about what they’re doing.

Tell me about the writing process for this record… Did anything stand out compared to previous writing sessions? And how many leftover songs did you pen for it that didn’t make the cut?

I’ve had extras every time I’ve made a record. For me, there’s the obvious ones that are going to make the record that everyone feels good about, then there’s another batch of songs that I wouldn’t call “filler,” [that] are less immediate. We do our best to decipher which of those are the missing puzzle pieces for the story we’re trying to build. It’s like having brother and sister songs on the record where something on Side A reminds you of a tune on Side B – it’s all very cohesive. Trimming the fat is such a big part of songwriting for me. As a writer you want to focus on giving people what they need and not all the fluff surrounding it.

Since writing and recording these songs you and your wife learned you’re expecting your first child this summer. How has that knowledge shifted the perspective you have of these songs?

While I didn’t know I was going to be a dad before I wrote it, it almost feels like a record that’s preparing me for that whole process. It’s a really measured and honest look at where my life is right now. There’s a lot of mass confusion in our world currently with artificial intelligence and inflation that feels out of my control. That’s the macro side of it, but I’m also looking at things on a micro level by taking care of the earth and those around me.

With this new label I’ve set up, with every 100 records I sell I’m providing 1,000 meals to the Second Harvest Food Bank of Northwest North Carolina. I want to do all I can to help the people around me in a meaningful way. I’m not saying to disregard the big stuff by any means, because I do believe it’s important to be tapped into what’s going on in the world, but for me personally I feel like my time is best placed in my own community with the people of Appalachia around me.

You just mentioned your label, Hand Plow Records. Tell me more about launching that and the intentionality behind its name?

I live across the street from my great uncle who has a single-horse hand plow that belonged to his great-grandfather and goes back multiple generations. My parents used to plow tobacco near Winston-Salem and sold it to RJ Reynolds, so it’s something I’ve always been around. It also seems like really hard work, which has me drawing lots of parallels between what I do as a musician and the farming they did. I weather storms the same way they did, by putting in the work, planting seeds and constantly nurturing them while they blossom and grow. Farmers are critical to our way of life, so I wanted to use the name to honor them for their hard work and sacrifice.

Is “Slow Growth” reflective of that hard work and change, whether it be on a farm, internally, or in society at large?

That’s a song about honing your craft and trying to become a better person each day. I’m not out here looking for shortcuts, even though so much of society right now is about “how I can get things done the quickest,” especially with AI – which in music feels like cutting corners on something I’ve dedicated 20 years of my life to. I don’t know that anything meaningful will ever come of that process, because lessons learned are the whole point. I don’t think I’d be writing the songs that I’m writing now had I not written the songs that I had before them.

AI feels like a very cheapened version of real life, and I’m not interested in that. It’s a huge threat to the existence of art and creativity – both things that can’t be faked or fast-tracked. It’s a slow process where you have to put the work in every day. There’s days where I pick up and play for two hours but don’t write a single word, but it still feels important. It feels like part of this bigger process where I’ve dedicated my life to this thing, so the fact that someone could use AI to generate a song that sounds like me is scary. It can give them an approximation of what I may sound like, but it’s not getting at where I’m at currently. It’s replicating what’s already been made, but I’m out here trying to tell new stories. It’s the opposite of progress.

Another song that reminds me of stepping away from technology and plugging into the moment is “Sequoia Polaroids.” Tell me about what inspired that one.

I’m constantly trying to pay attention to the small details. [My wife] Lauren and I were on a solo tour opening for Ray Wylie Hubbard in California a while back and we made a trip out to Sequoia National Park. That song is almost like a page from that day. We wound up taking a bunch of Polaroids and throwing them on the dash of the car. The song is about being present in those moments and spaces that feel ancient and vulnerable.

Places like Sequoia are majestic and big and we have an opportunity as humans to help preserve or destroy them. Those spaces are so important to me, so it was really cool to get a song out of that day. The trees out there shrink you in a way that’s very humbling – it’s a beautiful thing.

Nature is a great way to get in tune with yourself, just how vinyl is a great way to interact with music on a deeper level. On that note, I know the physical version of Heavy Thrill incorporates some cool imagery taken from its title track. How did that come to be?

I’ve got to shout out Skillet Gilmore, who did the art. He’s an incredible artist in Raleigh that I love working with. The ants carrying the peach pit [that appears on the center of Heavy Thrill on vinyl] come from a lyric in the title track about how an army of ants can lift up a peach. [That] is symbolic of our chaotic world and how we’ve got to work together to get things done, setting aside our differences along the way in order to find some common ground. When we do that you’ll realize we all have a lot more in common than we think and that our goal should be to help everyone be happy and thrive. A rising tide lifts all ships, so it’s important to work together and show empathy to your fellow humans, because you never know what sort of hard times they’re going through. It’s like Mr. Rogers once said: “Look for the helpers.”

One of my favorite parts of the record is the instrumental transition two thirds of the way through “No Show,” which feels like a new composition entirely. How did it come about?

That instrumental piece is something I’ve been playing at sound checks for a couple years called “June Bug Crawl.” I included it on the record because I was always a fan of when folks like Doc Watson included instrumentals on their records. I thought the song was really cool even though it’s in a different key than “No Show” is, but I still wanted them to live together on the record. I give a lot of credit to my buddy Philippe Bronchtein, who played pedal steel and keys on the record. He’s very good with the more electronic side of things. We basically had to get the instrumentals into a different moment to execute that transitional moment. It was executed flawlessly and really works well given the context of the song and record.

On a more reflective note, what has bringing Heavy Thrill to life taught you about yourself?

It’s taught me to trust myself. This is the first time I’ve seen an album all the way through calling the shots myself. I’ve spent 20 years doing this and developed good instincts over that time, so it’s important to believe in those and remain confident in what I’m doing.

Photo Credit: Joseph Cash

Steep Canyon Rangers Are “A String Band Again”

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Twenty-six years into its life as a band, the Steep Canyon Rangers get back to basics on Next Act, unplugging their amps and instruments in favor of an acoustic setup with minimal percussion. It marks a return to the foundations that first set the group up for success.

Releasing May 22, Next Act is the second studio effort to feature guitarist and vocalist Aaron Burdett, who joined the Rangers in 2022 following the departure of founding member Woody Platt. In addition to appearing on their 2023 album, Morning Shift, Burdett is part of the Rangers’ 2024 live record, which features several of his own compositions, too.

Alongside the band’s other members – Graham Sharp (banjo), Mike Guggino (mandolin), Nicky Sanders (fiddle), Mike Ashworth (percussion, Dobro), and Barrett Smith (bass) – Next Act brings Burdett into the fold even more, with six tracks written or co-written by him. “Roll of the Dice” catalogs Burdett’s early days traveling with the band and “Hard Times” finds him reflecting on adversity and how moments that once felt overwhelming can later soften in memories.

According to Ashworth, the growing role of Burdett in the band is simply a carryover of having multiple voices contributing to their songwriting over the past decade, with Sharp being the other primary force of late.

“Aaron came into that role really well with a bunch of his own material while also taking lead on some of the stuff Graham had written as well,” Ashworth explains. “After incorporating more of his own stuff on that live record, the next step was to up the ante even more on this album by bringing even more of his older work into the studio.”

Steep Canyon Rangers’ Mike Ashworth and Barrett Smith caught up with BGS to delve into how books inspired two of the album’s songs, how a road trip instigated “Halfway To Reno” featuring Edie Brickell, what remains on the group’s bucket list, and more.

How did Aaron’s level of involvement on this record grow compared to Morning Shift?

Barrett Smith: It feels like Aaron has always been here – he just fits with us so well. He’s become such a close friend and a great person to work and make art with. We’re just excited with everything having to do with the band right now, and Aaron is a big part of that. Things went well when we worked together on Morning Shift, even though we were considerably less worn-in and stable than we are now on this album. We’re really cooking right now and feel great together as a group.

Mike Ashworth: From a relationship standpoint, things have gelled much further than I’d ever hoped. It does feel like Aaron’s been a member for more like 10 years, not three. On this record you can see the band in more of a way that feels like a group that’s sure of itself. The last time we were in the studio we arranged in more of a rock ‘n’ roll style where everybody reinforces the same rhythms, but on Next Act we gave everyone a lot more room to explore their own parts. It’s indicative of how much we trust each other now and how much growth artistically the band has seen in the last few years.

BS: Another good indicator of the growth is that on Morning Shift we worked with a producer, Darrell Scott, even though we enjoy and produce ourselves really well. But then when Next Act came along, we felt like we had enough chemistry together that we could move forward without an outside producer this time. Doing that allows us more space to bounce ideas around and feed off each other, which we feel like is our greatest superpower as a band.

As well as y’all work together, it’s hard to pass up a collaboration with someone like Darrell Scott when it presents itself!

MA: I imagine it’d be hard to come into a band like this and produce, because oftentimes we have to be careful to not already be done with everything. As a result, we intentionally leave certain things unarranged or on the table to give them something to do or else we’ll just wind up taking everything away from them.

BS: I remember Darrell, a number of times, looking around and saying, “Y’all are pretty weird with how you do things.” One time when we were recording, I remember him stopping and asking us if we always had so many opinions about each song that we communicated to each other. Eventually he started telling us to just “shut up and play” – that was one of the catchphrases of our studio time together. [Laughs] If you have an idea, we want you to be confident that it’s going to be heard. There’s a lot of trust in the whole system.

MA: Another thing Darrell pointed out was, “Y’all really care so much about the story.” He’d never heard an entire band comment on the lyrics and stories behind each song like we do – whether it’s where to punch things up or down or when to add harmonies.

That’s the cool thing about this new record. It delves even more into that exploratory realm of the band trying to sell the story – and the whole band, not just one singer, absorbing what it’s all about.

Tell me about naming the album Next Act. Is that a nod to this full circle journey that’s brought you back to being more of a traditional string band?

MA: The intention was twofold, but that was definitely a part of it. As the title of the song, it’s about picking yourself up, moving into a new phase of life, and embracing change. However, Next Act for the band is us reflecting on our change and growth and the ability to reveal what our potential is at any given moment. Because of that it became a pretty conscious decision to make it the title of the record.

BS: On Arm In Arm [in 2020], it was fun getting to mess around in the studio with organs, electric guitars and all these special guests – it was like our own mini-Brian-Wilson-like experience. But on this record, we wanted to bring it back home and return to being a string band again. Because of that, this new record doesn’t have any electric instruments on it. There is percussion, but it’s not a full drum set. We’ve been doing a lot more stuff around one mic at our live shows recently and feel like these new songs are very representative of that.

MA: We’ve all had amps and drums buzzing around our heads for years, so we wanted to remind ourselves that this thing still starts around a campfire and can always come back to that. I don’t think fans will know what to call what we’re going to do on any given night, because even we won’t [know] until we see the room and start to feel the vibe of the city and people there. Doing this record has allowed us to rediscover the foundation of what we are when you strip everything away. That’s been a really cool and unnerving process to get out from behind all the extra noise and see that when you take those things away, the art is still really good.

There’s a couple songs on this record – “Back of Beyond” and “Circling the Drain” – that were inspired by books, Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead and Horace Kephart’s Our Southern Highlanders, respectively. With that in mind, how would you say literature informs the band’s songwriting, not only with this record, but overall as well?

MA: Graham actually wrote both those songs, but I do want to speak about Demon Copperhead, because we all just absolutely loved that book. We’re not just a band, we’re also a close circle of friends, and with that comes shared mutual interests, like books. I’m so glad that Graham is my friend, because he can write things that I wish I had the ability to say. But once something is written, whether it be a book or a song, it doesn’t belong to [the writer] anymore, it belongs to you, [the reader/listener]. That’s the really cool thing about art.

I love that Graham is a voracious reader because we wind up getting a lot of great songs out of it, like these two. Damon [Demon Copperhead’s protagonist] is such a wonderful, resilient character that reminds me so much of people I grew up with – and I’m sure Barrett would agree.

BS: As a writer, artist, and creator, I think it’s a good habit to have different areas you pull inspiration from to keep you out of a rut. For Graham a big one is literature. Demon Copperhead threw all of us for a loop as it was getting passed around the bus. When we found out he was basing a song off it we jumped right on it.

As for “Back of Beyond” and Our Southern Highlanders, I think that book is essential reading for any Western North Carolinian. “Back of Beyond” was simply a term that came from meaning the middle of nowhere out in the country, in a place where you can go for days without seeing anyone or speaking a word.

“Back of Beyond” is a song that’s been lingering with y’all for several albums before finally getting recorded now. What made Next Act the right spot for it to land?

BS: During my time in the band, I would say that “Back of Beyond” is the biggest survivor, in terms of songs that have stuck around and taken on many different forms before finally making it onto a record. We actually wanted to include it on Morning Shift, but Darrell Scott didn’t think it would be a good fit, so we didn’t. We may have even called that album “Back of Beyond” if it had been on it. But when that happened, we knew it would reappear on our next record. After it missed the cut we all really wanted it for this one, which is why we call it a survivor.

I was also curious about the song “Halfway to Reno,” which came from a roadtrip you [Mike] had with Aaron from California to a gig in Reno, Nevada. Is that right?

MA: That’s right. I think Aaron was behind the wheel that day. From my view, he’s someone that is more influenced by an experience or feeling than anything else, which he can then take like putty and mold into a piece of art. That’s the beauty of being in this band, these guys will come up with these nuggets – and if it hits the Steep Canyon grinder and comes out the other end still in one piece, then they’ll take it and finish writing it.

Then when we were mixing that song we kept envisioning a high voice on it, but couldn’t figure out exactly who to ask to fill the role. Then we sent it to our dear friend Edie Brickell and she ended up putting the icing on the cake. The song is about one lover trying to get back to the other and the little things that you carry through your day – especially when you’re separated by distance – that keep you tied to home. She really understood the assignment and put this beautiful piece on top of the tune that I absolutely love.

How did the opportunity to work with Edie on the tune come about?

MA: We first met her over a decade ago through Steve Martin. He would send her banjo ideas and she’d send them back to him with lyrics over them. That quickly evolved into a fantastic record produced by Peter Asher called Love Has Come For You in 2013. But touring together is where we really befriended her, during late nights on the bus and in the dressing room. I remember being drawn in by her spontaneity and creativity and the way that she can write a song in the moment about that moment. It’s almost like a fortune teller.

Since that first encounter we’ve recorded many times together through the years and she’s become not just one of my favorite female artists, but one of my favorite artists, period. She’s just so heartfelt every time she adds to something. It comes from a real place and that’s harder and harder to find these days.

Speaking of Steve, what did it mean to have him featured with you on “Heart’s the Only Compass”? I think this is his first time on an album or single with you since 2020’s “California.”

BS: It’s always a huge honor any time we’re able to work with Steve. He’s an iconic American art figure, so to have the opportunity to create with him is a treat. When we decided we wanted clawhammer banjo on that tune we tossed a few other names around first, but it all came back to Steve, because the prowess he has on the instrument is second to none.

From what I understand, you reconstructed “The Kindest Thing” in the studio at the behest of Nicky. Tell me about that process and how the final song differs from what you were initially going for?

BS: That song took on a bunch of different forms in the studio, as our songs often do. At one point it had this Don Williams, cool country kind of feel and Nicky heard that pretty late in the game, but didn’t care for it. Instead he kept talking about “Going to California” by Led Zeppelin, which led to Mike Guggino kicking off this riff similar to the one in that song that wound up setting the foundation for what the song eventually turned into. Ultimately, it was a good decision on Nicky’s part.

Steep Canyon has been together for 26 years now. With that in mind, is there anything that remains on your musical bucket list?

BS: The band hasn’t won a GRAMMY since I’ve been a part of it, so I’d love to see that happen – maybe even with this album. [Laughs] Aside from that, it’s hard to think of specific venues, not that there aren’t any, but because we’ve gotten to play so many of our dream places already. My bucket list is mainly just keeping on and continuing to discover and hone my role in this band.

What has bringing this album to life taught you about yourselves?

MA: I thought I’d become more patient as I became older, but I actually think I’m becoming less. [Laughs] In all seriousness, this session taught me to slow down again. I kept wanting to schedule and have it done sooner rather than later, but instead, the cycle for this record was one of the longest we’ve ever endured. In the end I think it’s exactly what it wanted and I’m grateful for how it got me to take it easy and be more in the moment.

BS: Even though we’ve been playing together for so long, working on this record brought me a new level of comfort and trust with the band. I have more faith in the people in the band, what we’re doing and my place in it than ever before, which is such a good feeling. I’m really enjoying where we are right now and am excited to see how we keep building upon it.

Photo Credit: Jay Strausser

Our Jamgrass column is brought to you in partnership with Preston Thompson Guitars.

Darren Nicholson Wants His Style of Bluegrass to Sound Different

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Over the past twenty-some years, Darren Nicholson has played mandolin all over the world – whether with Alecia Nugent, as a member of Balsam Range (a group he co-founded), or on his own (with or without a band). No matter where he traveled, you can be sure that Nicholson was bringing Western North Carolina with him. Nicholson was born, raised, and still lives in the area.

When BGS caught up with Nicholson, he was home in Canton, N.C., a town about 20 miles west of Asheville. It’s a region that he feels has been a bit overlooked in music history. “The oldest folk festival in the country [Mountain Dance and Folk Festival] is held in Asheville,” he shares. “There were recordings that happened in Asheville before the Bristol Sessions.”

The area he pointed out, despite its remoteness, also has been home to many significant musicians – as well as developing a dance-friendly style of bluegrass that drew from many different styles.

Nicholson’s love for the area has led to a rather unique sponsorship for his tour van and trailer. Through a friend he met with representatives of the Avalon Mountain Community, a private mountaintop neighborhood and development in the hills of Western Carolina. Nicholson calls it a “win-win” situation as he receives some financial support for touring expenses while Avalon now has a “rolling billboard.” “I even wrote a jingle for them,” he states.

Nicholson will be traveling around this year touring a fine new album, Lonesome Trails and Tall Tales. He counts it as either his fourth or sixth solo effort, depending on whether you factor in two EPs. Lonesome Trails and Tall Tales arrives after several particularly eventful years for Nicholson, including leaving his longtime band Balsam Range, getting sober, and acquiring a prized 1923 Lloyd Loar mandolin – all among the topics that he was more than willing to talk about with BGS.

How does your new album Lonesome Trails and Tall Tales tie in with your earlier albums?

Darren Nicholson: My records have a sound, you know. I’ve always been pretty much consistent – besides an electric country EP – doing the music that I consider my style of bluegrass or the bluegrass that I grew up on, which is to me the traditional bluegrass of the ’60s. Having a producer like Carl Jackson in the early days influenced how I made records, because Carl had played with Jim & Jesse and he came out of [when] an entire bluegrass movement had almost a country kind of feel to it. I love the sound of those records. And it was partly because I grew up in Western North Carolina and there’s a huge dance element here – the square dance music.

The old-timey driving style of rhythm with that light percussion – like Jimmy Martin, Flatt & Scruggs, the Osbornes – that really fits in with people who danced. And the modern kind of bluegrass – like the Alison Krauss style of bluegrass, which is amazing – does not lend itself to dancing. The modern style of bluegrass that was really kind of heavy on the one and three beat, and then the older style of bluegrass, which was very much more even, rhythmically.

And how does the new album differ from your prior ones?

What separated this particular recording from the others is just my growth as a songwriter… I was picking what I thought were the best songs I had or songs that were different from each other. A lot of times… [with] the way things are being mass produced now, if Nashville finds one song that’s a hit, they’ll write 10 more just like it for all the other artists. So they all start sounding the same.

To me, all the great artists of yesteryear, all their material was different. Their sound was different. Instead of just finding something you could mass produce, make a buck on, and then hop on to the next thing, they were actually creating art and trying to artistically be different. That was what was good about it.

So [in] the same way, I try to pick songs in my set. I don’t want to play five songs in a row that sound the same. Otherwise, it’s boring – I see bands do it all the time. They kick off in [the key of] B and they play five songs that could basically be the same song, you know? I understand why people who are non-bluegrass fans will go, “You know, all bluegrass sounds the same.”

I tried to pick six songs that were completely opposite from each other, so when you go down track by track, it’s a different journey and it doesn’t bore the listener. Every song is a different tempo, it’s a different groove, it’s a different key, it’s a different vibe, and so that’s how I put records together.

Were these songs ones that you’ve accumulated over the last couple years or are they all a recent crop of songs?

A few of them were really old and a few of them were really new. “Big Sky” has been around for a few years and I wrote it with Charles Humphrey. I thought it was “okay,” and this shows you how off-base I can be sometimes.

I’m driving to a gig one day with my buddy Kevin [Sluder]. He plays bass with us. It was a solo gig, but he was just riding with me. We’re listening to songs and Kevin goes, “That song is amazing. You’re an idiot if you don’t cut that song.” I was like, “That song? It’s okay.” He goes, “No, that song’s more than okay. That song is special. You need to cut that.” I took this batch of songs to Jeff Collins, who produced the record, and that was one of the first ones he picked. And sure enough, radio played it. Banjo Radio wore that song out. If it were up to me, I would have probably left that one on the pile of demos.

One of the newer ones was “Eager Overachiever.” I’d just written that song with Andrew Blythe. It was so fun. Every time I would sing it for somebody, they loved it. It’s a funny song about addiction.

It made me laugh, and the song also shows a lot of personality.

That’s the point, you know. That song has personality. One of my favorite artists [growing up] was Roger Miller and he would sometimes do these spoken pieces. Especially in country music, sometimes there would be recitations or things would set up songs. It was interesting and just funny, you know.

Can you talk a little about the music traditions of Western North Carolina where you grew up?

There’s a definite style. If you go across the country, there’s little pockets of bluegrass that have their own sound, for sure. But Western North Carolina and this region was so rural and cut off… If it’s 120 years ago and you’re in the mountains of Western North Carolina, people would walk for 10 miles to get to a barn dance or some place on Saturday night. And the band would be whoever showed up. It might be a banjo and guitar. It might be fiddle and banjo. But it changed the way you played. When Doc Watson plays his leads, he also plays his rhythm; he’s playing lead and rhythm at the same time. Where modern players who have a whole band behind them, they’re like playing rhythm and then when it comes time to take their solo, it’s a whole different mindset.

As [the area] grew and people got together more and more, they still played the same way. They passed it down from generation to generation, that strong sense of rhythm and timing that is a trademark for Western North Carolina. Look at Marc Pruitt and Steve Sutton; you know, Jason Burleson is from Western North Carolina. Doc Watson, Earl Scruggs, Mark Kuykendall, Tom McKinney, Mike Hunter – all of these amazing players are from Western North Carolina. Randy Davis – Bill Monroe introduced him every night for five years: “He’s the man from Asheville, North Carolina; he’s the man with perfect timing.”

At these musical gatherings in Western North Carolina, you’re describing how people frequently would bring whatever instruments they had – acoustic or electric. And it wasn’t doctrinaire about what a bluegrass instrument had to be.

Yeah, it was community. And I’m going to say this, and I don’t care to say this because I’m from here and I’m from generations and generations of people who play this music. It’s always somebody who got into bluegrass in college or they got into it older, and they’re not even from this area. It’s somebody that’s from New York or from California or from Oregon. They write articles, and they become self-proclaimed experts of bluegrass. And they say, “Well, this is bluegrass and this isn’t bluegrass.”

They didn’t come from generations of this music. They don’t know. They’re not at the epicenter of where it came from and how it started, but they’re always the ones who try to dictate. And then most of the time, they don’t even play. But that’s their way of being involved in the music somehow. It really hurts the music because any time you start segregating something, you’re just keeping somebody [out]. That’s not how this music started.

Do you think Earl Scruggs said, “I’m not going to play if there’s an electric bass here”? You know what I mean? Look at the people who created the music: Earl Scruggs, the Osborne Brothers – they had electric bass. They had drums. But there’s somebody, who’s basically a yuppie, who is trying to tell us what the music is. I do take offense to that.

That’s why the Gibson Brothers have that song called “They Called It Music.” That’s great. I love that because that’s what it was. It’s like, they just called it music. We got together and made music and everybody was welcome. And it sounded like bluegrass. It sounded like country. It sounded like old-time. And it’s just sad. It’s like bluegrass has almost tried to put too fine a point on itself. And it’s almost made itself smaller because of that.

To me, sometimes it feels like the more I write or listen to music, the less I know, in a sense – or, the more I learn, to say it another way.

That’s how we all should be. We should remain a green tomato. If we’re red, we’re done, right?

If I moved out to Seattle – I really enjoy grunge. And if after five years, I read about grunge as much as I could, all of a sudden I know more than the people who created it? But I see that happen [with bluegrass], you know. It’s almost like someone is such a fan or likes this so much that they take ownership to a point where they’re hurting it. It’s like a pet. They’re holding it and petting it so much that they’re actually hurting it.

Bluegrass can look like a lot of different things and so there’s different styles depending on the regions, too.

I was wondering who are the main musicians that have influenced your mandolin playing?

Basically, there are four guys who are on my Mount Rushmore of mandolin. Country music or bluegrass or whatever in roots music – and that’s Bill Monroe, Jesse McReynolds, Bobby Osborne, and Jethro Burns.

Every modern style has come out of those four guys or a combination of those guys. That’s where David Grisman, Ricky Skaggs, Doyle Lawson, Sam Bush, [were all] influenced by those. So, there are some songs that I try to sound like Bill Monroe and there’s some songs I cross-pick like Jesse. Then there’re some songs I play more fiddle-note stuff like Bobby and then there’re some songs that get a little swingy and jazzy and I’m channeling my Jethro, you know?

Those guys kind of set the landscape. My big influence, as far as players that I got to see and got close to, is Mike Hunter in Western North Carolina. He was a huge, huge influence. He was an incredible mandolinist.

You have said you tend to let the song guide you and not to impose a style on it. Did this approach come from someone’s advice or was it something you learned along the way?

I had a mentor named Steve Sutton. I started playing with Alecia Nugent in 2004 and Steve was the bandleader. He got me that job. During that time, musicians would come through in little waves, like in five-year clusters. A lot of my peers were Aaron Ramsey, Ashby Frank, Andy Ball, Jesse Cobb, and so there were a bunch of guys during that time. Not all of them are Adam Steffey clones, but a lot of my peers were influenced heavily by Adam Steffey.

It’s like, who can play like Adam Steffey? You can get close, but you’re not going to beat the guy. So, my mentor told me, “All of these other people are in that vein. You would be way ahead to do your own thing and just sound like yourself. You won’t mess up as much either, because instead of thinking about what somebody else did, you’re actually thinking about what you’re doing. So, your brain is actually in the moment with your hands.… Try to play what fits the song and instead of trying to settle into a style – just play what the song or the band needs.”

And, you know, I just never turned back from that. He really helped me with that. Then, all of the sudden, too, if you sound like yourself and everybody else is going after this other thing, then you’re a peacock in a room full of chickens.

A couple years back, you acquired a rare 1923 Lloyd Loar mandolin. How are you enjoying it?

Oh, it sounds incredible. It’s a hundred-year-old wood. You can’t replicate that. Ferdinand [named after the mandolin’s original owner] hadn’t really been played until I got it, but I’ve played it quite a bit. You can play that thing for just a few minutes and it’s just singing. It’s just unreal.

It gets better and better every minute that you play it. It’s balanced. It’s loud, but it’s also got these real pretty, sweet tones in it. It’s just a pretty magical instrument. It’s a life-changing instrument, for sure. It’s a rare bird amongst rare birds.

Early in the pandemic you got sober, which you’ve been quite open about. How has this changed your life?

Getting sober, I had all this time on my hands and I started getting productive. I started recording, writing songs, and all of a sudden, after all these years, I felt my creativity. I started throwing all my time into healthy things… I had my life back. I had my time. I had my energy. I had my mind, my spirit – all that came back because of sobriety.

So, I talk about it because I think talking about it is a great way to maybe touch someone who’s maybe struggling with it out there, you know? Give them a little shot in the arm and say, “You know what? If that poor bastard can do it, I can do it too.”

That was around the time you left Balsam Range too?

When I left that band, people were like, “Why would you leave a high-profile band?” And it’s like, there’s more growth over here [going solo]. The last year I was with them, we went on about 20 dates and I did about 160 dates on my own. I wasn’t stagnant anymore. A band has been together for a long time, people request the same songs and you’re playing the same songs all the time.

The pandemic also resulted in you having something of a revelation about performing music, right?

I found myself doing house concerts for 20 people, and they’re people who saw me on huge stages with Balsam Range. They would cry because they’d never experienced bluegrass like this. I’m like, “Well, this was how it was intended.” This was how it was created in these houses a hundred years ago in the mountains of Western North Carolina — community people entertaining each other.

So, there’s that. Then there’s sobriety. And then there’s like, “Wait a minute, am I doing this for my ego to get famous or am I doing this to be healthy and be part of a community?” It all goes together. Like, I talk about my sobriety to help others. I want to use my music to impact others.

If we do it with a good heart and the right intentions, all that other stuff will fall into place. We want to play anywhere. We’ll go and we’re ready. We’re road ready. We’ve got original music; we can do covers; square dances… I want to be the Bob Wills of Bluegrass.

Photo courtesy of the artist.

The Expansive Universe of Hiss Golden Messenger

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Next year, singer and songwriter MC Taylor will have been leading Hiss Golden Messenger for two decades. For most of that time, critics and listeners have relied on a few familiar narratives about Taylor: that he is a singular figure, for example; or that his move from California to Durham, North Carolina, marked a formal shift from punk to Americana; or even that he thinks slightly more than he feels. Talking to Taylor, from his home in Durham (well, there was a Zoom call involved), I found these cliches about his practices were limiting, factually accurate but emotionally untrue.

Instead of laser-focusing on one narrative, on telling the same stories over and over again, listening to Taylor speak, I encountered a new understanding of his practice, one which placed Taylor in the background and moved his bandmates and genre-play into the foreground – shifting from the centrality of a singular figure to a greater emphasis on generosity and expansiveness.

That the new album is called I’m People is the first clue that Taylor wants to expand the perception of his music; it’s a title that considers mutuality as central to the enterprise of musicmaking. So, how does one expand this thinking – one could consider him geographically or complicate these tales of origin, or think about who is playing on this record, or even refuse the standard narratives of genre.

Instead of focusing on the fact that Taylor began playing in hardcore bands in California, think about the other influences: that he played in a band named after Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark, an album marked by an urbane distrust of other people’s desires. Or that, around the time he was carefully listening to Mitchell, he was also following that most American portable utopia, the Grateful Dead. Or think about his move to Durham, not strictly to play in a band, but to study folk music academically.

Or, consider how this album was recorded – at least partially – in upstate New York. A more cynical writer would note that Taylor borrows from Dylan’s Nashville Skyline, and that album itself was the foundation of a more isolated, lonely understanding of tradition after abandoning folk music, seeking a slightly more commercial understanding. Recording this in the Hudson Valley could be considered a pilgrimage or homecoming.

I don’t think that it is a homecoming just for Taylor; the record sounds lush, expansive formally, too. Perhaps because the people who sing or play on this record play in a collective of other bands, including Rhett Miller, the Mountain Goats, Bonny Light Horseman, and the Hold Steady.

The expansive nature of the band is not only connected to the history of music they listen to, or the other bands that they play in, but also more unexpected influences like Sade. The idea that Taylor is the band is false, and it is not even that Hiss is the band. Taylor expands the possibility of Hiss, but Hiss itself pushes the possibilities – because of where they come from, their other projects, and even the possibility of geography. Not because Durham is magically a place where music coalesces, but because for a long time it was a college town where rent was relatively cheap and lots of people liked playing music together.

When addressing genres, the promotional material calls the album Americana – but Americana is a useless category, one which might be country or folk or something else entirely. I’m People has a kind of intense richness that is neither of these genres. Listening to the LP, something happens where the expansion or fracturing of those playing on this record becomes its own kind of post-genre.

There are a lot of reasons not to love America right now, but emphasizing the American instead of Americana allows us to consider this album as a consequence of the totality of American music – Taylor addresses the improv nature of jazz as part of this, or traditional folk music, or even 1970s easy-listening. He speaks fondly of the detective novels of Elmore Leonard, and on at least one of his early albums the photography of William Gedney became a powerful totem.

I think of I’m People as a kind of ebbing and flowing for and against tradition, part of that decades-long wrestling with aesthetics and history. Consider the last song, “Depends on the River,” is another of his great songs about waterways. In a 2016 profile of Hiss, New Yorker critic Amanda Petrusich wrote about Hiss’s long tradition of river songs and how it fits into a century of metaphors from blues singer Geeshie Wiley to Joni Mitchell, working this tradition. Petrusich writes: “Taylor frequently evokes river imagery in his work; the river, of course, can be understood as its own kind of road, a direct line to somewhere else, far away.”

I don’t know if that’s wrong, but I also think about rivers as they turn into oxbow lakes, rivers which flow into swamps – literally bogged down – rivers that flow into oceans, and rivers that dry up depending on the season. Hiss’s meandering, deepening quality depends on that river, both the direct line that Petrusich talks about and the larger metaphor, one where Taylor literally talks about whether he dares to cross it. On I’m People, he not only crosses it and crosses it again, but brings along a whole community of other performers. And, an audience who is hungry for the difficulty and ambivalence of so much time playing – and thinking – with him, to the other side.

I know you have a degree in folklore studies, I also noticed that in the last few years there has been a cluster of second- or third-generation performers who have some academic training in folk traditions (see also: Jake Blount, Jake Xerxes Fussell, Willi Carlisle, etc.). Can you talk a little bit about the kind of intersection of formal and informal folk studies and also about your relationship to people who are making this kind of work? I’m thinking about the line on the song “Mercy Avenue” where you talk about the “boys on the corner knowing more than those with PhDs.”

MC Taylor: Well, it’s been a really long time since I was in the academics here. And that universe was one that I feel like I passed through briefly. I wasn’t destined to be in that realm forever. So, I’m not sure that I can totally speak to [that]. Like the place of academic/creative work.

I will say that my time in that space was a really good time for me, when I was restarting my brain and re-centering myself. School was a good way for me to step away from whatever I had been doing previously. I did a lot of field work at that time. I interviewed a lot of people, and I think that it made me a much better listener.

I think that, more than anything else, [that] is what I came away with, this feeling that people really, really like to be heard. So I think I just really tried to develop my listening skills.

Can you talk a little bit about working with a band – especially this band – and about how the bandmates are part of their own creative worlds? Is there a kind of politics there, or a kind of community making?

The basic tracking of the album was done with JT Bates playing drums and percussion, Cameron Ralston playing bass – both electric and upright – and Josh Kaufman, who was producing the record with me, playing guitars, mandolin, piano. My friend Chris Boerner was engineering the record. He plays guitar.

The road version of Hiss Golden Messenger, you know, [are] involved in a whole variety of things. JT, Cameron, and Josh play in Bonny Light Horseman. All three of them have also at various times been members of Hiss and have toured with Hiss. And in fact, that’s where those guys met – playing in Hiss. All of us have known each other for many, many years, so I consider those guys really good friends.

But we’ve never made a Hiss Golden Messenger record before. … They’ve worked on [other] records [together], but we never came together to create a Hiss Golden Messenger record together. It was this funny and unique situation in which we were already old friends, doing something that felt new and fresh. It didn’t feel like a complicated record to make for me. I think Josh Kaufman maybe would say the same thing, but Josh was performing sort of a different task than I was in the situation. It was a complicated record to write, but that was something of the solitary endeavor that took place over probably a year or a year and a half.

I really love those guys and I am delighted that they could be there to play on the record. I think of them as absolute top-tier musicians, every one of them. Cameron is currently playing with the Mountain Goats, he plays all kinds of jazz, he plays in the Spacebomb House Band. JT Bates plays drums with Big Red Machine, which is Aaron Dessner and Justin Vernon. And [he’s] just a legendary drummer in Minneapolis. Josh Galvin plays with everybody.

There are some songs on this album about hope and I wondered about making work about hope in this specific social and political moment? “Shaky Eyes” or “Heavy Worlds,” for example.

[I am interested] in how we [have] the energy to get through the messiness of life. And not only this particular time that we’re living through – although that is the most depressing. But just like life in general. I don’t think that we can do – or I don’t think I can do – life alone. So, in a way this record is me writing to myself. Maybe now [about] how important other people are.

I think I realized that the most important part is moving through, and needs to involve being around [other people]. Over the past few years, just speaking personally, the idea of community has felt like a more and more important part of it.

Thinking about that – and how dense/lush the production here is – though you are marketed as “Americana,” I wonder about how you view genre. And also how your band does – I’m thinking about background vocalist Annie Nero’s bio for radio: “She loves to find the common thread between musical ideas and genres…but also break free of genres because life’s too short to limit ourselves based on perceived taste!”

I listen to lots of different stuff. I think all of that stuff finds its way into what I’m doing. It’s a little tricky. I used to have a stronger stay-in-your-lane [attitude] about the term “Americana,” but I just don’t think that I care very much anymore. It’s not a word that I generally use. But I understand why it exists. Many of my favorite songwriters exist in that world.

What would you call your genre then?

I mean, I wouldn’t. I guess that’s what I’m saying.

Like, if I was at the dog park and I was talking to a stranger, and they said, “Oh, you’re a musician? What kind of music do you play?” I’d probably say, “Kind of rock and roll.” I generally am not describing my music in terms of genre, I guess. If I told someone that I played rock and roll, and they asked me to extrapolate on that, I would say something like, “Rock and roll that’s really swinging.” I try and concentrate on the rhythmic elements. I love singer-songwriter type music from the ’60s and ’70s. I like really oddball stuff. I love Bruce Ruffin reggae; I love free jazz. There’s a lot of music that I have inside of me. There’s a lot of music that Josh, Cameron and Chris – [that] we all have inside of us. I think it’s just a question of how we get it out and put it into use in a way that feels genuine and not forced. …

Thinking about the tension on this album between distinct geographical spaces and a more universal emotions – for example on “Seneca (Time is a Mother, Baby)” or “Mercy Avenue.” And also that becomes a larger theme of your work, thinking about how Amanda Petrusich writes about your decades-long commitment to writing about rivers. There’s even the river song on this album. What do you think your relationship is to the land, to rivers – especially. when you sing “Depends on the River.” Or is there specifically one river?

On previous Hiss records there are specific geographical places like city names mentioned. And not only are those places part of the fabric of the story that I’m trying to tell, but they sort of served as poles, maybe? What I’m trying to accomplish is sort of like a poetic travelog of my life growing up in America. I’ve been traveling as a musician since I was 18. I have been, it seems like, everywhere in this country – more than once or some places 10 times. I’ve been all over every highway. So, maybe the dimension of place names throughout is sort of like carving my name on a tree or something. It’s just kind of like, “I was here.” “This is where we are in this song right now.” “This is where we are in my life.” And then, “Now we’re over here.”

In terms of rivers, a river is always flowing, always changing. A river can kill you if you’re not careful. It can keep you alive and get you to the next place if you treat it with respect and understand its rules. The coda on that song, [“Depends on the River”], the last thing that we hear on the record is “the line depends on the river exactly.” I guess the meaning depends on what river of life we’re talking about. It depends how lucky we get.

I’ve always been impressed by the wide range of your reading, listening, and looking. For example, your careful thoughts on the photos of Gedney. What are you reading, what are you listening to, what are you looking at these days?

Well, you know what I’m reading right now? I’m like about 200 pages into this Gary Stewart biography. Gary Stewart, the country singer. It’s called I Am From the Honky-Tonks. Gary Stewart actually was someone that Chris Smith from [record label] Paradise of Bachelors turned me onto like 15 to 16 years ago. Those of us that are obsessive about him all knew that this book was coming. It’s finally out and yeah, if you’re Gary Stewart fan, it’s kind of like you can’t believe it exists. I’ve been waiting for it.

In terms of what I’m listening to, I’m always listening to all kinds of stuff. I just bought this record [that’s] The Sun Ra Arkestra doing Disney themes. It’s so beautiful, really makes you think about those compositions in a different way, [about] actually how deep they are. I’ve been revisiting some Ted Lucas. I’ve really been liking this McCoy Tyner record called Asante. It’s a 1974 record; might be my current favorite. It’s very deep in the zone with like Alice Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders – that era. Oh, it’s beautiful. [I’ve been listening to] some Paul Brady from ‘78. He’s amazing! I’ve been listening to Welcome Here Kind Stranger. [Also] a record that I was checking out for a while [was] by the Universal Liberation Orchestra. It’s kind of this weird, very minimal– I guess it would be jazz.

Photo Credit: Graham Tolbert

Watch 4 Live Videos From the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

In 2025, at their inaugural event, the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival attracted bluegrass fans from 13 states to an iconic venue, Cat’s Cradle, in the roots music rich area of North Carolina’s “Triangle.” Attendees enjoyed performances from artists like Jim Lauderdale, the Po’ Ramblin’ Boys, Woody Platt & the Bluegrass Gentlemen, Brownyn Keith-Hynes, Graham Sharp & Friends, Max Wareham & the National Bluegrass Team, and more.

On May 23, 2026, the festival returns once again to the Cat’s Cradle Back Yard for their second annual edition of the tremendously successful event. Tickets are on sale now. This year, the lineup includes string band and bluegrass luminaries like Mason Via, Laurie Lewis & the Right Hands, Trenton Wagler and Eric Brubaker (of the Steel Wheels), Jon Stickley Trio, and more. And, for the first time in 2026, the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival is partnering with the UNC Bluegrass Initiative to support live bluegrass music in the greater Chapel Hill and Carrboro area. Plus, student members of the Carolina Bluegrass Band will open the festival.

As with all roots music events held in the fertile, artful lands of North Carolina, the very first Carrboro Bluegrass Festival wasn’t just about the performers, it was about the spirit of Carrboro itself. Connecting music, place, and communities together with intention and pride. Carrboro is full of great restaurants, shops, art, and community spaces – it’s no wonder the little town is referred to as “one of the most progressive communities in the South.”

To spotlight the town – and the music – last year the festival captured a series of exclusive, stripped-back performances at some of the town’s most historic landmarks. BGS has been proud to partner with Carrboro Bluegrass Festival since its inception, so while we look ahead to this year’s event, we’re sharing a series of four videos shot by the festival, the city of Carrboro, and the Orange County Visitor’s Bureau last year during the proceedings. Enjoy exclusive performances by Jim Lauderdale & the Po’ Ramblin’ Boys, Bronwyn Keith-Hynes, Woody Platt, and Max Wareham below.

Make your plans now to attend the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival at the Cat’s Cradle in Carrboro, North Carolina on May 23, 2026. Tickets available here.

Jim Lauderdale & the Po’ Ramblin’ Boys

Roots music renaissance man Jim Lauderdale has collaborated with hit bluegrass group the Po’ Ramblin’ Boys quite a bit over the last few years and together they’re releasing another album on April 24, 2026, entitled The Birds Know. (We recently premiered the lead single of that project, check it out here.) Last year during the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival, Lauderdale and the Boys performed “Long and Lonesome Letting Go” under an old, shady tree outside of Carrboro Town Hall, just down the street from Cat’s Cradle.

Max Wareham & the National Bluegrass Team

For our second video, Connecticut-based banjo player and singer-songwriter Max Wareham assembles his band, the National Bluegrass Team, just out front of the Cat’s Cradle to perform an original song, “Highway to Your Heart.” You may recognize Wareham from performing in Peter Rowan’s band or from his most recent album, DAGGOMIT!, released in 2025. His approach is modern but rooted deeply in traditional bluegrass, as you can tell from the energy and feel of the song.

Woody Platt & the Bluegrass Gentlemen

A godfather of bluegrass and jamgrass in North Carolina, Woody Platt brought his Bluegrass Gentlemen down from the mountains to Carrboro for last year’s festival. With them they carried along “Like the Rain Does,” the lead track off Platt’s 2024 solo release, Far Away With You. Its minor chords offer a melancholy tinge to match the rain falling in the song’s hook, but the energy and tempo of the track – especially in this live performance captured from the band’s green room trailer – give that cheery bluegrass sheen to the lyrics. Whether local, regional, or national acts the talent on display at the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival is first rate.

Bronwyn Keith-Hynes

Fiddler and singer-songwriter Bronwyn Keith-Hynes has been building an impressive résumé for herself, especially since departing Molly Tuttle’s Golden Highway. Her 2024 album, I Built A World, was nominated for a GRAMMY for Best Bluegrass Album and if you’ve not had a chance to catch her live touring band recently, you’re missing out. Her groups always boast the best and brightest of young bluegrass pickers – and her lineup at the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival last year was no exception. Backgrounded by a stunning Good for the Hive mural by Matt Willey on the side of the Carrboro Fire Station, Keith-Hynes and her band are certainly impressive as they render “Virginia Gal, She’s Up and Gone” for our final video captured at last year’s festival.

If you’re in the mood for even more excellent bluegrass served up in one of the cutest and most dynamic little towns in North Carolina, don’t miss the second Carrboro Bluegrass Festival on Saturday, May 23, 2026. More information here.

This content brought to you in partnership with the Carrboro Bluegrass Festival.