Tag: opinion

Photos & Memories: Remembering Roots Music Troubadour-Poet, Michael Hurley

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: Thanks to our friends at Big Ears Festival, held at the end of March in Knoxville, Tennessee, we’re able to share these photos of revered folk icon Michael Hurley taken during what the world would later realize were two of his final performances, captured shortly before he passed on April 1, 2025. 

To honor Hurley’s incredible legacy and his indelible impact on roots music, we’ve paired the photographs from Big Ears with a heartfelt remembrance by longtime Hurley acolyte and BGS contributor Dana Yewbank.

Our hearts go out to Michael Hurley’s friends, family, loved ones, and collaborators as we all grieve this humble-yet-towering figure in our corner of the music world; our gratitude goes out to Big Ears for sharing these intimate and lovely time capsule photographs.)

I first encountered Michael Hurley – the influential singer-songwriter who recently passed at the age of 83 – in a room painted like a 1960s rendering of a time machine. Big black-and-white spirals looped around the floor of the stage, awash in a moody, pink glow.

The show was at the Woodland Theater in Seattle, Washington, in 2018. I was there with friends – a ragtag group of fellow musicians who’d all been inspired by Hurley’s music in one way or another. My friend Bobby wore a shirt from Oakland’s Burger Boogaloo festival, which rings like the name of a Michael Hurley song that never was.

Michael Hurley performs for his official Big Ears appearance to a packed house at the Point in Knoxville, TN. Photo by Andy Feliu.

We got there early. In a performance space the size of a small café, Hurley was sitting in the corner next to the stage, quietly playing a worn piano. My friends and I exchanged looks of mild wonder, realizing we had walked in on something unexpectedly intimate. Quietly finding seats among the folding chairs, we soaked in the scene as the room filled up. Throughout the night, we interacted with Hurley in passing as if we were all just milling about someone’s living room. He attentively watched all the opening sets. Bobby showed him where the bathroom was. Hurley never acted like a living Americana legend, even though he was one.

Raised in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and an eventual cultural fixture of Astoria, Oregon, Michael Hurley wrote and recorded surreal, folk-esque blues and Americana songs across seven decades. He also made comics, self-published several art zines, and made an unspeakable impression on the broad world of American folk music. He continued to perform up until his death, which came suddenly the day after his final performance. Michael Hurley spent his last evening on earth playing his timeless, effervescent songs at the AyurPrana Listening Room in Asheville, North Carolina.

Michael Hurley also wowed a small audience at a surprise Big Ears performance at Boyd’s Jig & Reel, a small Celtic pub. Photo by Joeleen Hubbard.

My doorway into the world of Michael Hurley was First Songs, a lo-fi collection of recordings published by Folkways in 1963. The songs on that album have a subtle, somber quality that’s harder to find on Hurley’s later, more jovial records. Listening, it feels like taking a long, slow walk through a deep forest at dusk. Less sunshine and laughter than Have Moicy! or Long Journey, but as a sad, confused 20-something, the mist and mystery of First Songs drew me in. “Animal Song” will always be the sound of being 24, reluctantly living back in my small Northwestern hometown, not far from the place Hurley would eventually call home.

But melancholia is far from what Michael Hurley became known for. Instead, his music is beloved for its surrealism, lightheartedness, and humor. Hurley sang about aliens, ghosts, werewolves, and potatoes. His songs abound with clever turns of phrase and humble imperfection, offering a sort of unselfconscious freedom to listener and musician alike.

That night at the show in Seattle, a 76-year-old Hurley played for an impressive two-and-a-half hours, never seeming to lose steam. He must have played through at least 50 songs by the end of the night, which doesn’t even touch the several hundred he wrote and recorded throughout his life.

The magical Michael Hurley, mid-surprise appearance at Boyd’s Jig & Reel. Photo by Joeleen Hubbard.

Despite being called the “godfather of freak folk,” Michael Hurley never fancied himself a folk musician. Most of his influences fit squarely in the world of jazz and blues: Lead Belly, Lightning Hopkins, Fats Waller. He even cited country songwriters like Hank Williams, but rarely any notable folk artists. His eclectic influences make sense: Hurley’s songs have an unpredictable liveliness to them. They jump and wander, following a path seemingly guided by Hurley’s creative intuition alone.

But when it came to how he approached his life and career, Hurley lived fully into the folk tradition. He made his own album art, released some of his own records, and toured with zero frills. He also had a salt-of-the-earth political ethos and didn’t shy away from using music as activism. In 2014, Hurley assembled a compilation of “anti-Monsanto songs” and released them for free on Bandcamp.

Michael Hurley performs at the Point at Big Ears Festival. Photo by Andy Feliu.

Hurley (or Elwood Snock, as he liked being called) was a musician of the people, only ever taking himself just seriously enough, unafraid of welcoming play and spontaneity into his work. His legacy has a lot to teach us about just how essential these qualities are to the creative process — because if making art isn’t a form of play, then what is it?

That unbridled, unbothered element makes Hurley’s music deeply comforting and grounding. It roils and pops like a low fire you can warm yourself by. It’s trustworthy and safe, emerging from the endless present moment, bubbling up like a fountain from which we can all drink.

Michael Hurley by Andy Feliu.

Honey, honey, honey,
have you ever blowed bubbles
underwater when you’re feeling bad?
You let your lips begin a-buzzin’
the bubbles rush up like mad.
Right there you’ve got somethin’
to help you out
when you ain’t got nothin’
to brag about.

– from “Driving Wheel,” Sweet Moicy! (1976)

Hurley frequently collaborated with other artists – from his Unholy Modal Rounders to Marisa Anderson and Kassi Valazza – and he continued to make new connections well into his final years. Adrianne Lenker, who counted Hurley as a friend, recently credited him as one of the reasons Big Thief became a band, in a post memorializing Hurley on Instagram.

Michael Hurley’s red Harmony Roy Smeck guitar. Photo by Joeleen Hubbard.

Infinite rivulets flow out from Snock’s work, watering seeds of creativity wherever they go, rippling and rolling over the landscape much like Hurley did – from Jersey City to Vermont to Astoria.

Michael Hurley passed on April Fool’s Day, which is painfully fitting. He loved a good joke, taking things that might otherwise feel heavy and heartbreaking and peppering them with levity and brightness. Now, in his absence, we can let his songs buoy us through dark times, of which there are too many, and laugh alongside us in the light.

All photos courtesy of Big Ears, shot by Joeleen Hubbard and Andy Feliu as credited. Lead Image: Andy Feliu. 

Black Roots

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

It is clear to me that 2024 will be known for being a landmark year in the evolution of Black roots music. Not only has there been tremendous growth in the number of artists that are throwing their hat in the ring for roots music – whether it be country & western, bluegrass, folk or Americana – but it is also a time where the mainstream music world is responding to this outpouring of talent in a way that hasn’t been seen in a long time. In many ways, it’s not surprising that things have grown in this fashion. Since I started my professional music career back in 2005, I have seen quite a few changes in the general musical landscape that have set the stage for a Black Roots music revolution.

In the early 2000s, the musical fabric of Black Roots had already been woven into the tapestry of American culture. Hidden between the more well-known pieces of Black music, these acoustic styles that didn’t fit into the traditional mold of blues, jazz, and gospel remained unseen and unheard, relegated to the fringes. Even though it was simultaneously considered a quintessential piece of the larger puzzle of American popular culture, Black Roots music was held in greater reverence for its historical significance than for being a living musical tradition played by modern musicians of the African Diaspora.

There were great pioneers who set the stage back in the early 20th century. There were songsters, string bands, folk musicians, storytellers, songwriters, composers, and community historians who shared their stories for the early folk song collectors who were searching for the purest forms of black expression. This happened while the commercial recording companies sent their representatives out to the field looking for music that they could sell to a record buying public who wanted a sound that not only reflected the past, but the future as well.

With all that in mind, my goal in becoming a professional musician came not from a desire to be a stage performer alone, but to also expand the scholarship and visibility of Black Roots music. By becoming a touring musician I found I was filling a void that most people are not aware of today. Having the opportunity to evoke the names of people who had not gotten their due in their own time was empowering. Not only have I advocated for the music, I have played it and arranged it to reflect the rich history of American music while at same time writing my own songs that represent the modern Black experience in all of its phases.

When I first began performing in Arizona, there was no Black Roots community for me to lean on, so I had to teach myself everything. I had to learn to play the guitar, the banjo, and all of the other instruments in my repertoire on my own. Before the internet, the library was my main resource for music and I grew up in a time when a good portion of all of the world’s recorded music throughout history was not readily available on streaming platforms. Sometimes, I had to search far and wide through stacks of CDs, LPs, and 78s to gain access to the music, just so I could learn how to play it. As I began to learn more songs, I found out about the history of the performers and the legacies they left behind. Later on, I met others who held a similar passion and those individuals taught me how to play different styles and shared more parts of the history that I didn’t know about.

We are now in an era where people have access to the music that was once very hard for me to find. In many ways, I was at the forefront of these musical discoveries in the roots music community, because I took what I had learned and planted seeds all around the world with the Carolina Chocolate Drops and on my own as a solo artist over the past 25 years.

Once I left Arizona and we formed the Carolina Chocolate Drops, we were able to tap into a certain energy in the crowd that changed the paradigm for Black Roots music, so that now people can see the whole picture of American music in a different way. They could see a Black person playing the banjo in the modern world and be inspired to learn more about the African and Caribbean roots of the banjo. We did that for the better part of a decade and then I decided to move on into a new territory: Black Cowboys and Black Western music. This was a new area of music that the Carolina Chocolate Drops were not a part of in any way. The Chocolate Drops had focused on the music of North Carolina and this new musical venture was an exploration into my own family roots in the Southwest.

Back in 2010, I had come across a book called The Negro Cowboys, which encouraged me to research about African American cowboys of the West. In 2018, my research came together in my solo album, Dom Flemons Presents Black Cowboys, which came out on Smithsonian Folkways as a part of the African American Legacy Series. Having grown up in Arizona, I knew that the album needed to be a part of the National Museum of African American History & Culture so that future generations could appreciate and respect the history of the Black West as well as activate the communities that had been there all along.

Back when I released Black Cowboys, I was one of the few artists talking about the contributions of African Americans out west and their varied connections to country music. Not only was I sharing this lesser known history, but I was playing the music that we now celebrate as “Black Country” long before Beyoncé, Lil Nas X, the “Yee-Haw Agenda,” or any of the newer Black artists who have risen to fame in the TikTok era. Now that the concept of Black Cowboys has gone mainstream in music, television, movies, and fashion, it’s another reminder to me that the music I created had made a major impact on American culture in both a conscious and subconscious way.

The most important part of it all is that no one owns Black Country music and nobody owns Black Cowboys or the roots of Black music. However, nowadays I am noticing that people are trying to take credit for exposing the history when they have only scratched the surface of it.

What I have learned is that there are so many parts of the Black Country and roots music story that are still missing and are being left out of the media. There are many other artists who should be considered in the conversation and yet they aren’t getting their flowers. I have noticed the Black Country music narrative that has sprung up recently has actively disregarded the work of the many Black artists who are deeply connected to the legacy, including myself on many occasions. My hope is that people will take the time to acknowledge the ones who have paved the way for the current movement and shed light on their individual stories, too.

The main reason I have included extensive liner notes in all of my albums, including my most recent, Traveling Wildfire, is because I always make sure to give credit where it is due. The sources for my traditional songs are clearly laid out for anyone to see and my original songs are exercises in expanding the existing palette of roots music so that both can be presented to a new generation of listeners. I have seen my talking points being used to fuel many of the current conversations, but oftentimes there is no back reference to the work I have done. All of the fanfare has forgotten to give proper credit to someone who has spent the majority of their career trying to set the record straight. As a well known musician in my community, this exposes a general trend that is problematic for the current state of Black Roots music.

If it is acceptable for a mainstream pop star or the media to sidestep and steamroll the pioneers of Black Roots music, it can only lead to a narrative of uplift that will ring hollow in the long term. It will teach the future generations that sleight of hand is the only way to get ahead and that surface level fame is the goal and key to being successful. Bad ideologies take a long time to disperse once they have become a part of the general fabric of society, and if people continue to spout it the integrity of the music can be undermined without them even knowing it.

This is why I am cautiously optimistic for the current state of Black Roots music, because oftentimes it feels more like a one-sided competition than a community of Black artists coming together to be celebrated collectively.

Yet, on a positive note, I believe the current state of Black Roots music is very exciting. People are being activated by the work that has been done by the pioneers of the past one hundred years. They are reinterpreting, reinventing, and showcasing music that is becoming a viable part of the mainstream music industry. They come with a variety of sounds, instruments, and songs that will shift the template of American culture as Black Roots music always has and always will.

More voices are being added every day in places and spaces that would have been unheard of even ten years ago. It can be clearly stated that there are now plenty of young musicians in every field of Black Roots music and there is no shortage of new talent who have proven their worth on the stage, on recordings, and on social media.

The holistic landscape of the modern Black Roots music community is something that I am proud to have helped establish over the past 25 years. Major growth is upon us, but I feel like it can only happen if everyone in the community gets acknowledged, not just the “favorites” or the ones making the most money while begging for all of the attention. The connecting of dots that bind the past and future are within our reach through the technology we have at our fingertips; it is essential for us to use it with great care and responsibility.

I started my journey as the American Songster building a legacy upon a dream. I got the notion to write songs and play the old styles back when I was sixteen years old and this eventually led me to sell everything I own, jump in my car, and drive across America to find where that dream could take me. It then took me all over the world and brought me much acclaim, but I have never lost sight of what inspired me to start this journey.

For me, I’m just getting started and I’ll always be here, no matter who stays and who goes. I’ve done the work to make the music more accessible for others and I can hope that it has reflected well on my own legacy as well as the entire community I have tried to uplift.

Photo Credit: Dom Flemons by Steven Holloway.

Kyshona on 50 Years of ‘Rags To Rufus’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: 50 years ago this month, Rufus released what would become a seminal album in American roots music, soul, and funk, Rags To Rufus, which featured Chaka Khan. To mark the 50th anniversary of this iconic recording, singer-songwriter Kyshona ponders the personal meanings of the project and how it relates to her own brand new album, Legacy.)

My mother is battling dementia, so car rides with her are the perfect time to play music from her younger years, when she was carefree, childless, and she and my Dad hosted an abundance of house parties for their friends and family. I have a playlist of songs from the late ‘60s and ‘70s I’ll put on when we’re shuttling her between doctors’ appointments.

On one of these car rides, I turned on Rags To Rufus. My mom was in the passenger seat, playing “brain games” on her phone to, in her words, “Exercise her mind and hold on to what she’s got.” I noticed she was singing, under her breath, the melodies and choruses of the first three tracks on the album. She turned to me and said, “I’ve never heard this before, who is this? I like it!” This got me thinking beyond personal family legacy and more about musical legacy.

This year marks the 50th anniversary of Rags To Rufus, the album that transformed the trajectory of funk band Rufus and propelled Chaka Khan into the spotlight. Chaka Khan’s music is a soundtrack that has woven itself into the fabric of not only my work as an artist, but also into my personal life.

There is an expectation to conform, to try to categorize and compartmentalize music; I can’t imagine enduring the pressure from the industry, and even society as a whole, as it was nearly a half a century ago, artists and bands trying to squeeze themselves into arbitrary molds. To my ears, Rags To Rufus is the sound of a group of friends hanging out and having a good time – there is a sense of celebration, camaraderie, a sonic journey of Black joy. It feels like an album made for the thrill of being creative, for the sake of unbridled artistic freedom. I have always wanted my music to feel like this, telling stories, playing around with sounds and ideas. When I’m creating, that’s my goal. I write in the style that serves the story that I’m telling, without regard to genre constraints or others’ expectations.

The record begins with empowered swagger and affirmation – “You Got The Love,” which I interpret as, “You belong here.” The sentiment is carried through in “Walkin’ In The Sun,” a song that brings a comforting sense of nostalgia. I can hear my “aunties” in the hook: “Even a blind man can tell when he’s walking in the sun.”

The title track is a funked-out jam session, and then the band brings out old-time fervor in “Swing Down Chariot.”

Think about it – Rufus takes an old gospel song, adds Chaka Khan’s powerhouse vocals, blends it with blues, jazz, funk, soul, and takes it to an entirely new dimension! Forget genre, industry rules, or album cycles. Back in the day, it was just music that made you feel good, it was about that vibe.

As a music therapist, I recognize the profound impact music has on those grappling with conditions like Alzheimer’s and dementia – it encourages lucidity and presence of self. As a daughter, I see how music bonds me to my mother.

In the past, when I’ve done music therapy in nursing home settings, I’ve used songs from the early 20th century – like “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” “Heart And Soul,” and “Sentimental Journey.” But now, the memory care songs I reach for are songs I grew up listening to in our house, at family reunions, on road trips. How fantastic is it that Chaka Khan’s work throughout her 50-year career can provide a generation-spanning conduit for a mother and a daughter to connect? We can experience that freedom in her sound as we listen together, regardless of the chaos happening around us.

I can’t begin to put into words how much I admire Chaka Khan; with my new album, Legacy, I tell the stories of my ancestors and my family. Chaka Khan’s legacy is intertwined with generations of music-makers.

Over the last 50 years, Khan has been a major influence on pop artists like Whitney Houston, R&B artists like Erykah Badu and Mary J. Blige, and on myself – and so many of my peers in the roots and folk scenes. I learned of her musical magic as a child, listening to my parents’ favorite radio stations, so being able to sing backing vocals for her at Newport Folk Festival a few years ago was absolutely surreal. I can’t imagine the journey she’s been on, but I hope she knows that her existence alone encourages artists like me to keep on being true to ourselves and our art.

Rags To Rufus is a part of my journey. For me, it’s the sound of “blackness.” I hope that 50 years from now, someone will listen to the music of myself and my peers and hear that same resonance of joy, love, and celebration of culture.

We all dream to leave a lasting musical legacy as deep and profound as Chaka Khan and Rufus.

Photo Credit: Anna Haas

Rachel Baiman On the Importance of Women in Studio Control Rooms

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: BGS contributor, picker, and singer-songwriter Rachel Baiman brings us into the production process for her new album, Common Nation of Sorrow — her first recording on which she’s credited as sole producer — for this op-ed feature.)

Take a look at the credits for your favorite records by artists of any gender, and you may notice that there are very few women listed. Maybe there’s a female singer, photographer, or graphic designer – possibly a violinist in a string section, but it probably stops there.  

While great strides have been made in the last decade with more women on festival bills, in radio programming, and even as instrumentalists in live bands, when you look behind the scenes, you rarely see women involved in making records, unless they are the featured artist or part of the featured band. That’s because the studio is invisible to the audience. 

Societal pressure is driving folks to do better when they are working in public lineups, but in recording studios, there’s nobody watching, and no face on the sounds that come out of the box. The audience sees a diverse band playing a live show, yet none of those musicians are featured on the record.

For example, I was thrilled to see Sarah Jones absolutely slaying the drums for Harry Styles live, but when I looked at the record credits, they had a male drummer listed. Why? It’s as if the industry is saying “We love to have you on stage, but when it comes to the real work, let the men get down to business.”

To Harry’s credit, there are a couple of female instrumentalists (violin and keys, and a conga player) and assistant engineers (“Move that microphone for me please!”) featured on his albums (which is huge progress, believe it or not), but I would have loved to see Jones included as a true backbone of the sound, especially when she’s such a fundamental part of the live show, and clearly more than capable. That kind of record credit is a career maker – not that Jones needs it, she’s doing great anyway – but why couldn’t she have that?

I’ve had a dream for a few years now of being a producer. Over the last decade of working in the studio in various roles, I’ve fallen in love with the production process: Starting with the songs, honing and editing until you’re left with only the meat, selecting the perfect musical voices to bring the song to life, and working with amazing engineers to get the sonic pallet perfect. I can’t get enough of it, and I want to do more.

According to a 2018 study by the University of Southern California, and reported on by GRAMMY.com, only 2% of music producers and 3% of engineers/mixers in popular music are women. These are roles that require real trust, as they are roles of power. There’s no turning down, editing, tuning, or washing out a producer or lead engineer. The project is in their hands.

Typically, male artists (as opposed to engineers, another role that leads to producing jobs) are asked to be producers when other musicians like the records that they’ve made or been a part of. It’s a role of mentorship and guidance, as well as artistic influence.  I started to realize, though, that because I am a woman, nobody was going to naturally think of me for that role, even if they liked my music. People fit people into the molds that we’ve been shown, and people trust people who others trust. Everyone wants to make the right decisions, and it’s hard to be the first one to believe in somebody – I know this trap because I’m guilty of it myself! If I wanted to be thought of as a potential producer, I was going to have to build my own platform and show people that I could do it. 

When it came time to make Common Nation of Sorrow, I saw it as an opportunity to take a bet on myself. Although it’s terrifying to produce one’s own music (you have to be both the speaker and the listener at the same time), I knew that if I could produce something great under my own name, perhaps others would start to see me in that role outside of my own music. After all, if you can’t trust yourself with your own work, how can you ask others to trust you with theirs? 

With the support of my awesome label, Signature Sounds, I was able to record this project exactly the way I wanted to. I had a variety of musicians in mind for the rhythm section, both male and female. I hypothesized that when considering the sessions, I needed to make sure that there was a feeling of social balance in the room, for my own sake as well as for my fellow musicians’ sake. Something that was interesting to me about this theory is the stark difference between “including” women on a project because you feel that you should, and believing that empowering women and asking for their contributions will actually result in the best art.  

When I get called for sessions to play fiddle or banjo, I am usually the only woman in the room. I walk in feeling like I have to be better than good in order to counteract the assumption that I will be sub-par, that I don’t know what I’m doing, that I won’t know how to read a chart, that I can’t solo, that I won’t know anything about sound or gear. Working from a position of insecurity, or “trying to prove something,” is a terrible way to make music. I might overplay, or underplay, or try to play the way I think men want me to play, not in my own voice. I might be trying to tamp down rage at a comment that somebody has just made about their wife being retired from music because, “She’s a mom now.”  

Contrastingly, when you’re suddenly the producer, the only one you have to impress is yourself. Everyone in the room has been hired by you, and therefore, it’s in their best interest to support your vision. Nobody has incentive to diminish your work. Suddenly, I’m able to work from a place of confidence and artistic integrity. In a position of power, it’s not as likely that I’ll overplay, or change my sound based on others, or second guess my abilities. I’ve taken the bet, and now I have to come through for myself. That’s the difference between token inclusion and empowerment. You’re going to be able to hear it in the album made this way, too. 

Recently, I was asked by a male musician who I love and admire to produce his next record. It was completely unexpected, and it took a minute for me to realize that my bet on myself was actually paying off. I’m starting to believe now that this could be a real career path for me. I think most people want to believe in, and support each other, but we, as women, have to have the courage to take those first steps and put ourselves out there for consideration. From my standpoint, it can work. 

I’m thrilled to see so many incredible women working as producers and engineers these days in Nashville. Mary Bragg, Rachael Moore, Clare Reynolds, Shani Ghandi, and of course Alison Brown at Compass Records, who has been leading the charge for years. I look forward to one day having the opportunity to work in a studio environment inhabited by only women, completely by chance. The more we can show each other what’s possible, the more likely that will become. 

(Editor’s Note: Rachel Baiman’s latest album, Common Nation of Sorrow, is available now wherever you stream or purchase music.)

Photo Credit: Natia Cinco

Want to Write a Protest Song? Read This First

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

“There’s no such thing as someone else’s war
Your creature comforts aren’t the only things worth fighting for
Still breathing, it’s not too late
We’re all carrying one big burden, sharing one fate.”
                                                                                                  — Jason Isbell, “White Man’s World”

If one musical phenomenon united the year 2018 from the very moment the ball dropped over Times Square, it was the protest song. The soundtrack of the resistance clearly had enough time to percolate, deliberate, and incubate since our 45th president’s administration began in January 2017, because protest emerged as a recurring theme.

In the summer of 2017, Americana speak-your-mind hero Jason Isbell may have been the earliest adopter with “White Man’s World,” where he was decrying his own privilege while championing our common humanity and our shared fate. A year later, string band virtuosos Punch Brothers went so far as to name the elephant in the room and describe him thusly on “Jumbo:” “Whoa, here comes Jumbo with a knife and a tan/ And an elephant’s tail for his Instagram/ Grown up brave on the fat of the land of the free…”

Falling in line with this common theme, in an interview earlier this year River Whyless’ drummer Alex Waters described their creative process for their latest album, Kindness, A Rebel, as grappling with the fact that, “it’s just hard to avoid the elephant in the room as far as the current political situation and feeling like we didn’t say or do enough.” Boston-based bluegrass outfit, the Lonely Heartstring Band, opted to protest by not protesting — a press release described their single, “The Other Side,” as, “a song that takes no sides, but encourages empathy and understanding for people regardless of political beliefs.” Korby Lenker and Nora Jane Struthers took that perspective directly to far-right cable television show, Huckabee, performing a co-written plea for the sanctity of the dinner table, “Let’s Just Have Supper.”

Several issues arise when you start to consider the commonalities between all of these songs, the coincidence of their releases, and the apparent level to which political mayhem must reach before the greater community sees these songs as necessary. Look, we’ve got at least two more years of this level of political division and discourse ahead of us. Before you sit down to write your scathing, politically-minded, resistance-inspired anthem perhaps consider these few questions and suggestions:

Is this your story to tell?

Story songs and character songs can be sensationally moving and evocative, and they’re an integral part of American roots music’s songwriting traditions, but writers should be careful not to simply co-opt and capitalize on stories, concepts, ideas, and experiences of a marginalized person or group of people. Try not to appropriate any identity or culture, especially if there are marginalized voices out there already telling these stories. Which leads us neatly to the next question:

Is a marginalized or underprivileged person already telling this story?

One of the best ways folks can utilize their privilege to support resistance and activism is to pointedly and intentionally step aside to let a marginalized person own their own stories, their truths, and to be able to speak to those stories and truths. Ask yourself if telling a certain story, especially someone else’s story, could deny someone else their agency. Use your privilege, whether it be simply tied to your identity or to your professional position, to bring in the voices of forgotten folks who are already telling these stories. Use their points of view to strengthen and reinforce yours, rather than assuming that, by taking on these stories of our own accord, we’re strengthening and reinforcing those who don’t have the access or advantages that we have.

Furthermore, is this song already written?

Consider how galvanized our intersectional movements can be if we draw upon all of our constituent strengths from each and every individual’s personal story. Think of the power of protest music from across the generations. If your song is “already written,” it doesn’t mean that your feelings and your convictions are invalid. It means you aren’t alone. Your goals are the goals of someone — perhaps many someones else. Sometimes you just don’t need to reinvent the wheel.

Stay away from rhetoric such as “we’re better than this,” “this is not who we are,” “we should go back to the way things used to be,” etc.

Ask yourself if the particular phenomenon you’re writing about is truly unprecedented and unique to this era. For instance, indigenous Americans’ experiences are erased if we allow ourselves to believe the narrative that this is the first time our country has detained and imprisoned thousands of children. What about decrying the travel ban on majority-Muslim countries? Not a new occurrence, either. Mourning innocent drone deaths? Those casualty numbers actually don’t neatly correlate to which party holds the White House, as one might assume.

Try to avoid opining for “normalcy” or to “go back to normal.”

As individuals from almost any marginalized people group in this country would be happy to report, there is not an “again” to which we can return the United States that would truly be best, better, or “great” for all Americans. Whether we’re talking about Native Americans, stolen African slaves, African Americans, Americans with disabilities, LGBTQ+ Americans, or women in America — none of these groups have ever enjoyed a period of time in this country that was truly, equally great for any or all of the above. Wishing for something that never existed, except perhaps to the most privileged Americans throughout history, is the self-fulfilling prophecy of erasure at work. There ain’t no such thing as the good ol’ days.

Consider your audience, but not too closely.

Are you writing a protest song knowing that the majority, if not the entirety, of your audience already agrees with you? If so, why? Landing ourselves in echo chambers of our own political and ideological views doesn’t actually do anyone any good. Are you writing the song as a pat on the back? However, having an audience that may diametrically oppose your personal beliefs doesn’t mean that any subject, any cause, or any identity, is yours to take on as your gauntlet. Keep in mind, the most relatable songs, especially politically-minded or motivated songs, are at their best when they’re truly personal.

Speak to your own experiences, unapologetically, and speak to others’ as they relate to yours. It’s called being human. But, don’t get too bogged down considering your audience, either. If you find yourself debating whether or not a song is right for a certain audience, it’s time for a privilege check. Is your anti-gun anthem the best fit for an audience in rural Montana? Maybe not. But consider the artists and songwriters out in the world whose identities are already politicized. The trans artist. The songwriter who uses a wheelchair. An artist of color.

There is no choice, when any of these artists come into the spotlight, of whether or not the political statement of their very existence is too much for their audience. If you are able to avoid a certain song or a political point of view for the convenience of potentially not offending someone, you have an ability that many artists do not possess. That should be in the front of your mind each time you take the stage to find an audience with which you might not feel totally comfortable. For some artists, every audience conjures that feeling. Directly in the face of their art.

Are you simply, innocently following a songwriting trend?

Nope. You’re complicit. Stop. If you’re writing a protest song simply because it’s “in,” something is very broken. (Not capitalism though. That would be very much in tact.)

Write your truth!

Write what you feel. Write what pours out. Let it be personal, let it be real and vulnerable, let it process all of the confusing, complicated, and often treacherous peaks and valleys that we’ve all been crossing together these days. If you’ll stop and consider a few of these points listed above with kindness and empathy, and if you continue with only one metric against which you measure yourself, let it be this: that you are as true to yourself and your truth as you are careful and cautious with the selfhood and truths of others. Carry that with you and you almost can’t go wrong.

Isbell has it pretty much right. And he’ll be the first to admit that he wasn’t the first person to conceptualize the straightforward profundity in his lyrics. We really do all share a common fate–and our own creature comforts, however they’re provided to us, cannot be the only factors that we consider. It’s going to require active, progressive change, allyship realized as a verb, not a noun, to take what has begun as simply a quorum of protest songs from the past year and morph them into a true vehicle for change on the right side of history.

“I’m a white man living in a white man’s nation
I think the man upstairs must’a took a vacation
I still have faith, but I don’t know why
Maybe it’s the fire in my little girl’s eyes…”

Photo by Daniel Jackson

Op-ed: Song of the Times

Posted on by Editor

“The holiest place on earth is where an ancient hatred has become a current love.” –– A Course in Miracles

“Resilient” was written after the election, during Standing Rock, and while on tour. It came out like a wild horse from our mouths, the kind of song that responds to the times itself before you have much to say about it. I had to get out of its way, really. Song catching, some folks say. To be resilient means to come back to your original shape after being bent, broken, or compressed. I believe everyone can relate to that word in their own way right now, and my prayer is that the song somehow finds the people who need to hear it most. Songs always do that on their own. They live such broad lives, once they leave your throat.

I relate both the word and the song, “Resilient,” to many things — to my time spent in New Orleans after Katrina; to the #MeToo Movement; to my own resurgence after difficult times in our family; to a time in my career when I wasn’t feeling much like singing in the public eye. Right after the 2016 U.S. presidential election, there was so much animosity in the air, from all sides of the spectrum, that most folks I knew wanted to hide out and regroup privately — turning inward to seek quiet amidst all the yelling and celebration. However, we had a tour booked for an entire month — the Resilient Tour — that put us in venues, community centers, and public spaces to share our songs with the people. What happened throughout that month was an incredible weaving of national stories and personal triumph, and it put me right back on track with what my work is meant to serve.

As an artist, sometimes you have to get out of the way of your craft … let it live and breath on its own … being careful not to confine its girth. The Resilient Tour reminded us of the original essence of the troubadour, the griot, the traveling wordsmith. It’s a great honor, service, and privilege to play music for a living, and we have never taken that lightly. The stage is a gathering tool of energy and bodies, of power and communication. It’s like a radio tower emitting information across the world through melody and rhythm. I’ve witnessed songs change the air in a stagnant room and breathe life into a tightened face. In writing “Resilient,” I wanted to speak to that beautiful mystery.

As the song released to the public, we had the great honor to join a 250-mile Ancestral Healing prayer walk that spanned from Rosebud, South Dakota, to Fort Laramie, Wyoming, commemorating the 150th year of the signing of the Fort Laramie treaty. The walk culminated a four-year journey between the direct descendants of both sides of the Blue Water Massacre, retracing the steps of a brutal history in a peaceful way. As allies to our friends (the descendants Paul Soderman and Phil Little Thunder), my sister, our drummer Biko, about 20 other walkers, and I embarked upon this resilient walk to pay homage to the indigenous people of America, as well as witness the destructive legacy of promises unkept by governments both then and now. We joined the final four days of the walk, putting our feet on the pavement for 50 miles and listening to so many beautiful stories along the way from elders in the communities we were passing and other allies throughout our walk. At our sides were horses, prayer bundles, endless jokes and laughter, historical markers, children, old folks wizened by the journey, countless songs to sing, and stories to share. The land was vast in its dryness and enchanting in its huge sky. It took your breath away without much effort, and you could feel the history that has taken place there deep inside your bones.

When we walked our final day into Fort Laramie, there was a palpable emotion in the air. Anger. Resentment. Healing. Connection. Celebration. Commemoration. Protection. Family. In a time of so much national negative discourse and noise, it was our great honor to listen and lean in there. “Resilient” came that much more alive for us.

This song is for the times, for anyone who needs to be reminded of that word right now. It’s not about sides or favorable politics. It’s not about preaching to the choir. Its written to remind ourselves, first and foremost, that our bodies are resilient. Our families are resilient. Our work is resilient. Our pain and our pasts are resilient and, when we come together honestly and with a sense of willingness to listen, barriers break down all across the board.

I am resilient
I trust the movement
I negate the chaos
Uplift the negative
I’ll show up at the table, again and again and again
I’ll close my mouth and learn to listen

These times are poignant
The winds have shifted
It’s all we can do
to stay uplifted
Pipelines through backyards
Wolves howlin’ out front
Yeah I got my crew, but truth is what I want
Realigned and on point
Power to the peaceful
Prayers to the waters
Women at the center
All vessels open, to give and receive
Let’s see this system brought down to its knees

I’m made of thunder, I’m made of lightning
I’m made of dirt, yeah
Made of the fine things
My father taught me that I’m a speck of dust
And this world was made for me
so let’s go and try our luck
I’ve got my roots down down down down down deep

So what are we doing here
What has been done ?
What are you going to do about it?
When the world comes undone ?
My voice feels tiny and im sure so does yours
Put us all together we’ll make a mighty roar

— Chloe Smith of Rising Appalachia

An Open Letter to Future Active Shooters (Op-ed)

Posted on by Editor

Dear Future Active Shooter,

Pain. It’s not something you can smooth away with ice cream or puppies or vodka. Pain hammers on the bones, electrifies the blood, and makes the idea of living in your own skin unbearable. I’ve known pain. I’ve known the urge for revenge and the unrelenting desire to make it stop. I’ve made mistakes, so many mistakes. I’ve known humiliation, loneliness, lovelessness, and desperation. I’ve known times when the simple act of drawing a breath seemed like more than I could handle. I know you’re suffering, and I know there’s nothing worse.

Anger. It’s very efficient fuel. It can burn books, bras, buildings, and bridges. Empires collapse in its wake. Families suffocate on its permeating scent. Children, like oil-soaked birds, peck and scratch and fight in foolhardy attempts to drown the fumes. I’ve known anger. I’ve been the bully and the bullied. In the heat of the moment, I’ve broken dinner plates, hearts, coffee mugs, window panes, and promises. I’ve wished people dead … I know you’re angry, and I know you have every right to be.

You’re only human. You feel. You touch and taste. You hurt. At the same time, I’m not sure if you’re seeing something that’s of great significance to you. Do you see that you’re one part of a whole — a whole race of human beings who feel, touch, taste, and hurt? Do you see that the prognosis of the human condition can be grim? There’s no cure for jealousy, lust, hypocrisy, neglect, absent-mindedness, and so on, and so on. There are only remedies. There are pills that can be taken, mountains that can be climbed, songs that can be sung, airplanes that can be jumped out of, flowers that can be picked, meals that can be cooked, feet that can be wrapped in snuggly socks, and there is rain that can be danced in. Unfortunately, the human condition sometimes creates quite a commotion and sometimes blinds even the razor-sharp eye.

Can you see that your future victims are already victims? They’re victims of circumstance. They’re victims of the same human condition that’s plaguing you. Do you see that they’re already wounded? They’re imperfect, human sons and daughters of flawed, human mothers and fathers. It might appear as though they’re watching a movie, singing along at a concert, learning some algebra, or praising the Lord. Really, they’re remedying a condition. The same condition that you have. They’re going through the motions of being human, existing, breathing, hurting.

Do you see how smart and vital you are? I’ve never prepared for a mass shooting, but I’ve prepared for other things. I’ve planned parties, weddings, divorces, and funerals. I’ve studied for tests in an effort to earn a degree, and I’ve gone to psychiatrists who’ve assisted me in planning to not have a nervous breakdown. I’ve organized successful career events, and I’ve been peeled off the floor by my brother after planning to drink myself through the holiday season instead of going home to see my family. Plans are difficult to make. They require a certain level of intelligence and punctuality. You have the ability to put in the hours. You’ve researched, gathered things, written things down, purchased things. You’ve marked dates on calendars, made notes, and talked to business owners. You have so much energy. You have so much to offer. I know that your plan feels like a remedy, and I hate that it’s come to this.

Fear. Do you know how afraid I am? I’m very afraid. I’m scared of so many things. I’m scared to write this letter. I’m scared to go to a movie. I’m afraid of heights. I’m afraid of lows. Anger is the fuel, and fear is the fire. It burns at the depth of any and every act of violence. It burns like a game of hot potato, so hot that the only way to win is to get rid of it — to throw it to someone else. It burns as if it’s a life living alongside the human part of you. It consumes. It smothers. It burns. It’s an entity and I promise you … it’s okay. I know you’re scared, and I know it’s hard.

Someone loves you. In fact, I love you. I know your intentions can be perceived as evil. But, I also know that you’re only a human who was raised by and with other humans. I know you’ve been abused, neglected, hurt, poked, prodded, made fun of, left out of, taken advantage of … I get it. All of those things have been done to me, and I’m guilty of doing those things to others. We’re living in an unjust world. We’re scared, oil-covered, wounded birds, broken little boys and girls.

Pain, anger, and fear don’t discriminate but, in the worst case scenario, they can annihilate the connection we have to this very human existence. I know you’re in pain. I am, too. I know you’re scared because I am, too. I’m a part of you, and you’re a part of me. At the heart of everything, we love each other under one condition. The human one that makes it impossible for us to get it just right. I love you, nonetheless. I’ve devoted my whole morning to you. I missed an important work event because I felt compelled to tell you that your life and the lives of others matter more to me in this moment than anything else.

Again, you’re wicked smart. You’re cunning. You’re vital and crucial. You feel so greatly and so sensitively. You’re valuable. You count. I promise. There’s another remedy for what is ailing you. There’s a hand, a spark, a tree, a kiss, a warm coat, an apology, a smile, a tear. You’ve proven that you understand how to make things happen. You’ve proven that you have laser-focused energy. Slow down for a minute and take a breath. I know it feels like more than you can handle. It’s the same air I’m breathing when I feel like breathing is more than I can handle.

You don’t have to do this. You can make a new plan. You can start over. You can be honest with someone, after someone, after someone, until someone jumpstarts a connection to the human part of you. You can be honest with me. I won’t judge you. I’ll know you because I know myself. We’re all victims. We’re all scared, and we’re all just trying to get from one day to the next. I’m here for you. I’m connected to you at the most primal place. I’m offering mercy, and I’m asking for mercy. It’s hard, but it’s possible to make a plan to live and let others live alongside pain, anger, and fear. They’re just parts of the whole, like you and me. There is also chocolate ice cream. There are puppies and vodka. Survive this cruel, beautiful world with me. I dare you. I love you.

— Angaleena Presley. Nashville, Tennessee. 11.7.17

Photo credit: frankieleon via Foter.com / CC BY