Tag: queer

Embrace the Past,
Move Forward

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Music has and continues to be a form of healing for Fancy Hagood. The Arkansas-raised singer who takes his forename from the Drake song – not the Bobbie Gentry and Reba McEntire hit – first began writing songs as a queer junior high student struggling to fit in before dropping out of school at 17 to chase his newfound dreams in Nashville.

Despite growing up listening to everything from contemporary Christian music to The Chicks, Shania Twain, Tim McGraw, Destiny’s Child, and Missy Elliott, it was choir and theatre that brought Hagood’s own creative aspirations to life.

“I really found myself in those classes,” Hagood tells Good Country. “I was dealing with a lot of bullying at the time and writing music became one of the few ways I could truly express myself.”

But upon his arrival to Nashville, Hagood was told that a career as a queer country musician was unlikely. This was followed by a move to Los Angeles, coupled with a transition to pop, that led to him to opening for the likes of Meghan Trainor and Ariana Grande as he juggled a day job at Forever 21. Those opportunities coincided with a decrease in creative control over his own work, something he’s taken back for himself on 2021’s Southern Curiosity and his most recent project, American Spirit, which released October 25.

“I was hell-bent on this album not being a breakup record, but instead one about healing, moving forward, and finding yourself,” Hagood says of American Spirit. “I don’t want to be on the road singing songs about my ex, but I do want to sing about reclaiming your story, bouncing back, and that being the most powerful thing after experiencing something like that.”

Speaking on the phone from his Nashville home, Hagood detailed his ambitious Music City move, experiences with gatekeeping, his work with Apple Music, and more.

What was it like for you moving to Nashville so young? I imagine on one hand it’s quite empowering, but it can also be overwhelming too.

Fancy Hagood: On my song “Fly Away” I sing, “You were scared as hell to take the highway/ You barely knew how to drive…” and that’s the truth. I got my driver’s license when I was 16 and I never drove on the highway until I moved to Nashville, so it was very much a culture shock. I know a lot of people don’t view Nashville as a big city compared to New York or Los Angeles, but when you’re coming from small-town Arkansas it felt like the whole world had opened up for myself. There were parts of it that were really intimidating, but for the most part I had so much enthusiasm that you couldn’t really tell me anything. I had this idea that I was going to be a country superstar and you couldn’t tell me otherwise.

I know things haven’t always been easy for you though. You’ve dealt with some gatekeeping and other hurdles along the way. What’s that been like?

Before I moved to LA, I was getting all this attention in Nashville, selling out shows on my own. A lot was going on for not having any music out in the world yet. I quickly got a publishing deal, but instead of things taking off from there I started getting a bunch of people putting their own opinions on me and putting their own stuff into my music, thus limiting me because of their own fears. That was something I never had going into all of this – fear. It’s a complicated thing when you start mixing art and commerce. The powers that be recognize you have talent, but in figuring out how to make money from it they start thinking of Middle America and who’s going to buy it, leading to a fear game rather than just letting the artist be an artist.

When I moved to LA and got a record deal, that’s where other people’s fears began sinking into my own train of thought and my delusion began slipping away. I was accomplishing all these things, from performing on Dancing With the Stars to hitting the road with Ariana Grande, but on the inside I felt miserable. I realized I’d sacrificed so much of myself and my art to get to a place where other people found it comfortable for me to be successful, but a year and a half into it I just imploded and lost all the deals.

It wasn’t until moving back to Nashville in 2016 that I was able to shake all that off. In 2018 I signed a new publishing deal and began work on my album Southern Curiosity, a slow burn that didn’t release until 2021. It was a really difficult transition having [to go from] a Top 40 hit and everyone treating you like you’re the king of the castle to no hits, no deals, and nobody wants to touch you with a ten-foot pole. It was a humbling experience that taught me that the industry in place was not set up for someone like me to be successful. Because of that, my train of thought stopped being about how do I fit into the industry to thinking about how to create my own, which is exactly what I’ve been doing since Southern Curiosity.

One way you’ve been building that community you speak of is through your role as the host of Trailblazers Radio on Apple Music. What’s that gig meant to you?

I’ve never experienced a company that puts their money where their mouth is quite like Apple. They were supportive of me and my first record before hosting a radio show was even a thought. They first came to me after I guest-hosted on the late Leslie Jordan’s Apple Radio show, which I did three or four times with him. After that, they approached me with the Trailblazers idea and threw me into the deep end. When they offered it to me in 2021 I’d never done radio before and just recently we were picked up for our fourth season. My idea is to feature artists who don’t typically get those opportunities, allowing country music to be for everyone. If you look at our playlist you’ll see all kinds of artists on there, not just what country radio suggests Nashville is.

It’s also been meaningful getting to sit across from actual legends and people who have shattered the glass ceiling in country music. Each artist that’s come through our doors has taught me that not one artist’s journey is the same, which has done a lot for inspiring, motivating, and informing me as an artist.

Are there any particular moments or guests from the show that stand out?

I’d never met Jelly Roll before he came in for his interview and his heart just blew me away. Who he is at his core is so full of joy and his philanthropic side was really inspiring to me. He had just sold out Bridgestone Arena and donated all the money to an organization that helps incarcerated youth. Even when we weren’t recording he was wanting to know more about me, my art, and what I do. He’s just a stand-up person.

A moment ago you mentioned Leslie Jordan, whose loss you touch on (along with your grandmother’s) on the song “Good Grief.” I guess that goes back to songwriting being a method of healing?

Yeah, it came about during a writing session with my friend Jeremy Lutito on a particularly solemn day. We were both in sad moods, but in typical fashion when two guys are alone in a room the last thing they’ll do is ask, “What’s on your heart?” We got to talking about a situation with his family where their dog had passed away the night before, which led to a conversation about grief and having to walk his kids through it for the first time. As he was telling me this I just fell apart thinking of how grief is such a hard thing to come to terms with and reckon with, but sometimes it’s ultimately a good thing. We’d been struggling all day, but that song came about in only an hour or so. It was pure magic.

I’ve seen you refer to this album as a “breakup record,” and I feel like one song that really captures that essence is the title track, “American Spirit.” How’d it come about?

I wrote that with Gina Venier and Summer Overstreet. It started with this idea of cigarette season or a time in your life where you’re smoking and stressed. But with Gina, who’s also a queer artist, it evolved into a song about becoming someone else’s vice. It’s not an unheard-of story in the South, people not being able to fully speak to who they are or how they feel – there’s a lot of closet cases among us. I’ve dealt with that a lot in my time in Nashville and I know others have, too. The song is mostly a nod to those experiences and being an openly queer person dealing with others who aren’t open but are addicted to your openness and freedom and not being able to let that go.

What has music taught you about yourself?

It’s taught me that I’m resilient and can get through anything along with the power of believing in yourself. I’ve gone through a lot in this industry, but I keep coming back. This is what I love and I’m never going to stop.

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Photo Credit: Natalie Osborne

Julie Williams’ Star Rises

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

“I like to say my music is mixed, like me,” laughs Julie Williams, a queer, biracial Nashville-based songwriter who happens to be one of the strongest new voices to emerge in country music this decade. “I grew up loving ‘90s country, but before I moved to Nashville I didn’t necessarily think I could make that music. I didn’t think I had a place in the genre. I had so many other influences too – like the Indigo Girls, James Taylor, and other folk music – so I thought that would be more my world. But the song that changed everything for me was ‘Southern Curls.’ I was like, whoa, this is undeniably a country song, and it feels more like me than anything else I’ve ever written.”

Released back in 2021, “Southern Curls” was a breakout single for Williams and continues to inform her subsequent work in a lot of ways. Like many of the best country songs, the track flirts with an existing trope while flipping it entirely on its head, invoking the texture of her own Black hair as a foil to disrupt the traditional image of coiffed ringlets favored by white southern belles. Williams uses her hair as a gateway to discuss the still prevalent differences between how Black and white women are treated in this country, particularly in the South, and opens the conversation with a matter-of-fact account of her personal experience.

It’s a simple, riveting song, intimate and singular, but also broad enough to provide desperately needed representation for a whole diaspora of Black female artists who, like Williams, have had a hard time making space for themselves in the predominantly whitewashed genre of mainstream country. Almost immediately, the track earned the attention of fellow Black country artist and Apple Music host Rissi Palmer, who named Williams to her 2021 Color Me Country cohort, and also caught the ear of the Black Opry, who invited the young artist to join the collective on stage and on tour in 2022.

Following this up with a self-titled EP in 2023, an appearance on a PBS special about Black women in country, and a performance at Newport Folk Festival, Williams joined the CMT Next Women of Country Class of 2023. Now, she’s touring behind another new EP, Tennessee Moon, which includes a new version of the impactful song. Williams is excited about the prospect of expanding her sound – and her writing voice – even further.

“‘Southern Curls’ gave me the bravery to write songs that feel authentic to me,” Williams says. “From there, I’ve been really lucky to work with some incredible people, like my partner Jonathan Smalt, who produced my new EP, Tennessee Moon. This is a big release for me in that it feels like an arrival.”

Another part of that feeling? Williams and “Southern Curls” were featured prominently as part of a new documentary on Hulu, It’s All Country, which features legends like Luke Combs, Wynonna Judd, and Sheryl Crow, plus a never-before-seen performances from Williams herself.

While out on tour behind Tennessee Moon, which released in October, Williams called in to speak with Good Country from the road. She talked about her experience shifting from the world of public policy to the music industry, all things ’90s country, navigating the bounds of folk and other genres in her sound, and those deeply felt, close friendships that might have always been more than… just friends.

What was your relationship to country music like when you were growing up?

Julie Williams: My mom used to play a lot of ‘90s country in the car, artists like The Chicks, Shania Twain, Trisha Yearwood, and Sara Evans – but especially The Chicks. I’ve been thinking a lot about them recently, especially in the last few weeks [since the presidential election]. A huge part of my musical introduction was around the time when The Chicks were kicked off country radio. Their song, “Not Ready To Make Nice,” I remember my mom explaining the lyrics to me. That was really where my love for storytelling and lyrics came from.

I noticed the lyrics in your songs right away, they’re not filler or frivolous, they’re stories.

I always thought people would only want to listen to me if I was playing the songs they already knew and loved. Once I started writing, I realized my stories have value. Growing up in Florida, I’d sing covers of Jimmy Buffett and Tom Petty, whatever songs I thought would get me the tips from the snowbirds. I didn’t go to school for music, I went to Duke University and studied public policy. I wanted to work for a non-profit and become a lawyer. But we had a student record label I was a part of, Small Town Records, and that was the first time I got the chance to start writing my own songs. I started to see the power in my own story.

How did you make the jump from studying public policy back into music?

I wanted the work I did to make somebody’s life just a little bit better, but I didn’t realize I could do that with music too. Some of the things I cared a lot about, too – issues of race, queer issues, and women’s issues – how do you get people to care about them? Part of it is through telling stories that move people. I soon realized I didn’t have to sit behind a desk all day and be a policy analyst. Music can also get me in spaces and in front of people that I wouldn’t be around.

Is there an artist who has a career path that you’d like to follow in the industry?

I’ve always been such a fan of Kacey Musgraves and the way that she’s always stood up for what she believes in. She’s never backed down in that, and she’s always put herself in her songs. Part of it is about love and heartbreak, but it’s also about following your arrow, and being yourself. Even the ways in which she’s created a whole new sound in country and in folk with Golden Hour. I fell in love with that album when it came out. I’ve always looked up to the way she can capture the simplest feelings of being a human in her songs.

How do you feel about your music as country or as folk? There are so many other elements to it, and you have a very layered, textured sound.

I have so many influences that aren’t from country, but pairing all of those things creates that mixed sound that really feels like me. As an artist, I’m constantly thinking about “How am I going to market this?” or “What genre is this going to be in?” and that can sometimes feel limiting. I don’t think my music would fit into a traditional pop-country radio sound, but I don’t think it fully fits into other genres either. I’m just trying to make what feels good for me.

How does Tennessee Moon fit into your current discography? It feels like another level.

It’s definitely a big release for me. That’s a testament to being here in Nashville for a few years and trying things out. Every time I put out music or write a song, I hope there’s going to be better ones that keep coming. “Tennessee Moon” was a really special one for me. It started with a film photo that I took of an ex while we were kayaking at Percy Priest lake at sunset. That relationship didn’t work out, but I took the photo to a co-write with a friend of mine, Melody Walker. I said, “I want to write a song that feels like this picture,” and I knew everything else was going to be around that song.

“Just Friends” is another one of my favorite songs on Tennessee Moon, and it seems like so many people relate to the experience of the blurred line between best friends and something more. How did it feel to address that?

I wrote this one with Melody Walker as well and it’s also one of my favorites. I love women, and I realized that I can love anyone regardless of their gender identity. I came to that realization in my twenties, but now that I know who I am – and who I love – I was looking back at a specific friendship of mine. Retrospectively, I realized I had a crush on this person. I was in love with this person. But getting the chance to create a pretty sapphic music video felt like ripping the band-aid off as far as talking about my queer identity in my songs. I hadn’t done that before. I’m really excited to write and put out music freely now.

Photo Credit: Chase Denton

On Her Debut Solo Album, MUNA’s Katie Gavin Searches for Connection and Finds It

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

On the album cover for singer-songwriter Katie Gavin’s solo debut album, What A Relief, she sits half-dressed in the middle of her shiny, sage-green bedspread with various clothes and possessions strewn around her and the floor; even the cat stands awkwardly mid-sit or stand, it’s hard to tell. The immediacy of this messy in-between moment conveys the intimacy Gavin reaches to again and again on the album.

I want you to see me
When you’re not looking
I want you to fuck me
When we’re not touching

The album’s opening track, “I Want It All,” exhumes a lust for connection so all-consuming she knows already, “I’m gonna lose my mind / I’m gonna lose…” But it’s also Gavin’s thirst for and attention to these acutely relatable moments of humanity that render the album enticing.

“I’m really hungry for connection. And I think that in putting out songs that express that, or putting out images that express that, and having it met with understanding gives me that experience of like ‘we’re all humans having a human experience,’” Gavin says. “I want to push myself in terms of what I allow other people to see.”

Much of Gavin’s career has been with pop band MUNA (who opened for Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour earlier this year). Solo, Gavin sheds her dazzling pop-star persona and the trappings of MUNA’s spectacular auditory and stage presence, retaining their honesty and emotional precision. What A Relief, which was produced by Tony Berg, is a collection of 12 songs Gavin wrote on the side over the past seven years. With them, and a clarity born of self-assurance and yearning for connection, Gavin pulls up a chair to settle in for a heart-to-heart with her audience.

“Some days you do your best / Some days you do what gets you out of bed…” Gavin sings on “Casual Drug Use,” possessing an inscrutable ability to pinpoint reality neatly and poignantly. That realism remains throughout the album, which unfolds as a masterful look at the human condition through the micro view of Gavin’s relationships with the world, herself, and others. Many times, she sounds so thrillingly close to the microphone it’s as if she’s singing right into your ear.

As she winnows down her experiences to a few kernels of truth, Gavin deliberately and deftly seeks accessibility and relatability without catering to weirdness or discomfort simply to make a point. “I am pleased with the same chords, over and over, as long as there’s a story and someone is saying something compelling,” she explains.

Her lack of pretense serves as shorthand for her palpably raw portraits of life: “But I think this is as good as it gets, my love/ I think this is as good as it gets/ Pray to god that you think that it is enough…” she sings in “As Good As It Gets” – which features guest vocals by Mitski – about a relationship that is not always a fairy tale. It’s an acknowledgement that you can both love someone and be underwhelmed by them, at least some of the time.

“‘As Good As It Gets’ reflects this big question that I’ve had for a long time, and I still have about what is reasonable to expect from a romantic relationship. And how good is it supposed to feel?” she says.

Elsewhere on the album, in “Sanitized,” Gavin carefully takes a wet washcloth to the bottoms of her dirty feet, afraid to stain her lover’s clean bed (“I lie perfectly still so I don’t mess up my hair/ I’m a sanitized girl, I clean up for you my dear”); or promises not to stalk her ex online, except “once in a while I’ll wanna know if you’ve died,” as she muses in “Keep Walking.”

Growing up in Illinois, Gavin’s parents gave her free reign to explore music and she gravitated unsurprisingly to pop music, entertaining preteen love for the Spice Girls and Samantha Mumba, and teen obsessions with Riot Grrrl, Gravy Train, and the Weepies’ “Gotta Have You.” She also gravitated toward queer, explicit music (Gavin is queer, but was in the closet at the time). When she started writing her own music as a teenager, her mother introduced her to Imogen Heap and her father stoked her folkie music interests with Jackson Browne and Jim Croce.

Gavin’s broad musical tastes inform her writing of course. In the case of What A Relief, she draws particularly on her love for John Prine’s flawed, human characters, and perverse, weirdo songster Loudon Wainwright III whose Attempted Mustache remains one of Gavin’s favorite albums.

“It’s the same magic that’s in a lot of John Prine songs, where these people aren’t afraid to talk about what real people experience in their real lives, even if it’s really silly, and then really mixing that with the profound.”

Silly mixed with the profound is perhaps the best possible description of Gavin’s own music. In the middle of the album, Gavin drops the bluegrass-folk portrait “Inconsolable,” about generational baggage’s impact on our well-being. Wrapped around a divinely-gratifying fiddle melody (she brought in Nickel Creek’s Sara and Sean Watkins to add a little extra bluegrass cred to the track) the song is first and foremost a reflection on learning to be vulnerable while falling in love.

It’s an experience that feels every bit as familiar as Gavin’s messy bed, but in a way that seems to make sense for the very first time – the gift of a stellar songwriter. More than that though, “Inconsolable” is a study in the way tiny moments elevate Gavin’s songs through her allegiance to the balance between silly and unvarnished experiences. We’ve all curled up on the couch hesitant to show how we’re really feeling.

But I’ve seen baby lizards running in the river
When they open their eyes
Even though no one taught them how or why
So maybe when you kiss me I can let you
See me cry
And if we keep going by the feeling
We can get by

Mid-verse, Gavin pivots from the endearing image of baby lizards learning to swim to emotional vulnerability in a fledgling relationship with the blockbuster realization that salvation and connection again might just come from that blind leap of trust.

Gavin’s quest for an honest examination of emotional intelligence stems in part from time spent with her grandparents, two of whom she lost in the last few years. Soaking up their stories, she thought about how much they endured and how many times older generations weren’t afforded a chance to be heard, or to feel their feelings.

Elders teach both by omission and by passing the torch. In “The Baton,” What A Relief’s anthemic third track, dedicated to the lineage of socially and generationally inherited womanhood, Gavin outlines her understanding of resilience as it passes from mother to daughter. Imagining what she’d say to her own daughter, Gavin also reaches to the wisdom from generations before her:

I’d pass her the baton and
I’d say you better run
‘Cause this thing has been going
For many generations
But there is so much healing
That still needs to be done

Not for rebellious reasons, but rather to instill a deep love of self, by the end of the song, Gavin’s come out the other side as her own mother.

“It’s a sense of learning, a sense of ownership and agency and learning to really listen to myself and trust myself, like if I’m going into a situation that I’m nervous about,” she explains. That’s a transformation not unlike her experiences writing the album, which she started when she was 24 and concluded at the age of 31: “You’re kind of moving from this archetype of maiden to mother.”

“I’m aware of a younger part of me that might be nervous and might have needs,” she says. “I often talk to her and say, ‘I got you, you’re coming home with me.’ And, ‘You don’t need to worry that I’m gonna forget about you or give you away to somebody else, or make you tap dance for somebody else.’”

Part of mothering yourself is finding your pitfalls and learning to prevent them. For Gavin, that includes thinking about addiction a lot, well beyond drug use.

“I can get addicted to a lot of different things; I can get addicted to different processes; I can get addicted to people; and I can get addicted to looking at furniture on Facebook marketplace,” she says. “I was thinking about this idea that when we as humans get stuck in the process of addiction, the things that make us feel good, and our actual relationship with the world gets smaller and smaller.”

That idea became the song “Sketches,” wherein Gavin distills addiction into a two-dimensional study of self reduction. In a simple acoustic guitar and cello-accompanied track, she imagines her character reduced to a sketch by an overbearing relationship: “That the deeper I’d go/ The smaller I’d get…” until she takes back control, painting herself back to size.

“The process of recovery has been really one of expansion, learning that I can feel intimacy and connection and pleasure and joy from so many different experiences in life and from so many different people,” Gavin says. “And there’s something that just feels very profound about that for me in this time.”

Even when it comes to writing about climate change, Gavin filters her stories through our relationships to one another. It feels more effective than shaming people for not recycling, she says. In “Sparrow,” she ruminates on the dangers of the quick fix, hoping in vain for the song of a sparrow in spring, only to discover that the tree it would perch on has died of a cure applied rashly and without thinking.

But perhaps Gavin’s most profound relationship moment on the album comes when she eulogizes her dog in “Sweet Abby Girl.”

“She’s taking up most of the mattress/ Can’t imagine being so un-self conscious/ She’s pushing her back up against my legs…” Abby becomes a foil for Gavin’s insecurities, as throughout the song she considers the vulnerability within unqualified love for another being.

Buried late in the album, “Keep Walking,” its penultimate track, reveals Gavin’s raison d’être: “What a relief / To know that some of this was my fault.” Superficially, it’s a breakup song. But it’s also a relief for Gavin’s to put these songs into the world, to share another side of herself, and forge new connections with listeners.

Fundamentally, we get through hard times by laughing with our friends, Gavin says. As she’s matured as a songwriter, she’s been drawn to including those moments of levity in her songs. Invariably, they feel like the best of conversations with friends and lend themselves well to What A Relief’s stripped-down, singer-songwriter format.

“There was just something funny about this idea of putting out this part of me that had up until this point been unexpressed; it does feel like a relief to just let it out,” Gavin says. “I like the sentiment in the song … ‘what a relief to know that some of this was my fault,’ which is just agency. I haven’t behaved perfectly, and that gives me some space to have compassion and forgiveness for you.”

“Real life” is such a tired phrase. Gavin’s version, though, feels scintillatingly, comfortingly relatable, and like her messy bedroom, gives the listener agency to let go and just be, too. What a relief.

Photo Credit: Alexa Viscius

8 Songs for This Exact Moment

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Where do we go from here?

When you wake up in a world where hatred and fascism have been resoundingly endorsed by so many of your neighbors and fellow citizens, how do you proceed? That question becomes even more daunting at its second or third or umpteenth asking.

Yes, music will play a vital role over the next handful of years, as we continue the fight for justice, self-determination, and agency for all people, in the U.S. and around the world. But music, the arts, and creativity won’t be enough to save us. They won’t be an end-all, be-all solution to the political and cultural hurdles we will have to clear in the near future.

This is a moment that calls for so much more. Solidarity, first and foremost – the idea that, at the beginning or end of the day, all we have is each other – and community, organizing, and advocating for each other will be essential. Mutual aid will be more necessary than ever. Putting our own privilege on the line in order to protect and ensure safety for those more marginalized than ourselves is the task immediately at hand. Showing up – yes, for our country, but more importantly, for our friends and neighbors – is the very next step. Literally and figuratively.

Still, the soundtrack we will all write, that we will all curate, that we will all partake in while opposing the craven and hateful policies being proffered by our would-be dictator will be a powerful tool. Music – especially roots music, country and bluegrass, blues and old-time, folk with a lowercase and capital F, and more – are traditions steeped in populism, in worker’s rights, in justice, in standing up for the downtrodden and beleaguered. There are no better genres for this exact moment. There are no betters artists, musicians, and songs than those in and made by our very community.

BGS and Good Country include in our mission a commitment to intentionally crafting a roots music space, a bluegrass- and country-centered universe, where everyone is welcome, regardless of identity, background, nationality, ethnicity, disability, class, or belief system. We are determined to continue that work, to be a place where – hopefully – anyone and everyone can feel seen, heard, safe, and valid in their love for and appreciation of all things roots music.

As we summon courage for the work ahead and lean on our community, here are eight songs perfect for this exact moment in history, to hold up as we remind ourselves our goals are the same at the end of this week as they were at the beginning: liberty, agency, and self-determination for all. – The BGS & Good Country Team

“Mercy Now” – Mary Gauthier

A modern Americana classic, singer-songwriter Mary Gauthier shared “Mercy Now” on social media very early on Wednesday morning, after the news broke that Trump had won another term. It spread quickly on social media with many a repost and reshare. The message here, of mercy applied broadly, universally, and without qualification, is more than timely. It’s evergreen.

“Crisis” – Aoife O’Donovan

Connecting our current struggle to those of past generations is exactly how we continue to put one foot in front of the other, despite setbacks and losses and despair. Aoife O’Donovan’s latest record, All My Friends, is a perfect intergenerational connecting of the dots, centering women, girls, and femmes, and shines a light on the non-linear track that leads to victory. We know we will continue to return to this music over and over in the future, as a balm and a catalyst for progress.

And, as our friends at Basic Folk reminded us yesterday, Aoife’s and Dawn Landes’ episode of the podcast – which focuses on their similar albums centering women, feminism, and women’s issues – is an incredibly timely re-listen. Find that episode here.

“Sun to Sun” – Alice Gerrard

Looking to our roots music elders in this moment is exactly what we all need! Alice Gerrard’s most recent album, Sun to Sun, and certainly its title track, indicate a kind of perseverance and long view that we all could take on as we face the uncertain future.

With a loping, almost marching rhythm, there’s a grounded, realistic, and convicting approach here on “Sun to Sun.” While we all talk, and talk, and talk, and talk, the problems we face continue unabated and unchallenged. What will we do besides talk?

While we talk another fool goes and buys a gun…

“Listen” – Kyshona

Speaking of talking… why don’t we take a turn at listening? The challenge has been set by Kyshona, a powerful and restorative singer-songwriter and activist who channels her ancestors, connects generations, and builds community with every note and every word sung. Originally released in 2020, “Listen” is just as encouraging now as it was then, and just as indelible in its striving for a better, more compassionate world. Media, social media, and the internet all incentivize us to speak, to center ourselves, to prefer “me” and “I” over “us” and “we.” Let’s maybe listen more, instead. Especially right now.

“Beautiful” – Sam Gleaves

Appalachian singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Sam Gleaves – who was raised in southwest Virginia but now lives in eastern Kentucky – released one of the most quietly and emphatically radical queer country and old-time albums of this year, Honest. “Beautiful” is the collection’s stunner, a track about how there’s endless beauty, mystique, and life lessons to be drawn from the ways we’re all different from each other. Through the lyrics, you see the world from the eyes of a young Gleaves, singing about sights and sounds unfamiliar and foreign to a boy from the mountains, loved and cherished by his family and shown that love without question.

Seeing beauty in our differences? What a way to live…

“The Numbers” – Mipso

THE ECONOMY! THE ECONOMY! THE ECONOMY!

What about those of us for whom this economy has never worked well or fully functioned? What about the millions who can’t make ends meet right now, under blue or red presidents? From their 2023 album, Book of Fools, Mipso turn over this very question, examining how and why “The Numbers” could be soaring – hiring numbers, the stock market, crypto values, Tesla market cap – while so many are still struggling day to day.

“Put No Walls Around Your Garden” – New Dangerfield

From Black string band supergroup New Dangerfield – which features Jake Blount, Kaia Kater, Tray Wellington, and Nelson Williams – “Put No Walls Around Your Garden” is an Americana-tinged old-time number, written by Kater, with a collectivist stance and a solidarity through line. There may be instincts in the near future to revert to an “every man for himself” sort of survival strategy, but the only way we’ll get through is together. Rather than hoarding, walling ourselves off, retreating, or recoiling, now is the time to throw open our garden gates and welcome each other in. Share our abundance, work through our scarcity and lack, and care for each other’s needs – big or small.

“Trees” – Laurie Lewis

Consider the trees. Consider the birds, the rivers, the oceans, the saguaro, the pikas, the whooping cranes. Did their realities change between Tuesday and Wednesday? Is the world any less or more likely to burn, to flood, to be blown away by hurricanes and tornadoes now than on Monday? Sadly, no. The march towards climate apartheid continues entirely unfettered, regardless of who holds the White House.

Laurie Lewis, a bluegrass forebear who has carried the mantle of climate justice for her entire life, embodies trees in the title track of her latest album. She and her band show how the fight for justice – climate justice, racial justice, gender equality, LGBTQ+ rights, immigrant rights – is a fight not measured by human lifespans and human time, but against earth’s clock. The trees will continue to watch, waiting, for us to either figure it all out or to fail at our mission.

We must not fail. The work continues and we’ll be working – and singing – alongside you all, the entire way.

Photo Credit: Alice Gerrard by Libby Rodenbough.

A Simple Daily Practice Brought About Liv Greene’s ‘Deep Feeler’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

For Liv Greene, music is all about showing up.

The Nashville-based singer-songwriter just released her sophomore record, Deep Feeler, in mid-October and she wrote and recorded the LP guided by a simple but powerful ethos: Show up for the craft of songwriting and it will show up for you, too. In Greene’s case, that looked like committing to a daily writing practice and finding external sources of accountability – like writers’ groups and online communities – as well as learning to work through days when access to her writerly brain felt blocked.

“A lot of the songs came out of just showing up for the practice, like, ‘Okay, what is there to play with today?’” she tells BGS, calling from her home in Nashville. “‘What’s coming out of my brain today?’”

Though some days only yielded frustration, Greene soon found herself with an album’s worth of material, the bulk of which draws heavily from a concurrent stretch of curiosity-fueled introspection, during which she considered her life as a queer person as well as the quirks and habits that make her who she is.

Greene recorded Deep Feeler at Nashville’s famed Woodland Studios, the East Nashville outpost that serves as home base for David Rawlings and Gillian Welch. She and GRAMMY Award-winning engineer Matt Andrews co-produced the LP, pulling together an ace band that includes acclaimed singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Sarah Jarosz, whom Greene considers a musical hero. Highlights on the record include “Flowers,” a gentle and optimistic celebration of treating oneself with love and care, and “Wild Geese,” which draws inspiration from the late poet Mary Oliver.

Below, BGS catches up with Greene about her daily writing ritual, her experience producing Deep Feeler, and her decision to take a gamble on her artistic vision.

You just released a new record, Deep Feeler. What can you share about the project’s origins and how you conceived its initial vision?

Liv Greene: Most of the songs came out of a dedication to showing up for the craft, whether or not I had an idea when I sat down. I was almost forcing myself to write, but in a way that felt like cultivating a more consistent writing practice. Given that it was during the pandemic, it makes a lot of sense that many of these songs came out of that time. I had a few things to hold me accountable, too. There was a writers’ group I was part of, where I was writing a song a week for the first half of 2021, and a songwriting workshop where I wrote “Flowers.” I also led some workshops myself and participated in the exercises I’d give my students. After moving to Nashville, I wrote “Deep Feeler” and “Wild Geese,” and then the rest of the album took shape from there.

I love the idea of showing up for the craft. It’s not easy to sit down and write when you don’t have an idea at the ready. How did you begin those sessions? Do you have a ritual that helps you shift into that writer headspace?

When I’m in a writing season – which I’m always trying to get back to, though sometimes it’s just not the time, if I’m busier with other parts of my career – it’s usually marked by time with my instrument, just improvising. I’m most inspired by windows or outdoor spaces. Sitting on a porch or in my room looking out the window, just a lot of improvisation. That’s really the core of my songwriting: spending time seeing, maybe speaking in tongues, seeing what comes out in terms of gibberish, and then noticing what starts to stick. There’s something to that diligent practice of making things up consistently, even if you hate what you make up.

Tell me about choosing “Deep Feeler” as the title track. What does feeling deeply represent for you?

The album concept came out of a self-aware period of recognizing patterns in my life and seeing that I was the common denominator. I was in a lot of situationships. While the heart of this record is about the heartache and missteps of my early 20s, I hope it resonates with people beyond that scope. I’d come out, accepted myself, and allowed myself to feel desire and joy and all of these deep romantic feelings for the first time. This record is a lot of me sitting with myself and embracing the way I’m wired, trying to find a healthier self-awareness around it. I’m working on drawing boundaries with myself, but also being proud of my wiring and how it makes me a good storyteller and a good romantic.

As I was preparing to talk to you, I found a quote from you about making this record that really stuck with me. You said, “Now, rather than an escape from myself, songwriting is communion with myself.” Could you elaborate on that?

When I started writing songs in middle and high school, I was at an all-girls Catholic high school. I went to Catholic school most of my life. Being queer, I didn’t feel like I had much representation in my world, so I felt pretty lonely in high school. I didn’t have much of a musical community in D.C., where I grew up. Guitar was always my escape. I’d come home from school, play for hours, and write. As I got older, I had to form a bit more emotional intelligence and really sit with the person I wanted to be. I realized I couldn’t keep running away from parts of myself and that those parts were actually wonderful and something I should embrace. Songwriting became a different vessel for me to explore myself, rather than viewing it academically, as a hobby, or in a scholarly way.

You got to set up shop at Woodland Studios to record the album. Woodland is such a beloved part of Nashville’s music community, and it sounds like you had an excellent roster of musicians in the studio with you. What did being in that environment open up for you creatively?

The core of the record was made in one day in July at Woodland and it was just myself, bass, and drums – no headphones, live in two adjoining rooms, live onto tape. It was very high-pressure. We did six songs that day and just fired them off, trying to keep the authenticity of a live performance at the heart of the record. The studio days were some of the scariest of my professional life, but in a good way.

There were so many nights beforehand where I’d get the Sunday scaries and think, “Oh my God. Sarah Jarosz, who’s a hero of mine, is going to come to the studio tomorrow, and I’m producing. What if we don’t have time to do everything we need to?” It was an immense amount of pressure to be in the producer’s chair for my own project. But musicians put a lot of money into their records because it’s expensive to record. So I viewed the record as, like, “Okay, this is sort of like grad school.” Friends had asked me to produce their stuff before and I’d said no because I didn’t have the experience. Now, it’s baptism by fire, and I’m my own guinea pig.

You have some shows coming up, including a couple here in Nashville. Have you gotten to play much of this material live yet, or is that still to come?

Some of the core songs on the record have been in my set list for a while, at least around town; friends already know all the words to “Wild Geese” and some other “hits” from the record. But yeah, especially the B-side songs, a lot of those will be pretty new to my live show. I’m excited to hopefully do a lot more touring in the next year and see how the songs are landing out in the world. I haven’t really gotten to do that. My last record was a pandemic record and I never really toured it, so I’m really excited for the record to come out soon and then to get out there, meet people, and reconnect with those who resonate with it.

Are you still engaging in your daily writing practice? Do you have other new material on the horizon?

I’m hoping to go into the studio again soon to do a couple of songs. I’m just taking my time getting to know different producers around Nashville. I think this winter is going to be about doing one song here and one song there. I feel like I’m about halfway toward another record, so I’m getting excited to be in the studio again. It’s my favorite place to be.

Photo Credit: Joseph Ross Smith

Out Now: The Accidentals

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Our next band featured on Out Now is the Accidentals, a group that I met over a decade ago, tucked under the oak trees in Northern Michigan at Interlochen Artist Academy. Interlochen is a hub for music and arts education. Katie Larson and Savannah Buist (founders of the band) attended the academy at the same time I did. I’ve admired their artistry and dedication ever since. I remember listening to Interlochen Public Radio, hearing a song they wrote, and thinking these artists were going somewhere. Spoiler alert… they have already gone everywhere, touring all over the U.S.!

Before they attended Interlochen, Katie and Savannah were already playing together in an orchestra and exploring their musical chemistry. The pair are creative, dedicated individuals, curious souls, skilled instrumentalists, and incredible writers. They built a successful career while still very young, touring and playing festival stages in their teenage years. Both turned down college scholarships to hit the road instead. After high school, they added Michael Dause to the band as their percussionist. In 2023, Michael parted from the band; they now play as a trio again with Katelynn Corll.

The Accidentals just released their latest single, “What a Waste.” It’s an honor to highlight this phenomenal band on Out Now. Learn all about their plans for the future, why they create music, and about their incredibly creative minds in our interview with Katie Larson and Savannah Buist.

You’ve been playing together since high school. What has it been like for you to create, write, record, and travel together for the past decade?

Savannah Buist: All of those processes – creating, writing, recording, and traveling – demand different parts of us, and all of them have changed and grown over the years. Creating and writing used to be a more solitary process, and yet [now] we find ourselves collaborating and co-writing with some of the people who inspired us to become songwriters in the first place. Recording went from being solitary, to with producers, to us becoming engineers and recording many of our own projects, to recently joining forces with producer Mary Bragg for a collaborative record. Traveling together used to mean 250 days on the road, sleepless nights living on the opposite schedule of everyone we loved – and now, we ease into it, take our time with it, and the number of people in the van seats, their names and faces have changed over the years.

But the thing that remains true is the constitution of our friendship and our trust. I lean on Katie more than I’ve ever let myself lean on anybody before. She’s the reason why I constantly challenge myself to do better, not just musically but as a person too. She’s a natural listener; she’s observant and deep-thinking. She’s the kind of person who would make an incredible documentary carefully examining both sides of a complex situation and reaching some inevitable core of truth. It’s been incredible watching her grow and change, too, just like all the processes that we engage in together. I think the growth and change I’ve undergone is just as dramatic and important. It’s what keeps us open to each other and supportive of our many interests and endeavors.

Adding Katelynn Corll to the band a couple years ago was like picking up a golden retriever to tour with. She’s always positive and brings balance to the band with her ability to see the big picture, ask good questions, and amp up the energy on stage. She’s got both our backs all the time. It’s a no-ego dream band reality.

Katie Larson: Some days, 10 years sounds like a lifetime and other days it feels like a drop in the bucket. Think about how much change people go through from their late teens to late 20s, then add in the inevitable ups and downs and major transitions you go through in the music industry. What a privilege to have someone by your side who has known your heart since day one. Not only that, but a friend who’s a true collaborator, business partner, and salsa-making science geek who’s always ready to dive into philosophical rabbit holes and will fiercely have your back no matter what. We take a lot of inspiration from the Indigo Girls, a few years ago we got to watch Ann Powers interview them during Americanafest. They’ve been playing music together for almost 40 years now and are still true friends.

Your early success, including playing at various festivals, is impressive. What were some of the most memorable moments or experiences from those early days of touring?

SB: I’ve kept journals for many years and those have sort of fallen into the digital world via Tour Blogs, which we write weekly on our Patreon. Cataloging our experiences has given us a plethora of perspectives. There are times I look back through those journals and blogs and think to myself, “How are we still alive?” From busted trailers to stolen gear to pedalboards lighting on fire from faulty power, playing in caverns and drained swimming pools and stages so tiny we stood shoulder-to-shoulder trying not to poke each others’ eyes out with our bows; farmer’s markets and people’s dogs and their bookshelves when we crashed at their houses, and the strangers who became family along the way. It’s literally too much to recount, because that’s thousands of memories stacked into some neural Jenga of nostalgia. I will say that the early days are like the later days in that we’ve never stopped learning, and never thought we were incapable of learning more.

KL: As an introverted teen, I remember being shocked by kindness from strangers. It still amazes me, but back then it seemed crazy that music could be a catalyst for people making us a home-cooked meal, letting us stay in their homes, or giving us boxes of books to read on the road. One time in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan a man handed us an entire smoked salmon after our set. On another tour in Colorado, we kept accumulating homemade pumpkin bread wherever we went. It wasn’t just gifts – music was also a fast pass to personal conversations with fans at the merch table or with our hosts who became family.

I remember playing a coveted electronic festival called Electric Forest the summer after we graduated high school. Playing folk rock in our dorky dresses (mine covered in pop art chickens and Sav’s covered in cats), we were probably the biggest outlier on the bill, but our artist badges gave us all access. We could go to any stage and watch Lindsey Stirling and Phantogram and Skrillex perform from behind the curtain. In the artist lounge there was this huge juicer, and the women there made me this juice concoction with beets and apple and fresh garlic, and they laughed and said I was glowing. I couldn’t believe we were there.

What was it like for you to start touring and building a career at such a young age?

SB: It was a lot. We thought we were just having fun playing some music with each other and it took on a life of its own. Sometimes in the early years it felt surreal, like a plane taking off and you’re running down the tarmac trying to get on it. I think having a team early was key. We’ve always had the support of our respective parental units – both our moms and dads are musicians and singers and songwriters, so they understood our ambitions and goals and sought tirelessly to lift us up. Having a parent that understands the industry and was willing to support us full time was a lot of the reason we were able to be full-time musicians from a young age.

My mom took us on a brutal “trial tour” in the summer of 2012 – she booked 30 shows in 27 days with radio shows a lot of those mornings, to convince us to go to college. It didn’t work. It just solidified that Katie and I were compatible on the road. At the end of that tour, Katie and I knew we wanted to do this music thing to the extent of both of us [gave] up scholarships to college. My mom agreed to manage/tour with us and we signed our first deal right out of high school. She buffered a lot of the stigma attached to young females playing in clubs they weren’t old enough to be in and took a lot of the verbal abuse that comes with this industry and recording with people you don’t know very well and we watched her handle it.

We learned to start with respect – even when it isn’t mutual – but stand up for ourselves when necessary. We learned to compromise when we could and if we couldn’t live with it, hold our ground. We were made acutely aware of the power of “core base, fans, supporters, road family” and FAMgrove, the fanclub was born. They have kept us going through all the hardest parts.

KL: It was eye opening for a lot of reasons. We had an amazing support system and we were eager to learn and become better musicians. A lot of artists and people in the industry took us under their wing and I learned so many life lessons from those who treated us with mutual respect. There were times when people assumed we put ourselves on a pedestal and didn’t know how to use our gear or hold our own, because we were young. We learned quickly that being alone in the wrong place at the wrong time could be very dangerous and relied on our tour family to keep each other safe. Contradictions can be true. I think touring made us more independent, and also more dependent on each other. It made us more self confident, and more self-conscious.

You founded a nonprofit organization, Play It Forward, Again and Again, to empower youth and provide better access to instruments, lessons, and mentors. What led you to that kind of work, and do you have plans and hopes to continue? What is your vision?

SB: We do a lot of workshops for kids all over the country – songwriting workshops, improvisational workshops, alternative styles for strings workshops. When we were in high school, a duo called the Moxie Strings came to our school and did a performance playing electric violin and cello. That was so monumental to us; it showed us that it was possible to take those instruments to a contemporary world and succeed and it also showed us that there were women out there making it happen. We started doing workshops for exactly that reason – to perpetuate that cycle of inspiration and encouragement; to allow people of any background to have the opportunity to express themselves via music.

It’s hard to do that when budgets for music programs are typically the first to get slashed. Many schools we traveled to had only a choir or a band program, if any program existed at all. The underprivileged areas we visited often contained extremely talented kids who were naturally gifted, but lacked access to the tools due to financial constraints. Instruments can be incredibly expensive, especially in the orchestral world, and it keeps them from being accessible to kids who could use them for therapeutic purposes, who could change the world with them.

So, that led to us establishing a nonprofit with the goal to get instruments into those kids’ hands. Not only that, but we want to establish a support system for them to get follow-up lessons from a musician local to their area. This allows them not just the tools for self-expression, but also instruction on how to use those tools, too. We wanna connect schools with bands that are touring through and provide funding for the band and school to show kids that it’s possible to make a living doing something you love.

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

KL: I’m still figuring out where I identify on the LGBTQ+ spectrum, so one of the most helpful things for me is to talk to friends about their experiences. It allows me to sort through things I resonate with and gives me a safe space for self-reflection. I’m not always the best communicator, but since I was a kid I always thought I had a good understanding of myself. That makes it hard for me to acknowledge that there are still parts of myself I’m learning about. It helps to hear other people I admire doing the same thing at various points in their life. These are a couple articles I’ve read that come to mind: Lucy Dacus on coming out and Amelia Meath of Sylvan Esso talking about her identity.

Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?

SB: I think it’s important to clarify that many artists and bands have LGBTQ+ members without being an “LGBTQ-themed” band, per se. It’s hard for me to definitively know if a band with LGBTQ+ members or an artist who lies somewhere on the LGBTQ+ spectrum wants to be considered an LGBTQ+ artist or band, unless they’re specifically writing songs about their queerness – otherwise it leads to assumptions that I don’t think it’s my place to make.

I think identification can be both empowering and entrapping. We contain multitudes and we are so much more than who we love. It’s a big reason why I don’t always talk about my queerness. That being said, there is an important aspect to identifying with your queerness and resonating with it that creates a safety net for others to be themselves and I am all about that kind of inclusion.

There are artists of the LGBTQ+ community paving the way for inclusivity every day: Ani DiFranco and Brandi Carlile were the firsts for me, then I had a writing session with Maia Sharp and it opened up my world. She was the first person to tell me that I was OK. Then I met Crys Matthews, Heather Mae, Ethel Cain, Spencer LaJoye, and I felt safer talking about it. There is space for queer artists to create art about their queerness and queerness as a whole, and there’s also space for queer artists to create art that’s not about their queerness, at least to themselves. My favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands write all kinds of music, while staying true to themselves – whether they are out of the closet or still deciding how to verbalize how they feel.

What is your ideal vision for your future?

SB: We made a pie chart at the beginning of ’24 and we each decided how much time we wanted to give to each project. My ideal vision for the future is balance. Right now I’m feeling pretty good about playing as a side artist with Lainey Wilson and still sitting in with artists like Ashley McBryde, Hannah Wicklund, Beth Nielsen Chapman, and Kim Richey. Katie and I played strings (and other instruments) and sang on 40+ other albums this year and we loved that. So we’re always down for more session work.

The Accidentals are touring less in ’25 to make room for other projects and that was the plan that came out of the pie chart conversation. We’ll put out a couple albums in ’25 that we’ve been working on for two years, a TIME OUT 3 album (first single just dropped), a children’s album written with Tom Paxton, and a Christmas album with Kaboom Collective Studio Orchestra. We’ll tour those albums, but not much aside from that. We’re also looking at a “Michigan and Again” children’s book deal.

As far as long term, I’m one semester away from my bachelor’s in biology so I’ll likely finish that when time allows. The takeaway from all that is we are in love with the process, the learning, the growing, the becoming. We find gratitude everyday for the opportunity to explore all those things and become the best version of ourselves.

Photo Credit: Jay Gilbert

Jake Blount & Mali Obomsawin’s ‘symbiont’ is a Radical Act of Reclamation

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Jake Blount & Mali Obomsawin’s new album symbiont is a dense nest of references across a century of Black and Indigenous music and sound making, worked into the warp and weft of synthesizers and electronic production.

The liner notes detail Obomsawin’s trips to Blount’s apartment in Providence, Rhode Island, where the two would work through music, books, and other texts they had collected, compiling sounds and ideas, building up the whole project’s sound. The album bridges the hyperlocal and the global, across time, in a historically-minded, futurist radical gesture, refusing the silence of official archives and restoring voices lost to colonial violence.

The album was released by Smithsonian Folkways, which has a history of preserving a worldwide range of music, but also industrial sounds, the songs of birds, and the noises of frogs and toads. Obomsawin’s previous band Lula Wiles was also on the label. Folkways is an archive that is institutional though, literally funded by the government, and it is often colonial – they gave money to white officials who collected songs on reservations, in prisons, and among communities where saying no was an economic or social impossibility. The official archivists, given imprimatur by the Smithsonian, and the unofficial archive, compiled by these two musicians who are working personally, across time and space, to commemorate the social and political will of marginalized people, is a difficult balance.

In a conversation over Zoom, Blount makes the archival practice explicit saying that the process “became a way for me to co-opt this thing that I have often felt; [that] archives exist to deny dead Black people our agency and cut off our communal traditions from the community.”

The community here is as small as two people in a room, or in a Zoom call, but also collapses historical pasts, the apocalyptic now, and a possible, hopeful Afro/Indigenous future. When asked about how this album was in conversation with the colonial history, Obomsawin makes the political claim as explicit and as communal as Blount, saying that this album is “in conversation and asserting continuance for our colonized ancestors and our future descendants who have overthrown their colonizers.”

How to do that overthrowing is not an abstract or intellectual consideration here. There are calls for direct action. In one of the album’s spoken word sections, an ancient outside of time and space discusses how humanity cannot be either created or destroyed, but it is like a great river (like Langston Hughes’ river) that the energy flows through.

The material throughout this album is part of that great river, and so it includes texts like Slave Songs of the United States (ed. William Francis Allen, Charles Pickard Ware, and Lucy McKim Garrison) and Indian Melodies by Thomas Commuck, who is described by Obomsawin as a “Native American author, Commuck (Narragansett/Brothertown), [who] began his life in a community heavily influenced by the Methodist Episcopal Church with the tradition of singing shape note hymns.”

The ancestor work here is nuanced as Obomsawin refuses to view Commuck as a simple victim of settler violence, acknowledging the intellectual work of his hymnal, while also acknowledging that his learning the shape note involved an erasure of more traditional forms. Obamsawin’s inclusion of western plains singing on the recordings of Commuck function like Jeremy Dutcher’s album Wolastoqiyik Lintuwakonawa, who traveled to the settler capital of Ottawa to access wax cylinders of the almost extinct songs of his people – cylinders stolen from them. Maggie Paul, an elder and song keeper from Dutcher’s community, told him to bring the songs back. symbiont does something similar.

The songs gathered here are a model of how stories from the Atlantic Triangle and from the expulsion of Indigenous people from their native homelands can be made new. These songs are stories, of stars falling out of the skies, but also of the gathering of community or private devotions. The gathering of the community is a successful part of the project.

On this album, Blount and Obomsawin inherit the hymns of colonization, hymns that were remade by Indigenous and Black writers, performers, and thinkers. On “Mother,” there is an interleaving of singing over drums and synths; a gorgeous version of the hymn “In the Garden” is scarred with feedback, synth interruptions, and technological glitches, emphasizing the shift from male to female pronouns. These formal choices interrupt the edenic expectation of the song’s tradition, while still acknowledging where the text originated from. Jazz and electroacoustic performer Mantana Roberts did similar work with the hymn in her work Coin Coin Chapter 5 – there are always riffs, always new ways of working out old songs.

The expulsion from the garden into new sounds can also be seen in the song “Stars Begin to Fall,” with the jazz stalwart Taylor Ho Bynum. Percussion and gourd banjo undergird Obomsawin’s rich harmonies singing, “When you hear the master fall as he topples from his throne…” There is a profound impact, a direct route to the kind of political work of community.

Obomsawin is in conversation with Blount; Blount and Obomsawin are in conversation with Bynum; Bynum, Obomsawin, and Blount are in conversation with Slave Songs and William Francis Allen, Charles Pickard Ware, and Lucy McKim Garrison. And, the history of the slave song, which originated American popular music. This is an album about the earth, so when “Stars Begin to Fall” talks about horns, Bynum makes his cornet flutter, speed, appear and disappear. He turns that instrument into a bird, with all of the contradictory metaphors of containment and freedom within it.

The river which carries these stories is one which loops, breaks, and returns – it has not one source, but dozens. This borrowing, this community, the pulling out of narratives, the flow, has been blocked.

There are two songs here by Alan Lomax, the folk song collector, whose relationship to the medium has become incredibly vexed. Blount, when asked about what it means to include Lomax in this canon making, his response is as patient, as angry, and as generous as the rest of the record: “I understand that this may be something he did with the best of intentions. I don’t mean to impugn that in any way. I think we are now at a point where we need to start examining. If there’s a solution to release those copyrights. I don’t know legally if that can be done, but something’s got to change, because at the point where you have Black people sampling recordings of our ancestors on their songs and they have to credit John and Alan Lomax as co-writers on that song… I had to credit a white man for my song that I wrote, because he happened to record some other Black people one time.”

This album is a reclaiming, not of authorship, but a collapsing of time and space. It’s an album of new narratives of creations, against copyright, and against Euro-centric narratives of how we imagine folk music to sound like and about what the audience means. This is an album intended for liberation, one in conversation across time and place. Specific time and place are key to the aesthetic and political work of Blount and Obomsawin – work that refuses to ask permission.

When they sing, “Come down ancients and trouble the waters/ Let the saints come in…” on the perfect, revelatory, and haunting track “Come Down Ancients,” the invocation towards the saints is as small as two people in an apartment, as smart as a grad school seminar, and as expansive as centuries of art making, both heard and unheard, censored because it scared or intimidated those who colonized.

That symbiont has no interest in asking permission anymore makes it a most radical act of reclamation.

Photo Credit: Abby Lank

MIXTAPE: Flamy Grant’s Songs for Healing Gay Religious Trauma

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Welcome to the playlist you probably didn’t have on your bingo card this year: a series of songs spanning from gospel music to ’90s folk to contemporary singer-songwriters, all curated by a drag queen with a number one Christian album under her belt. I’m Flamy Grant, and I’m honored that BGS invited me to share the songs that healed my very gay, very religious trauma.

My first record was called Bible Belt Baby, so I know a thing or two about growing up in the shadow of a religious fervor that wants boys to be boys, girls to be girls, and gays to keep it in the closet. Here are a few of the songs that helped me not only to come out, but to let this little light of mine keep shining in the faces of a lot of people who’d prefer it were hidden under a bushel. Not today, gatekeepers. Not today. – Flamy Grant

“If You Ever Leave” – Flamy Grant

Oh, hello darling. I’m a drag queen with wares to sell. Of course I’m starting off this playlist with my new single! It is, at least, very much on topic. This ballad from my forthcoming record, CHURCH, pretty much speaks for itself, but I will offer this one, brief, supplemental thought: if there’s a God demanding your worship, but as you get to know him you discover that you are capable of loving people better and more completely than he is… don’t worship that God. Girl… it’s a trap.

“Undamned” – Over the Rhine

Outside of Amy Grant, no artist has had as much of an impact on me as Ohio-based duo Over the Rhine. Karin and Linford have saved my life ten times over. “I’m not your little lost lamb, God might still get my world undamned.” This song somehow manages to be both defiant (personally, my favorite posture) and repentant. Brazenly owning your apostasy while unabashedly surrendering to a cosmic, supernatural love at the same time? Slay. (Bonus: Lucinda Williams delivers an absolutely divine featured vocal. Undamn me anyday, Over the Rhine.)

“Wrap My Arms Around Your Name” – Sarah Masen

When I was growing up, I was only allowed to listen to Christian music. Sarah Masen was always a bit of a square peg in a round Christian music industry hole, and one of the first songwriters I encountered who addressed the conflict, doubt, and dissonance inherent to the faith everyone else around her was putting such a sheen on.

From the first line, “Mystery’s walking on my head again,” I was hooked on this song about yearning to feel deeply spiritually connected. “Does hallelujah wear the same old face?” Excellent existential question, Sarah. Thanks for giving my teenage angst a place to freely ask it.

“Amy’s Song” – Matt Simons

Back in 2018, I was a worship leader for a queer-affirming church in San Diego and we decided for Pride month that year that we would put on a worship service that was 100% produced, led, and delivered by our queer members. I even wanted to make sure every song we sang had been written (or co-written, in this case) by a card-carrying member of the alphabet mafia. I found “Amy’s Song” and loved the music and the message: “Does your God really give a damn” about who I love?

The twist for me was in discovering that one of the song’s co-writers, and its namesake, Ames, and I had played a show together years before in when we were both closeted and going by different stage names. I led “Amy’s Song” at our church that Sunday and Ames and I have since reconnected online. We’ve even been talking about writing something together one of these days. “Amy’s Song 2: The Ballad of Flamy,” perhaps? (Pro tip: after you listen, go watch the music video and making-of mini-doc, both on Matt Simons’ YouTube page. Bring Kleenex.)

“breathe again” – Joy Oladokun

Honestly, it was hard to pick just one song from Joy Oladokun’s extensive repertoire of musical remedies for the religiously wronged. She is both plainspoken and poignant, capturing the heartbreak so many queer people experience when we grow up in families and cultures that suffocate us in a shame-inducing, manipulative desecration of divine love. Joy’s voice in this song just melts me, and it’s a breath of fresh air for the closeted kid I used to be when she uses it to sing, “If I hold my breath until I’m honest, will I ever breathe again?”

“Someday You’ll Wake Up Okay” – Spencer LaJoye

This is inner child work of the highest order and nobody translates the specific into the universal with such clarity as my friend Spencer. “You won’t hear me, but I’ll think it from the future.” Oof. Also, who knew healing your inner child could be such a bop?

“Holy Sunlight” – Steven Delopoulos

Something about the music of Stephen Delopoulos, who fronted the ’90s Christian band Burlap to Cashmere, just feels reverent. It’s like high-church Paul Simon. This song reminds me that even when we’re leaving, we’re really not. “Pack my luggage, fake a smile/ Don’t cry, we’re all connected like the ocean sea.”

“Faith” – Semler

No one is more emblematic of a reckoning for the Christian music industry to me than my pal Semler, who was the first out queer artist to have a number one Christian record a couple years back. In “Faith,” they are eye-level with the abusers of power in the church they’re confronting. “Don’t pretend I’m not your body.” GOOSEBUMPS, HUN. And it’s a song that somehow doubles as a powerful worship anthem of sorts for the disenfranchised? We’re here, we’re queer, and we still have faith, dear. I live.

“Shiloh” – Audrey Assad

I had stopped listening to CCM by the time Audrey got her record deal with juggernaut Christian label Sparrow Records back in 2010, so I missed most of her early career. But during the pandemic, I learned about this (wildly-talented) artist that Christian media outlets were criticizing for “backsliding.” Don’t tempt me with a good time, I said. Audrey and I have become friendly on social media since then, and she’s so much more than a good time. She’s a healer. This song in particular patches up a new part of me every time I hear it. God bless the ones who leave the church but never stop providing care for souls.

“The Way You Get Found” – Story & Tune

I’m proud to say I was the first person to ever hear this excellent song, in the basement of the San Diego house I shared during pandemic with its writers, Karyn and Ben. The line that got me then still gets me today: “I bless the way you carve your name on the gate-kept inner sanctums where they said you couldn’t stay.” Absolute pros, these two, crafting an artful turn of phrase that not only perfectly fits the demanding cadence of the song, but delivers a well-placed gut punch to folks who know what it’s like to stand up to religious bullies when they say we can’t be on their playground.

“Jacob from the Bible” – Jake Wesley Rogers

This song came through my Spotify algorithm one day and stopped me in my tracks. Of course, now Jake is a world famous colorful crooner and besties with Elton John, etc., but when this song came out, I was able to reach him online and successfully petitioned him to be on my podcast. You can still listen to that conversation. We talk about this song, where it came from, what it meant to each of us, and why Jake should definitely be our first gay president. For me, it feels like a life-giving extraction from all the oppressive weight of religious expectation. “I don’t want to be held down by a heavenly man.” Makes me think of Jacob from the Bible when he defeated the angel in an all night wrestling match. (Hot!) And honey, wrestling with God? Relatable.

“Testify to Love” – Wynonna

Okay, this might be the only bonafide CCM hit in the mix. It was originally recorded by Christian supergroup Avalon and if you were anywhere near Christianity in 1997/98, this song is In. Your. Bones. Every once in a while when I’m playing to an audience of a certain age — the ones who were in youth group about the same time as me — I’ll bust this out as a cover during my set and, well, let’s just say it’s so cute to watch half the room have a dramatic That’s So Raven-style flashback. But I propose to you that at the end of the day, it’s a gay song. I mean, the opening lyric is, “All the colors of the rainbow!” It’s all about how love wins!

What really seals the deal is Wynonna Judd’s countrified cover of the song from a very special episode of Touched by an Angel. I dare you to listen and not agree that Christianity peaked in 1997 and we should frankly just ignore everything that’s come out of evangelicalism since this song ruled the airwaves.

“House of Spirits” – Allman Brown

London-based singer-songwriter Allman Brown taps right into all of our generational trauma and father wounds with this achingly gorgeous spiritual about how it feels to sit vigil by the deathbed of a parent who “damned my soul to the fires.” As someone with a damaged and deeply strained relationship with an ultra-religious father who’s still alive, this song gives me a glimpse into the journey ahead, and I find myself praying along with Allman that one day that house of spirits “will feel like home.”

“What You Heard” – Amy Grant

An Amy Grant song on this list was inevitable, but far less likely is a song from a parent who learned better communication skills by going to family therapy with her kids. But that’s exactly what we have in this, the first new song from the Queen of Christian Pop in a decade. I saw Amy perform it last year and she told the story of how group therapy with her family helped her understand that some of the ways she thought she was communicating love to her kids weren’t exactly landing that way on their ears. It’s the kind of thing most survivors of religious trauma can only dream of: a God-fearing parent gaining perspective later in life and using therapy tools to change behavior? A better relationship through effective communication? May we all be so fortunate. But even if we’re not, my favorite diva (she would never call herself that, so someone has to) has gifted us with this beautifully-written song that shows it’s possible. Amy and amen.

“May I Suggest” – Susan Werner

I’ll leave you with the best benediction that’s ever been spoken (sung) over me. I wish someone had invited me to the Susan Werner party years ago, so I’m making it my mission to bring as many plus-ones as possible now that I’m here. Actually, in a way, I’ve been here since high school, I just didn’t know it. The first time I heard this song was as a cover by Ellis Paul and Vance Gilbert back in the late ’90s, but I just assumed it was theirs. Then about a year ago, a friend sent me a track by Susan called “Our Father,” in which she expertly/hilariously reimagines the Lord’s Prayer (“Deliver us from those who think they’re you”). I was hooked and started working my way through her catalog, but it wasn’t until I saw her live at the Kerrville Folk Festival earlier this year that I learned she was the composer of this song I loved when I was 17.

When she sat down at a baby grand and soulfully set out to convince a field full of festival-goers that “this is the best part of your life,” I openly wept. It’s tempting after you escape from oppressive, high-demand religion to fall into the trap of regret for a lost youth and years of missed chances. Susan invites us to consider the other side of that coin: thanks to the trauma you’ve survived, “Inside you know what’s yours to finally set right.” The next time Susan is anywhere near you, drag yourself (yes I said DRAG) and everyone you love to the show — and hope that she sings this benediction over you, too.

Photo Credit: Sydney Valiente

Out Now: Ally Westover

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Ally Westover is a Nashville-based artist known for a blend of lullaby-like sounds and groovy indie-folk tunes, stitched together with warmth, imagery, and honesty. Her new single, “Rotten Milk” (available September 6), is an exploration of queer identity. The lyrics circle relatable themes like love gone sour and compulsory heterosexuality – a term coined by Adrienne Rich to describe societal expectations queer women face around conforming to heterosexual norms. The concept resonates with many queer women who struggle to navigate their identities.

It’s exciting to feature an artist who is opening a discussion around these ideas. Ally’s EP, Changing Room, dives further into these themes and is to be released in January 2025. In our Out Now interview, she shares her current state of mind, what it means to her to be an LGBTQ+ artist, and how she balances the business and creative aspects of being an artist.

You are releasing an EP in 2025 titled Changing Room. What was the process of creating this project? And, what do you hope listeners will take away from this collection of songs?

I created this project with my friend and musical mentor, Oliver Hopkins. He is one of the people that inspires me most in this world and to make a record with him is an absolute dream come true. I came to him with a few songs that I loved and believed in, but wanted him to help me make them sound more focussed and sonically interesting.

We wrote “Rotten Milk” in his backyard in the height of the summer heat after I had just gotten out of a relationship with a man that felt like a stranger. The track that follows is “Waterbug,” which is my absolute favorite. It encompasses queer desire and yearning. The last song is called “Digital Body” and it’s all about decompressing and slowing things down. I hope that listeners enjoy the songs and feel maybe a little more understood in their own lives. More than anything I am just happy to have the songs in the world!

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

Songwriting itself is pure magic. The energy present during the process is what propels me to dig for more songs. I create music because I have to! It is the way that I work through my emotions and thoughts and fears. It is the time capsule for my life. It is the way that I cope with being human.

Do you create music primarily for yourself or for others?

Initially, I create music for myself. And when it is done, I look forward to sharing the songs with other people so that they may feel less alone as I believe we all have similar struggles. It’s my hope that through sharing music, we all feel more connected to each other at a soul level.

Who are your favorite LGBTQ+ artists and bands?

Courtney Barnett, MUNA, Big Thief, Chappell Roan, Katy Kirby, Arlo Parks, Tash Sultana, Cassidy Maude, Ab Lag, Molly Martin, Erin Rae, Liv Greene, Purser, Jobi Riccio, and Saltwater Baby are some of my favorites. Wow! There are so many! I am so grateful for queer visibility!

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

The band MUNA saved me! Chanting songs about being gay and worthy of love really helped me feel empowered. I have an incredible sister, friends, and therapist who have stood by me through the hardest moments. The queer community in Nashville is amazing. Shout out to Jonda, the owner of Lipstick Lounge, for creating a safe haven for queer people. It was only when I realized that it is not my job to make other people comfortable, was I set free.

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

I would not be openly making music as a queer person had it not been for the Black lesbians and trans people of color that fought back during Stonewall riots. Thank you to Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, and Stormé DeLarverie for fighting for my right to exist and to love who I love. Being an LGBTQ+ musician means that “no one is free until everyone is free.” It means liberation, justice and resistance.

We’ve had a conversation before about how you left the music industry for a few years and decided you needed to return. What was that like for you? Could you share what drew you back and the importance of creating and sharing your music?

In the time that I was away from music, it was still plaguing my every thought. I tried to study fashion to explore a different creative outlet and that brought me to sustainability, as I learned about the horrors of the fast fashion industry. Because of this, I make all of my merch on thrifted clothes in hopes to be as eco-conscious as possible. Sustainability led me to an existential crisis so I switched majors to philosophy, which only dug me a deeper hole. It was during my philosophy class that I realized I must pursue my bliss – music! Coming back to music as my career focus felt like coming home.

What’s your ideal vision for your future?

When I think of “future me” I imagine myself traveling and playing shows with a small band, throwing killer dinner parties, and tending to a sprawling garden. The ideal vision of my future has much to do with “present me” leaning deeper into the things that I already do.

What is your greatest fear?

I have realized that I am the person who will ultimately affect the outcome of my life – so I would say that I am most afraid of the part of myself that harbors doubt.

What is your current state of mind?

My current state of mind is a collage of gratitude and helplessness; of joy and sorrow; of yearning and grieving. I grieve the genocide in Palestine amongst the many other humanitarian crises in the Congo, Sudan, and in the United States. I find it really challenging some days to be hopeful, but I try to find joy in the small moments and do everything I can to uplift marginalized voices.

I am hopeful about creating and sharing the project that I have been working on for over a year now. Entering into the fall season, I am looking forward to slowing down, going inward, and continuing to lean into my cozy home and my community.

How do you balance being on social media, promoting your music, playing shows, and looking after your mental health?

I tell myself that I want to do this for the rest of my life, so if it takes the rest of my life to do it then so be it. I remind myself that the long game is what matters and that slowly chipping away making good art is what counts. I lean on my community and try my best. I’ve also been trying to intentionally rest without guilt and to say yes to fun experiences that do not center around music. I have found that I create the best and most interesting art when I am living my life for myself. My partner is very organized and business focussed and they gave me some killer advice. They said, “Why don’t you focus strictly on music business for 2 hours a day, in the morning, so that you don’t have to spiral about it for the next 22 hours?” They created the term “Ally’s Office Hours” and it has helped tremendously.

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

Soft sunlight and fresh air seep through my window. I indulge in light roast pour over coffee and fresh fruit for breakfast. I sit at the kitchen table with my journal and my mini Yamaha as ideas for songs flood my mind like a heavy summer rain. Once the rain has cleared, I walk to the grocery store and grab some fresh seafood, sharp cheeses, and Castelvetrano olives. The rest of the dinner setup will be a harvest from my garden. I pop by the local wine shop for a floral Spanish white wine and perhaps a juicy beaujolais. Friends will arrive at golden hour to a home full of fresh flowers and candle light. We eat and drink and enjoy rich conversation over a delicious meal. I fall asleep beside my lover as we count our blessings.

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

“If it is urgent, then it is not God.” I can be so impulsive about my decision making, and when a friend told me this, it blew my mind. A sense of urgency is likely never a good sign that something is right.

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

I am releasing my second EP, Changing Room, in January and could not be more excited. The first single, “Rotten Milk,” comes out today, September 6!

Changing Room encapsulates self exploration, and more specifically queer exploration. The project begins with “Rotten Milk.” It’s about the last man that I ever dated. We were together for a few short months in the summer and much like the milk at the restaurant, the love, too, had gone sour. It was as if I was playing dress up. I couldn’t get access to my true self until I freed myself of compulsory heterosexuality.

I am opening for Louisa Stancioff, Molly Parden, and Eliza Edens in Portland, Maine on October 4 and again in Washtington, D.C. on October 15. The plan is to go on a sweet little tour in early spring to share the songs on Changing Room and then get back to creating more tunes.

Photo courtesy of the artist.

The Po’ Ramblin’ Boys: “Everything That Is Traditional Now, Once Was Progressive”

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Over the past decade, The Po’ Ramblin’ Boys have established themselves as a modern voice in traditional bluegrass. They are equal parts researchers, archivists, and artists, continually reframing what it means to be “traditional” – with a particular focus on the ways that bluegrass and roots music have always been progressive and boundary breaking.

For BGS, I spoke via video call to mandolinist CJ Lewandowski and fiddler Laura Orshaw around the release of their new album, Wanderers Like Me. We talked about their unique approach and mission for the group, we covered a lot of ground, and I left the conversation feeling inspired to put more thought behind my own mission in music making.

I see that you are coming up on 10 years as a band. Many years ago I had the pleasure of writing a bio for The Po’ Ramblin’ Boys, and I’d love to know a bit about the way the band has developed and changed over the years?

CJ Lewandowski: I think we are all ten years older than when we started, for one, and that’s a lot. It started as four guys working at a distillery, you know, working a day job. … There was no traveling, no planning, no pushing to be something. And it naturally progressed. There were videos coming out and promoters started calling and asking us to come out and play.

A lot of people plan for stuff, and they push and push, and everything we’ve been involved with before this band was like that, plowing through clay. You push and you push and never get anywhere. Then this band just happened. We didn’t think we’d be traveling in a bus and going all over the world, but here we are!

Laura Orshaw: The coolest thing for me is seeing the material and the message of the band start to come together. Everybody is really interested in super regional groups from around where they grew up, or maybe just bands they got interested in, so the members have interesting and diverse listening palates.

For several years, the band was doing a lot of covers that people hadn’t heard before, drawing on that research. Then, for the past five years, we’ve been doing a majority of original material and I think that the conversations that it brings up within the band are new … like, “How did you come up with this?”

For example, a lot of the more recent songs are about traveling. … For me, I spin that from the women’s perspective, a lot of them are about mom or a woman waiting back home and I like to think about, “What if a woman sings this song?” I think a lot about those classic themes but making sure they’re relevant to the modern days.

You’re one of the few bands that has never changed their commitment to traditional bluegrass over the years. Tell me about that interest in maintaining your style and how to you resist the temptation to move in more commercial directions?

CL: We had a manager at one point and we were talking about different material we could cover, and I said, “I don’t know if that’s gonna fit us…” And he said, “Well whatever you play, you’re gonna play it the way you play, so it’s gonna sound like you.” I think about that a lot, because I think he’s right.

I try to stray from the word “traditional” and think more about “authentic.” It’s just the way we play, and the way we learned to play from the mentors in our home regions. Anything we do is going to sound like that. We just play and sing true to ourselves, it’s not a plan or an act, we kind of let it go with the flow

There has been pressure sometimes– maybe the band should push this way or that way, but all in all, it’s like, “Well, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it…” We are all just true to the way we play

LO: What CJ said, “whatever you do is gonna sound like you” – with the current album coming out, it’s the first time we’ve had a really heavily involved producer, Woody Platt (formerly of the Steep Canyon Rangers), working with us from pre- to post-production. I think five people are going to have their own opinion about every suggestion that comes up, but because of Woody we did try a lot of things that I don’t think we would have individually gone for. And after we all did them, we usually liked them.

CL: Woody had our sound in mind, and he said, “The main thing is, I want you guys to be you.” We spread our wings, we got a little more vulnerable. There’s a natural progression to all of this and this record is a great next step.

LO: It was just really refreshing to work with a producer and have that level of focus and excitement, having that external voice that studied and focused is huge.

Since the time I wrote your bio, Laura has formally joined the band, tell me about what she’s added to the group and how that came about? I think it’s such a magical fit, and really rounds out the sound of the band.

CL: Her first show with us was in December 2017 at the Station Inn and after that she did some sporadic shows with us and played on our next couple records. In January 2020, she joined full time and she has officially been with us for four/four and a half years now. We tried a lot of different fiddle players on the road and nothing fit quite like what she had on the table; the attitude, the drive, and the musicianship

I’m a huge fan of triple-stacked harmonies, like Jimmy Martin and Osborne Brothers, so she brought a completely different vocal opportunity to the group. There was us three guys, and we could do some three-part harmonies, but with her we could move to different keys and had a lot more flexibility. … And of course, her fiddle playing is sassy and full of energy.

A lot of people ask about the name, The Po’ Ramblin “Boys,” but there’s a tradition of that in bluegrass, with Bessie Lee playing with The Blue Grass Boys, and Gloria Belle with The Sunny Mountain Boys. I like playing into that. But it’s also the band saying, “Hey we aren’t limiting.” Like, whoever can cut the gig, we love you! We’re very open and try to be as inclusive as possible. There are a lot of demographics in the group and she just added another one. …

Bluegrass Unlimited dubbed us as being “progressively traditional,” and it’s true in that everything that is traditional now, once was progressive. I don’t try to stand on a soapbox, and it took me a long time to figure it out, but I’m a queer artist, and I didn’t have anyone to go to when I was figuring that out and I didn’t feel I had a place. So, a lot of the stuff we do today has an open mind to it. [I’m included in] an exhibit in American Currents at the Country Music Hall of Fame and I put a rainbow guitar strap in there just to say, “Hey we’re out here, and holler at me if you need something.” Because I didn’t have anyone to look up to in that way.

Can you tell me a little bit about the album art for this new record, Wanderers Like Me?

CL: The cover photo is a painting of a cowboy. It plays into the title and many of the songs on the record and goes back to the story of wandering all over the country. But that piece of art was painted by our bass player Jasper’s great-grandfather, who was a North Dakota scene painter born in 1900 who painted all the way until his passing. His artwork is in governors’ mansions, he was a very prominent artist and to include something like that for our album art is also another way of honoring tradition.

LO: The way I see bluegrass, it’s a truly American art form. just like painting scenes, it reflects the culture and the time that it was painted in. In a lot of traditional art forms, there’s a kind of preservationist stance, but I think as a band we don’t like to have that mindset as a way to hold up barriers, or to say we don’t like modern or progressive music. A lot of what is told about American and bluegrass history is through a very particular lens; it’s very easy to see a fuller picture when you start digging. We travel and meet a lot of people, we live in modern society, we all have a lot broader perspectives than the people creating music years ago.
So, we just see this mindset as a way to make the music reach its full potential. Preserve and broaden it by being aware of what’s going on around us, thinking about language and thinking about American art forms.

CJ: “Being you” is it’s own art form as well… There’s a lot to just making sure that you’re being yourself.

The people that we learned from, it’s amazing to learn at the knee or the foot of these incredible people, but it’s not a boundary. It’s something that you take and grow from and learn from. Not everyone is perfect or mindful… I learned good and bad from some of these folks. You learn what to do and sometimes you learn what not to do. You take it from spades and grow from that. We want to honor people, but also make this a better realm for everyone. Just because you play traditional music doesn’t mean you have to have a traditional mindset.

I think the fact that this record is coming out on Smithsonian Folkways says a lot about the timeless nature of the music you are creating. What do you hope that folks will get from your music now and also in the future?

LO: I think that one of the most neat things is knowing [Smithsonian’s] mandate around preserving music, knowing that everything that they have and archive will be there for ever. It will always be available.

CL: there’s a lot of good material out there that’s been overlooked. I call listening through it “digging for gems.” As an artist, I hope that one day when we’re gone… someone might find our music like that. I don’t have any kids, so I really think about how my music might be left behind for the next generation. With Smithsonian, we could be dead and gone and someone’s great-grandniece could ask for a copy of our record from the label and even if it’s out of print, they will print one copy and send it to them.

You have a lot of songs about the hardships and joys of travel and touring, do you guys see yourself touring for another 10 years?

CL: There’s a lot of different factors, I think we’d all like to go as long as we can, but within this 10 years we have fiancés, marriages, children, people living in different states. In 2018, when we got Emerging Artist of the Year [award] at IBMA, I looked at everybody and I said, “OK, if you want out, get out now.” And we all put our hands in and said, “We got this.” We all got together about how if one of us going leave, then we’d all let it go.

We never really felt like there was a place for us for a long long time, so when we found success we felt like, “Wow, we did this together…” I think the future is bright, especially with this new album.

Photo Credit: Michael Weintrob