Tag: rock and roll

The Way She Talks: S.G. Goodman on Weirdos, Writing, and Western Kentucky

Posted on by Amy Reitnouer

S.G. Goodman has a lot on her mind. That much is immediately clear in the Kentucky musician’s voice, her songwriting, and throughout her new Verve Forecast debut, Old Time Feeling. Produced by Jim James of My Morning Jacket, the confessional album encapsulates her experiences on a personal level as well as the environment that’s influenced her.

Growing up a farmer’s daughter in rural Western Kentucky may not be the most common background for a musician who finds their community in a college town post-punk scene. Yet, Goodman is proof that where you come from has not much to do with fitting in. In a time where so much of our world seems polarized, Goodman — despite the way she talks — found her place in a post-punk “Mecca for weirdos.” BGS sat down with Goodman to talk about her hometown, how she encountered her tribe, and her defense of Southern people and culture.

BGS: For someone who’s never been to your Kentucky hometown, how would you describe it?

Goodman: My hometown is Hickman, Kentucky, and it’s a river town. Mark Twain described it as “a pretty town, perched on a handsome hill.” I’d say he’s right on the money. But, at the time Mark Twain was passing through, Hickman was a lot different. Now it’s a bit of a ghost town with a lot of soul. There’s no stop lights, one convenience store… it’s a beautiful place. Less than 3,000 people, but no place like home.

How did you find your community in music?

Well, I don’t live in my hometown anymore. I live in Murray, Kentucky, which is a college town, so there’s an influence of people from all over. I kinda got plugged in hanging out at a local record store in college and met some of my best friends that way. Murray is an interesting place, because a lot of people don’t think of Western Kentucky as having a thriving post-punk scene. Probably around 2010, 2011, there were a lot more shows, a lot more bands passing through. We have a really conveniently-located record store called Terrapin Station. We pass around an offering plate — bands get taken care of really well for such a small community — it’s like a true listening environment. It’s just kind of a Mecca for weirdos, where everybody is welcome. It’s not pretentious at all, perfect place to cut your teeth.

Were you already playing music at that point?

Yeah, I was. By the time I was just about to turn 19 years old I made a record, it was pop. I dropped off a bunch of copies to the record store and said, “Put one in every bag that leaves here.” That’s how I met my good friend Tim Peyton, who’s managed that store and worked at that store since he was 14 years old. Probably two years from that point, we’d be best friends, going to house shows together.

When I was 15 — I was a big athlete in school — I convinced my mother to let me not play basketball anymore so I could take music lessons. And I did for over a year, but I had to drive an hour away to take them, plus I found out I was teaching myself more than what I was learning in the classes. You know, I’d say my biggest musical influence was probably just being raised in church. I’m not a churchgoer anymore, but I could never deny the fact that going to three concerts a week was highly influential to how I view melodies and lyrics.

The opening song, “Space and Time,” seems to be saying something that’s important to you. What was on your mind as you wrote it?

That’s a special song. Being very point blank in my lyrics — when I first wrote those lyrics, I was a little unsettled by that. A friend asked me once, “Did you say everything you needed to say?” So I look at songs like that a lot now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with letting people know how you feel about them and what they mean to you, just really contemplating what makes a life.

While a song like “Space & Time” is so personal, the very next track, “Old Time Feeling” is a call to action. How do those two sides of your songwriting work together and compliment each other?

A lot of people ask if I conceptualized this album before I wrote it, but I just write songs as they come to me, and try to respect them enough to see them through. If people look at this album as a moment in time over the course of my life, then they shouldn’t be shocked for me to have some political thoughts. I’m bound to walk around with my eyes open. There’s a lot of people who paved the way for artists to not just write songs about getting their heart broken. Artists are supposed to comment. How could you not? If I want to write a song about a red Corvette or something, I’ll do my best to make it a good one. But at the end of the day, I do wonder why so many artists these days aren’t commenting through their art on what’s going on in the world.

What do you remember about the recording sessions?

We did this in April 2019. The studio — it’s in Louisville, Kentucky — is called La La Land. It had been owned for years and started by a Kentucky guy named Kevin Ratterman, who’s on a lot of people’s records. He’s an amazing person, a total beam of light when he walks through the door. It was really important for me to make sure that this music was made in Kentucky, because so much of my music is about this place.

What do you want people to understand about the way it really is in the South?

I can’t speak for the South — as a writer I’m speaking from my POV — but I would say, don’t write off the South for its regressive policies. That does nothing for those who are working daily to change that. There are progressive pockets all through the South and through Kentucky who are devoting their time and their lives to make sure that their neighbors are safe and taken care of. In my opinion, America, for a very long time, has used the South as a scapegoat for a lot of its backwards problems.

Now that the album is out in the wild, what goes through your mind when you hear it?

I’m proud of it. There’s little moments — at the end of my last track (“Big Girl Now”) you can hear my drummer and friend for nearly 10 years talk at the end of the track. I’m so glad that we were all represented, and our friends were all represented, in that music. I’m not sick of listening to it. It’s not like I go out and listen to it every day, but you have to keep in mind I’m gonna be playing these songs for years. So, I better love ‘em!

Photo credit: Michael Wilson

WATCH: Logan Ledger, “Starlight”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Logan Ledger
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee (by way of San Francisco)
Song: “Starlight”
Album: Logan Ledger
Release Date: May 3, 2020
Label: Rounder Records

In Their Words: “I was very fortunate to work with Joshua Shoemaker on the video for ‘Starlight.’ He’s a fantastic director. He conjured up the shadow world of sleepless nights and broken dreams. We shot it on the banks of the Cumberland River as the sun sank beneath the trees. It was a beautiful time.” — Logan Ledger

Photo credit: Bella Mazzola

BGS 5+5: Aubrie Sellers

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Aubrie Sellers
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Latest album: World on Fire and Far From Home
Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): Aub, Ubrie, Grand Ole Aubrie

Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?

I’m hugely influenced by Buddy and Julie Miller. Their songwriting, production, voices, playing, everything is so incredible and unique. They put so much of their soul into every bit of it. Songs like “You Make My Heart Beat Too Fast” and “Dirty Water” are on my all-time favorites list. If the world of music was filled with with artists like Buddy and Julie, we would be looking at a very different landscape.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

On album release day for Far From Home, I was playing Town Hall in New York with Brandy Clark and Tanya Tucker. I was so excited that my record was out that day, and that I was getting to play with these two incredible artists who I admire. But, I was missing a lot of people who couldn’t be there with me to celebrate. In the middle of my set, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and my first thought was something had gone really wrong because they had been experiencing some technical issues. I turned around and Presley, Tanya’s daughter, was standing there with some flowers for me to make me feel more at home. That’s the first time I’ve ever cried on stage, and I’ll never forget it!

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc — inform your music?

I’m a huge movie fan, and I moved to Los Angeles to act. I know music in film has always inspired my music, never more so than on Far From Home. I was listening to a lot of Tarantino soundtracks leading up to making that record, and I think because of my love for films I’m always seeing those visuals in my head when making music. I think it probably also informs my love of production because I love putting together a song in the studio and giving the whole record that cohesive feeling that a lot of art-driven films have.

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

I think the most important thing is to be true to yourself. As an artist, everyone around you has opinions on how things should be done, but you always have to follow your own light. Sometimes just being yourself can burn bridges if people don’t understand it. But, at the end of the day, I know if I don’t do that I won’t end up being proud of what I’m putting out into the world.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

Growing up, I often found acting much easier than singing because I could hide behind a character. I don’t find myself doing that with music, most of my songs, if not all, come from a very personal place and being on stage as a frontwoman feels incredibly vulnerable to me. I’m a very sensitive and introverted person, and I can often hide it, but that doesn’t make it any less true to me. I love listening to music that has that raw quality to it, and so I think that’s naturally come into my songwriting.

Photo credit: Rose Carroll

WATCH: Liz Simmons, “Who Knows Where the Time Goes”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Liz Simmons
Hometown: Brattleboro, Vermont
Song: “Who Knows Where the Time Goes”
Album: Poets
Release Date: August 4, 2020 (single)
Label: Morgana Music

In Their Words: “I have known Sandy Denny’s ‘Who Knows Where the Time Goes’ (written circa 1967) since I was a teen and I’ve always loved it. It has that elusive poetic appeal in that it manages to say so much with very few words. There’s not much needed to preface it, as it speaks for itself so well in Sandy’s beautiful lyrics. I was raised steeped in the music of the folk revival, roots, and ’60s and ’70s rock ‘n’ roll, so it feels very fitting to have Pete Grant (Grateful Dead, the Incredible String Band) lend his beautiful pedal steel playing to my arrangement of this fittingly timeless song.” — Liz Simmons

Photo credit: Sid Ceaser

WATCH: Karen Jonas, “Pink Leather Boots”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Karen Jonas
Hometown: Fredericksburg, Virginia
Song: “Pink Leather Boots”
Album: The Southwest Sky and Other Dreams
Release Date: Aug 28, 2020
Label: Yellow Brick Records

In Their Words: “Guitarist Tim Bray and I were driving from Austin to Santa Fe when I first scribbled some notes for ‘Pink Leather Boots.’ I had my boots up on the dash and was marveling at the space — the sheer acreage of Texas leaves room for all kinds of ghosts to hang around. There are old cars in the side yard, old houses crumbling beside new ones. We don’t have that kind of space on the East Coast, we have to build up instead of out. I thought out loud, ‘Who lives here with all these ghosts? What do they do? Are they happy?’ (I’m a hoot on long drives).

“We passed a neon sign that proudly announced ‘Dancing Girls!’ I pictured the scene there — an ambitious trucker falls in love and daydreams a future with this Dancing Girl, only to drive off into the sunset empty-handed. He drops that dream like the rusted car in the side yard, driving on to newer, shinier, perhaps more accessible dreams. On to whatever comes next. Sometimes, just dreaming is enough to fill the time.

“All of this contemplation simmered into a colorful story on top of a dusty shuffle, with Tim’s rockabilly-inspired Gretsch licks and Seth Morrissey’s thumping upright bass. Somehow strawberry milk got involved, and this feverishly fast-paced love-story-that-never-was unfolds like a big rig rolling down the unforgiving highway. Animator Matt Rasch captured the scene vividly in this fun, quirky video, complete with our starry-eyed hero and a herd of pink cows.” — Karen Jonas

Photo by Amber Renée Photography with art by Print Jazz

Courtney Marie Andrews Blossoms Within the Solitude of ‘Old Flowers’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

As she releases an emotional and illuminating new album, Old Flowers, Courtney Marie Andrews finds herself facing the exact scenario in which she began the creative process: solitude.

Over the course of months writing the material that would become the 10-song LP, the only alone time she enjoyed was while crafting songs, tinkering with melodies, or teasing out narratives from her own subconscious, interrogating herself as a writer, as a narrator, and as a human. But instead of personally carrying her crop of new material out into the world, she’s tasked (like so many of us right now) with sharing these tender buds while she remains in place.

Listening to Old Flowers in this light is like receiving an artful and tenderly dried bouquet. Even as she reflects on the life-changing experiences of the last few years, this album feels made for this moment, bolstered by the sharp, intelligent compassion evidenced on every track and in every lyric. For our Cover Story, we connected with Andrews by phone and began our conversation, as we all do these days, commiserating over shared though separate isolation.

BGS: So much of your songwriting feels like mantra writing to me, particularly some of the choruses on this record. They feel meditative, especially in the ways they repeat and reinforce themselves — whether in the lyrical hooks, or just the themes in the lyrics. Where does that meditative quality come from in your songs?

Courtney Marie Andrews: It’s funny, when I was writing this record I felt like I was in my own personal “quarantine.” It was my first time being alone in over nine years, it was my first time living alone, I moved to Nashville, I was making new friends. I felt, in my own way, that I had found this island. There’s definitely an in-place feeling to the record more than my other records.

It’s really insightful that you said my songs are like mantras, because sometimes, as the narrator [of these songs], I am sort of giving myself therapy. Especially on this record. It does feel like a mantra, particularly on songs like “Carnival Dream,” where I just say over and over again: “Will I ever let love in again? / I may never let love in again.” It’s sort of me accepting that that may be the case.

Another line that may stem from the same idea: “I’m sending you my love and nothing more.” It’s as if you’re reminding yourself of that boundary, rather than the person you’re singing to. Do you agree? That’s the light bulb that went off in my head.

I’ve never thought about it that way, but yeah, it is a boundary. It’s absolutely a boundary. It’s the closing line for the record for a reason. It’s the closing chapter of this saga.

Like you said, writing the record, you were alone for the first time in a long time. I wonder how it feels to reckon with that solitude again with these same songs. Solitude that may feel similar, even if it has a completely different cause.

When I first wrote them, it was like these epiphany moments. More than May Your Kindness Remain I see this record as songs born out of necessity, to get these feelings out. I felt grumpy! The first year was just getting them out, overcoming that first obstacle — especially when you’re in a relationship with someone that long. There’s so much to process you can’t even see what’s in front of you. Now, when I’m listening to the songs in isolation I’m learning more about me as a narrator. More about, “Where do I stand in all of this?” and “Where do I stand now?” 

Last year, the only time I allowed myself to be alone was when I was writing songs. Otherwise I was mostly just trying to distract myself constantly with work, or music, or friends, or drinking. You know, everything you do to distract yourself. This learning about the narrator in these songs — that narrator being myself — has been my current isolation process.

Normally what we’d be talking about right now is how these songs change as they bounce off of audiences, as you’re feeling people besides yourself take ownership of them. Obviously that is still happening, it’s an inherent part of how humans consume music, but the way we relate to that phenomenon is so different now. It’s happening through live streams, through screens, across so much distance. What’s tangible to you about that difference?

As any human probably feels right now, I feel this is very nuanced, has many sides, and I have many days where I feel one way and many days where I feel another. Especially in regards to quarantine and being so uncertain of everything that’s to come. I will say, if I’m being 100 percent frank, so much of knowing people’s true feelings about my songs and how they’re connected to them, for me, is in performing. And talking to someone at the merch table or in the audience. It just feels so much more real. It feels like an AI [artificial intelligence] right now! [Laughs] I know that people are connecting to it, I’ve gotten so many lovely messages about the songs, but it just doesn’t feel as real. 

I will say, in the very beginning, when everybody was live streaming — musicians immediately took to those platforms — I was super inspired by that and by how quickly we can all adapt to “new norms.” I think it’s beautiful that our community feels so passionate about it that we found that outlet. And I’m so grateful that we have that outlet during this, but there’s nothing quite like being in a room with people and singing the songs. As far as my hope about it, I do have hope that this isn’t going to be the remainder of our lives, you know? I really do. If there’s anything I’ve learned by going through really dark, dark depressing moments is that right on the other side is usually the most beautiful moment. It really is. 

How, if at all, has your mission in music changed or adapted in the past few months? Or has it been re-centered? 

I feel like, if anything, it’s made my conviction for what I’ve always intended for my music truer. Since the very beginning I had many opportunities where I could’ve done this for different reasons, but I didn’t do them, because they weren’t what I felt my internal mission was. That internal mission has always been guided by connection — real, human connection. The very first shows I played where I was busking, if we got money that was a bonus. It was shocking, because to me it was more about, did somebody in the audience cry? Did I make somebody feel something? If anything, I’ve always been trying to get back to that. Especially in quarantine and COVID times. With everything that’s going on I feel even stronger about that conviction. And I feel silly for the moments where I’ve been afraid and done otherwise, in small ways. 

I wanted to ask you about “If I Told.” One word can be so pivotal, that “if” changes the entire tenor of the song. And it’s almost a swallowed lyric, too. The song — which is about the telling not the if — is so expressive and does a great job of detailing the phenomenon of having something you simply HAVE to tell someone. it’s just festering, but you still don’t feel that you can. But, literally speaking, there shouldn’t be an “if!” Why is there an if? [Laughs]

When I was writing a lot of these songs, especially the ones where I had left the relationship and started dating again and was meeting people — “How You Get Hurt” and “If I Told” are both rooted in that — I kept saying, “Oh my god these are millennial love songs.” I think the reason that they are is the “if.” I would say this is a big difference between Boomers in the ‘60s and us, culturally. We are all afraid to say it. To just say it. We feel so much, so much, if not more than [these other generations]… but we are all so afraid! Afraid to connect with each other. We’re afraid of rejection. Or afraid of what might reflect in it, because we are so self-aware. Maybe it would hurt us too much? More than anything!

It’s even more fascinating to me now, hearing this answer and knowing “How You Get Hurt” and “If I Told” come from that same period of time, where you’re opening that part of your life back up. That’s the moment when you’re like, “All right. I’m starting out fresh. New foot forward.” You can set the precedent that you’re now, going forward, communicating openly. But, again, you take that first step and right back into the old habit of, “If…” What do you see as a solution for that self-editing? How do we be radically vulnerable and eschew shame? I think our generation needs it so badly right now.

If I’m being completely honest, for me, personally, the problem was the lack of time. The lack of self-reflection. It was being catapulted from this nearly decade-long relationship with this person I essentially grew up with into these new, highly romantic situations. [It was] not having any time for me to rediscover who I was again. I’ve never been more ready to date in my life and to tell someone I love them than when I spent three months at home! [Laughs] With myself! Not drinking, not going out every night–

[Laughs] Every single one of us like, “Aw, shit I wish I didn’t want a boyfriend SO bad right now.”

I know! I know! [Laughs] Honestly, it’s because I’ve finally accepted myself! I think we all have problems, because we’re all so self-aware and have so much shame; there needs to be more conversation around imperfection because we’re all deeply flawed. We’re all human. It’s okay to forgive yourself and it’s okay to be wrong. Accepting those imperfections is something we all need to come to terms with. I think our culture, especially with social media, has a perfection problem. 

Your songs are thoughtful and nuanced and emotional, with this quiet vulnerability, but your voice and the aesthetic of the music are usually so powerful. Especially in the way your vibrato comes through, you feel this sheer force. How did you strike that balance on Old Flowers? Here I don’t think it’s as prevalent as the past couple of albums, but it feels more deliberate and careful. 

Old Flowers, for all intents and purposes, was meant to be an intimate conversation. When I sang it, I wanted it to be that conversation you have where you aren’t blowing up at each other, threatening to jump out of the car. It’s the quiet conversation you have months later, when you’re catching up, and it’s delicate. You feel strange and disconnected, but still so close to this person you know so well. I think, in regards to my voice, on this record I was very intent on making it a quiet conversation, vocally. 

I’ve always been such a big fan of performative singers, singers who perform as the character, as the person they’re singing about. Aretha did it, Joni does it, Billie Holiday did it, Linda Ronstadt does it, all of these great singers. I’ve always really been drawn to that. You don’t sing every word this straight, same way, you put care into every word. You sing with the story in you. If you don’t sing with the story inside you, then how can anyone relate to it?

All photos: Alexa Vicius

LISTEN: The Texas Gentlemen, “Skyway Streetcar”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: The Texas Gentlemen
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Song: “Skyway Streetcar”
Album: Floor It!!!
Release Date: July 17, 2020
Label: New West Records

In Their Words: “‘Skyway Streetcar’ is the first song Dan Creamer and I ever wrote together. It is still one of my favorites to play. It’s really the best example of our writing and lyrical trade-off style and vibe. Lyrically, we kinda looked at it as a way to live life to the fullest and get around doin’ so. Basically, a spacecraft of sorts you can use to get the best out of life.

“We had all just moved into a big house south of Dallas on Mona Lane. Later referred to often as ‘Mona.’ We were in the middle of cultivating Beatles songs and various other favorite covers to fill in for Daniel’s brother, who had to bail on a weekly residency at the Sundown at Granada. In the midst of this, we unknowingly started a band that was bound to be more than just a cover band. The musical chemistry that was building between Dan and I flowed into our own song ideas. With ‘Skyway Streetcar,’ I had the music all recorded in demo form, but one night we were laughing about what a casanova one of our pals and bandmates was at the time. That’s what inspired the line, ‘I’ve got a friend, goes from town to town, knocking ‘em up setting ‘em down, he used to really get around.’ The lyrics just grew from there.

“We had a studio in Mona and that is where the song was originally recorded just directly after writing it. For the next several years we continued to play it live. We had used that song as a jumping-off point to feel out any given studio. So this song technically was recorded about five times as we recorded in different studios before we ever took it to Echo Lab and did the final version with Matt Pence.” — Nik Lee of The Texas Gentlemen

Photo credit: Barbara FG

BGS 5+5: Ondara

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Ondara
Hometown: Nairobi, Kenya
Latest Album: Folk n’ Roll Vol. 1: Tales of Isolation

Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?

I accidentally discovered Bob Dylan’s music after losing a bet about the authorship of the song “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” I was 17 years old at the time, a confused and troubled teenager, uncertain about his future. I enjoyed writing stories, but I didn’t know how to turn any of that into a career. The pressures from everyone I knew, to pursue a more traditional career such as law or medicine were mounting; but I felt an itch for something else. Something I was unable to name, unable to imagine, and with no guidance or encouragement I had no way of discovering what it was.

Finding Dylan was like a scratch to that itch. After listening to records such as Freewheelin’, Highway 61, and Blonde on Blonde, and being completely taken by the writing, I was hit by a burst of inspiration. I had this very wild thought that perhaps I could turn the stories I’d been writing into songs, then I could travel the world and play those songs, and perhaps I could turn that into some kind of a career. It was a crazy and impractical thought since there was no path from where I was to anything like that, but it was something to dream about. Whether the dream came true or not was irrelevant, sometimes as a boy you just need a dream, and finding Dylan is what showed me that dream. “A boy’s devices will always create mayhem, therefore a boy needs a dream, because without a dream the boy is left to his devices.”

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

I played a show in Paris last year at a venue called Élysée Montmartre. It was a very memorable show for a few reasons. At the time, I was touring Europe playing shows solo with my guitar, but for that Paris show I wanted to do something different since it was going to be a bigger concert than the rest. I decided I would put together a band. I asked my team to contact some musicians and we assembled a last-minute band just a few days before the show. None of the musicians knew the songs prior, and we only had time for one short rehearsal.

Despite being entirely unprepared it ended up being one of my favorite shows. There was a magical feeling that we were all speaking the same language. The musicians and I understood the language as we played the songs as though we had been playing them for years; the audience understood it as well as they listened to us play. By only communicating in this universal language of music we all had a communion of spirit. This communion is what I miss the most, now that concerts have become rare.

At that same concert, the lights went out towards the end of the show; for about 15 minutes of black out the audience lit the room with their phones and took over the show by singing a new song I had taught them. A memorable night it was. It always is in Paris.

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

We go through most of life on autopilot. The piloting mechanism being cultures, trends, upbringing, education, trauma, and many other things that define us yet we have no control over them. Stories and other forms of art are a mirror to this subconscious state of the society, a way for us, the participants of life, to view ourselves. In a way it is how we watch ourselves sleep. And as we view ourselves, we see our folly.

We have a better chance of fixing our faults if we can see them. If we can’t see them, then we’re not consciously aware of them, and if we’re not aware, then there is nothing to fix. So then people remain oppressed because we have become hateful and uncaring but we can’t see it. Stories are a conduit to compassion, and I am of the mind that compassion is the medicine, so if I had a mission statement, it would be to tell many stories and to tell them far and wide.

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc. — inform your music?

Gazing at paintings is one of the things that bring my ever-racing mind a few moments of quiet. I get lost in them in a meditative way. When I was younger I thought paintings spoke to me; not in a figurative way, but in a literal fashion. They would tell me the sorrows and joys of the world, and I would write them down in the form of stories. Now in my adulthood, I still hear them, I’m just more aware that it’s my mind being slightly insane.

What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?

I accidentally found a song called “Forget Her” by Jeff Buckley when I was about 9 years old. It was the early 2000s and back home in Nairobi, pirated music was as prevalent as the ubiquitous roasted maize, sold on the streets. Music vendors would set up shop in markets or by the streets; they would go online and download random songs, put them on a CD and sell them. Oftentimes, nobody knew the songs they were selling, not even the vendors knew them. They just downloaded random songs online, an attempt at finding something interesting to sell to increase their income at a time of economic difficulty. In the streets, they would advertise the music by playing it loudly to invite customers, sometimes they would call you as you walk past and ask you to listen to some of their new downloads. If you liked a song you would then buy the CD. It was like wine tasting but for music.

I found many bands that I fell in love with that way: Jeff Buckley, Death Cab for Cutie, Radiohead, among others. Finding that song “Forget Her” was a pivotal moment for me. I was so fascinated by Jeff’s singing that I would lock myself in my room and try to imitate him. I was always fascinated by words, but around this time is when my interest in singing began. Since then, I always knew I wanted to be a musician but because there was no path towards a career of that kind, that desire remained stifled until much later when I couldn’t ignore it anymore, and when the universe conspired to send me to America.

Photo credit: Ian Flomer

LISTEN: Eilen Jewell, “Green River”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Eilen Jewell
Hometown: Boise, Idaho
Song: “Green River”
Album: “Green River”/ “Summertime” 7-inch single
Release Date: July 8, 2020
Label: Signature Sounds

In Their Words: “Every summer for the past twelve years or so, as the Green River Festival in Greenfield, Massachusetts, rolls around, I’ve had Creedence’s song ‘Green River’ stuck in my head. For about as many years I’d wanted to surprise the audience with a rendition of that perfectly summery tune as my homage to the beloved festival, which is presented by Signature Sounds, the label I’ve been happily working with since the beginning of my career. I have so many great memories of that festival over the years: meeting Lucinda Williams for the first time, getting my guitar autographed by Emmylou Harris, being moved to tears by Mavis Staples singing about the Freedom Highway, loving the music in the rain, or in the sun, or the crazy wind, every year having a distinctly amazing experience.

“Last summer the planets aligned just so and my band and I were able to present our version of ‘Green River’ to the Green River Festival on the main stage, and my daughter, part of the next generation of festival goers, was there to witness it. I’m not sure which Green River John Fogerty had in mind when he wrote the tune. I know he did so long before the Green River Festival began, but just as the song is synonymous to me with all things summer, so is that festival. When we recorded the song in August of last year, we would never have believed that the future of that festival, and nearly all festivals, and our own future as touring musicians, would be so imperiled. It’s my hope that the spirit of those free-flowing summer festival days and nights can live on brightly in our hearts and minds, that we can keep that spirit alive until rosier days, and pass the torch to the next generation to keep it lit.” — Eilen Jewell

Photo credit: Joanna Chattman

Indigo Girls Expand “Country Radio” With Black, Brown and Queer Musicians

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Hollywood, the 2020 Netflix series from director-screenwriter Ryan Murphy, is a resplendent show dripping in Art Deco that does not wholly reimagine Los Angeles’ golden era, but rather subtly inserts a quintessential question: “What if?”

What if Hollywood hadn’t been as… ___-ist? (Sexist, racist, misogynist, ageist, etc.) If one happens to be born into a region, a folkway, a culture, an art form that doesn’t include you, or that doesn’t quite love you back, one often doesn’t realize it until it’s too late. And then what? Do we, the rural, country-loving queers, wait around for our Ryan Murphy to reimagine the world to better include us? Not quite.

For Emily Saliers and Amy Ray of Indigo Girls — and, for that matter, almost each and every queer who has ever loved roots music — that “What if?” question is existential, but it also doesn’t matter. What if country music loved LGBTQ+ folks? The lyrics of “Country Radio,” a track off the duo’s sixteenth studio album, Look Long, tell it plainly: “But as far as these songs will take me/ Is as far as I’ll go/ I’m just a gay kid in a small town/ Who loves country radio.”

While curating the following playlist of their favorites from country music airwaves and songs they wish were included there, Saliers and Ray offer a quite simple solution actionable in each present moment: Be who you are, listen to the music that brings you joy, love who you love — and be anti-racist.

Emily Saliers: [I began with the idea:] What are the songs that I listened to that I latched onto, that sort of gave me a feeling of “I can’t get into this song [because of its heteronormativity], but I love this song so much”? One of the first songs that came to mind is “Mama’s Song” by Carrie Underwood. 

I should preface this by saying, I don’t expect that there can’t be heteronormative country songs, or that queer life has to be explicitly represented in songs, it’s not that. It’s the feeling of the way a song moves me emotionally, but then it stops me a little bit short of being able to fully experience it because of the language or the obvious implications of man and woman.

I love Carrie Underwood’s voice and she’s taken more of a harder, pop direction since “Mama’s Song,” but she sings this so beautifully. She’s talking to her mother, “He is good… he treats me like a real man should,” and yet the beauty of her song [is in] her telling her mom that’s she’s going to be okay. 

Amy Ray: For me it’s a little different because I never had the experience of feeling like I wish I could put myself in a song. I think it’s because, gender-wise, I always just related to the male singers. I kinda have that gender dysphoria, you know? [Chuckles] I have these filters that sort of make it my own — probably out of necessity, from growing up loving the Allman Brothers, Pure Prairie League, and Randy Travis so much. [Sings] “Amie, whatcha gonna do?” Pure Prairie League!

It’s very odd — Emily’s perspective on this is something I can understand, and I agree that it’s this weird disconnect with country music. We have to kind of acclimate it to ourselves, in some way, using some kind of trick in our minds. But I’ve always had that internal translator…

ES: Another example is Brett Young’s “In Case You Didn’t Know.” Now this is a song that you can listen to and fit your own queer life into it — as far as I remember it doesn’t have any gender pronouns. Then I watched the video and of course he’s singing to a woman who comes into the audience and he plays to her, alone. It’s a love song to his girlfriend — or wife or partner or whatever — so I could live in that song and think back to relationships and apply it in my own life, but then I watched the video and that door shut a little bit.

AR: I love Angaleena Presley, the Pistol Annies. Presley is such a great writer. “Better Off Red” is one of my favorite songs that she’s written… Honestly, if I hear songs, if I like it, I just put myself in it. I don’t really think about it or worry about it. It’s a survival mechanism from my youth, not that it’s the right thing to do. It’s built inside me.

…I thought you couldn’t be a country singer if you were gay and left-wing and a complete dyke. That made me feel more alienated than the songs themselves, that idea of its inaccessibility. Or, if you went to a show and you were sitting there in that audience, in the early days before it all kind of busted open, you would feel scared. Or judged. Or uncomfortable.

ES: Think about what a splash that song by Little Big Town, “Girl Crush,” had. Just the implication of a lesbian relationship or feelings! That song was a big hit, but it got people talking. [Probably] the majority of the people in this world lean more heteronormative, so they’re representing themselves in these songs. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. 

I wouldn’t want to listen to just albums that are for and by queer people, oh my god. No way! But we have to have them as part. I think about what an influence Ferron was, how much Amy and I love Ferron. When her first album came out, it was like, “Oh my gosh this is one of the best songwriters in the country and she’s queer!” I can’t describe how important it was to have an artist like that.

Even Lil Nas X, who had the number one hit forever-ever-ever with Billy Ray Cyrus. It’s awesome to know that he’s queer! And a guy like Young Thug, a rapper out of Atlanta, who’s not gender normative by any stretch, to me. It’s interesting. It’s good to have a mish mosh! It’s not that the majority of songwriters out there can’t be represented in their own songwriting, we just have to have ours, as well.

AR: [We] should add Amythyst Kiah. Amythyst is amazing.

[Racism] is the pivotal struggle of the Americana scene and the roots scene. How do you honor Black and Brown folks who want to be in this scene — and maybe some of them don’t even want to be in this scene because even Americana is rooted in questionable legacy. How much do people of color want to be immersed in that scene when it still feels so racist? Even the best parts of it. It’s a huge question to unwrap and it has to do with such a long history of where country music came from.

We stole the banjo and put it in our hillbilly music in the mountains and called it our own. We forgot all the stuff we learned from “our slaves,” you know? It’s crazy to me, if you think about the racist roots of where a lot of this comes from. Merging this racist legacy with this incredible populist music — music for the people, like Woody Guthrie, like the Carter Family. You get those two things bumping up against each other constantly, how do you entangle that and make this a space where it doesn’t matter what color you are? Where it doesn’t matter what your religious persuasion, or your political party, or your gender, or your sexual preference, or anything.

I think the way we deal with it is by all of us thinking all the time and being mindful of [that racist history]. And including [Black artists] in our playlists and touring with them. Some people are like, “What does it mean if you’re forcing this integration? Is it just going through the motions?” No! No, no, no.

ES: I’ll [echo] the things that Amy said, practically: Tour with Black musicians or Brown musicians or musicians who have not been able to feel that they’re welcome and make everybody welcome. Like Amythyst or Chastity Brown. Those are artists of color who have been discriminated against, who feel other-than in the world of their genres.

I think, first, we all — we white people, we people “of no color,” we “colorless” people — should dig deep, identify our own racism and how far it goes, how much we use it. Break it down, talk about it, identify it in each other. Really start from the core of things and hopefully act outwardly as a result of what we’ve dug through, inwardly. Try to heal and fix, you know? We’ve got to ask artists of color what their experience is like and why it’s like that. I’ve got to assume that there must be some Black artists, who if they hear a song from a white, country, roots singer about the freedom of driving down a dark, country road, they’re not going to feel the same way about the history of Black people down dark country roads. A lot of it is context and, as Amy says, there’s so much to be unraveled. But we are at a tipping point.

AR: Sister Rosetta Tharpe, I feel like there’s a lot of crossover, to me from that and the beginnings of early rock ‘n’ roll. That’s kind of what Elvis Presley was doing and borrowing from. I think about that sometimes, that territory. I like old recordings, like field recordings almost, of all the Alan Lomax type stuff he would collect. Field songs, prison songs. I think a lot of country writers have taken from that stuff, you know? 

I remember an interview with Kathleen Hanna that really resonated with me. She said, when they ask you who your favorite artists are, most of us name all these male artists. That’s who we can think of, because that’s who’s archived the best. Straight men, bands, and writers. If you sit down and really think about who you love and make a list of the women and the queer folks — this is what she was talking about, she wasn’t talking about color at the time or race or the social construct of race — and you take that list to your interviews and rattle off those names, you’ll be more honest, because you’ll be talking about who you really listen to and not just trying to remember [anyone] off the top of your head. 

People are so out of the habit — and so in the habit — of white supremacy that we don’t even know how to do the right things, just in our instincts. We have to learn, write it down, so we remember to do it.

Photo credit: Jeremy Cowart

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.