Tag: rock and roll

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.

MIXTAPE: Turn Turn Turn’s Sonic Journey

Posted on by Editor

Me and my Turn Turn Turn bandmates Savannah Smith and Barb Brynstad have chosen a mix of music that’s either helped shape us as musicians and songwriters, resonates with us in these uncertain times, or is stuff we keep coming back to, like that lover we can’t seem to shake. It’s old and new like our band — we “turn” to the distant past of early American recorded music, “turn” again to that renaissance of the 1960s and 1970s, and finally “turn” again to the present looking forward. We hope you dig the sonic journey. — Adam Levy

Ry Cooder – “Boomer’s Story”

Probably one of the most influential players of my life. Evocative, funky, reverent of past blues players, but super innovative. All the double stops sound like he’s often imitating fiddlers. I do that on the guitar solo for our song “Fourteen.” This song is the ultimate Ry Cooder groove with Jim Keltner on drums. Reminds me of years listening to it touring in a van with my band, The Honeydogs. — Adam

Luluc – “Controversy”

There’s another level of calm within Luluc’s music I have always appreciated. Nico with modern themes… I don’t know how they do it, but they do it so well. — Savannah

The Staple Singers – “Freedom Highway”

Who can say they HAVEN’T been influenced by the Staple Singers? Unvarnished, insistent, and catchy as hell, it’s no surprise that “Freedom Highway” is as eminently listenable today as it was in 1965. And sadly, although it was written more than five decades ago, this song’s imperative message resonates just as strongly in 2020 as it did during the apogee of the Civil Rights movement. — Barb

Judee Sill – “The Lamb Ran Away With the Crown”

It’s hard to choose a favorite of hers. One of the greatest underappreciated American songwriters. She crosses genres, she sings some of the most profoundly spiritual music and she hooks the listener with amazing harmonic movement and melodies. If you don’t have goosebumps at the rousing end of this gem you might need to check your pulse. As good as anything on Pet Sounds — maybe better. — Adam

Turn Turn Turn – “Delaware Water Gap”

Imagine if Dylan wrote a song about a female serial killer and had Emmylou Harris and Stevie Nicks join him while Grady Martin and Clarence White duel on guitar. — Turn Turn Turn

Sarah Jarosz – “House of Mercy”

I fell in love with multi-instrumentalist Sarah Jarosz a few years ago, when I saw her perform at the Dakota, a renowned live-music venue in Minneapolis. Fresh-faced and not too far out of college (New England Conservatory of Music), she played as a part of a well-oiled trio of seasoned twentysomethings. This particular song appeals to me because it pierces the conventions of traditional bluegrass music — lyrically, vocally, and instrumentally. Importantly, it was my gateway to a deeper appreciation of bluegrass and old-time music. — Barb

Lefty Frizzell – “Treasures Untold”

Lefty is often overlooked in the country music pantheon. His voice is velvety voice and cheeky chords meld honky-tonk gently with Tin Pan Alley pop. This song is nearly perfect to me as a composition. — Adam

Jessica Pratt – “As the World Turns”

Jessica Pratt’s voice and melodies are incredibly ethereal. I’ve always admired her songwriting, especially in this song. To me, I feel the driving, unstoppable passing of time while stuck in a trance of reflection. — Savannah

Turn Turn Turn – “Cold Hard Truth”

Adam wrote this one about deep self-examination and suggested Barb and Savannah do the vocal heavy lifting. We’re pretty proud of this bridge and we bet Phil Spector or Jeff Lynne would give us a nod of approval. — Turn Turn Turn

Dixie Chicks – “The Long Way Around”

I love the Dixie Chicks for their fearless defiance of conformity. And I love this song’s transcendent harmonies, soaring hooks, and in-your-face lyrics (“I wouldn’t kiss all the asses that they told me to”) that serve as a clarion call to all the uppity movers and shakers who refuse to be conventional. — Barb

The Rolling Stones – “Loving Cup”

I came to country music through the Stones. They always had a couple country nods with close harmonies, twangy pedal steel-like riffs and stories about dissipation, loneliness, yearning, and travel. “Loving Cup” is loose and sexy, takes you by the hand, spanks you and just keeps building with that piano-horn driven, drum-tripping outro. — Adam

Laura Stevenson – “Time Bandits”

Laura Stevenson is someone I have always really looked up to. Both her voice and her songwriting are incredibly powerful. This song hit me really hard during quarantine; it’s heartbreakingly hopeful. — Savannah

Big Bill Broonzy – “Glory of Love”

First time hearing this I was struck by the driving rhythm. I thought it was a couple guitarists. I spent a couple days figuring out this relatively simple three-chord song. And I only recently figured out how to get that ragtime banging drive happening — some 30 years after first hearing it. — Adam

Photo credit: Ilia Stockert

LISTEN: Larkin Poe, “Easy Street”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Larkin Poe
Hometown: Atlanta-bred, Nashville-based
Song: “Easy Street”
Album: Self Made Man
Release Date: June 12, 2020
Label: Tricki-Woo

In Their Words: “Every now and again, we all need a little dose of raw optimism to help us get through the darker days. We wrote ‘Easy Street’ direct from the heart and we hope that it’ll be a rainbow for your ears.” — Megan Lovell

“Lyrically, I think Self Made Man is our most uplifting album to date. With so much uncertainty in the world, it feels really good to unleash some unapologetic optimistic.” — Rebecca Lovell

Photo credit: Robby Klein

LISTEN: Grizzly Goat, “Wallowa, OR 1877”

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Grizzly Goat
Hometown: Provo, Utah/ Knoxville, Tennessee
Song: “Wallowa, OR 1877”
Album: Bound to Go to Waste
Release Date: May 29, 2020

In Their Words: “While in Oregon, performing in the Joseph Mountain Jubilee festival, I spotted a statue of Chief Joseph. This sparked my curiosity as a history enthusiast and I soon listened to the 18-hour audiobook, Thunder in the Mountains. I learned that the area had been home to Joseph’s Nez Perce tribe which the US government wanted to claim for white settlers. Despite Chief Joseph’s efforts to negotiate rights for his people peacefully, a war broke out causing the tribe to flee 1,170 miles before they were surrounded near the Canadian border. When this ‘spaghetti western’ melody came to me, I was inspired to shed light on the story of Chief Joseph and a neglected piece of American history.” — Nate Waggoner, Grizzly Goat

Photo credit: Ryan Carter

Forgiving Herself, Maya de Vitry Feels Better and Better on New Solo Album

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

When Maya de Vitry quit her most recent full-time touring gig, she did it for self-preservation. Before her solo debut Adaptations was released in 2019, the multi-instrumentalist and singer/songwriter prioritized her life by centering community, home, and a sense of place in what had often been a frantic, taxing, and nomadic daily life.

Her second, just-released album, How to Break a Fall, was tracked almost immediately after Adaptations hit shelves, and with a harder, more grizzled, rockier aesthetic it demonstrated the growth and transformation that had occurred in the meantime. A sense of movement, of excited, unapologetic momentum permeates the Dan Knobler-produced project. Where Adaptations had seen de Vitry through a transition to stillness, How to Break a Fall was poised to carry her into still another new period for the budding solo artist. 

Enter a global pandemic. With nearly all of that momentum and her entire release cycle squandered on a music industry that had to shutter itself in the face of COVID-19, de Vitry found herself once again prioritizing, enjoying each individual moment at home, focusing on community in whatever shape it can take at this point, and baking banana bread, too. It turns out practice does make perfect. 

BGS spoke to de Vitry over the phone, immediately diving into how serendipitous this collection of songs is for a moment of global pausing.

BGS: The last record, Adaptations, was written in isolation and now you’ve landed with this new record, How to Break a Fall, and on the back end of it you’ve ended up in isolation again. I wondered if you’ve thought about that? Or considered the strange symmetry, the way that these records are bookended by the idea of intentional solitude?

de Vitry: [Laughs] Wow, I absolutely did not connect those dots and that is so wild. It’s so ironic, because I was feeling very frustrated and angry about losing all of these shows this spring and I was finally feeling like [I was ready to get on the road] — because with Adaptations I didn’t tour really at all. I wasn’t emotionally or mentally healthy enough to be touring my music, I wasn’t ready to be on stage. Then this time, I felt emotionally healthy to go out there and play shows and it was like, “Oh, but the world has another health situation going on.” 

In some ways, How to Break a Fall was also written in isolation. I had kind of cut myself off a bit from the East Nashville scene, because I needed some space from the patterns and circles of people. I needed space from touring and leaving [the Stray Birds]. I was working at Starbucks while I was writing the album and I was essentially in isolation. You go to work for eight hours, come home, and you’re just in your house again. It was still voluntary, and I definitely still had some community. I could still pop out and play a show. 

I’m kind of an introverted person, so I’m always in isolation when I’m writing — in some way. I’ve been writing so much in the last couple of weeks. I was ready to kind of emerge, I was ready to go and be out there, and in interaction, instead of isolation. Now it’s like mandatory isolation and I’m going to write.

What does that feel like to you? Does it feel like a grinding of the gears? Like, “Oh, hold on, we’ve gotta turn this ship around and it’s going to take some effort and energy for me to go back into the writing frame of mind when I was ready to be in the outward-facing, extroverted frame of mind.”

It feels like muscle memory. It’s like a pivot. That part of it has not been difficult. I think accessing the writing part, the inward part of being an artist, is [always] within reach. I get as much satisfaction from creating the stuff as I do performing the stuff, if not more. I would say the process of writing an album, recording an album, and being in the studio with people is so fulfilling to me. Just creating it. There’s almost a grieving process when that’s over. Then there’s the next thing, when the songs come alive… I was looking forward to that, seeing how the songs would live and evolve and change. How they would land, out there in the world in real time with people. What other choice do I have? Let’s just pivot. Let’s write another record. [Laughs]

“Better and Better” is about the idea of building something and the song feels pertinent in this moment of… pausing, let’s say, because I think we could all eventually agree that life isn’t about being the best, it’s about being better. It’s about being better than the moment before, the day before, the year before. How do you see that song’s potential for connecting with listeners right now?

That song was like the doorway for writing the rest of that album and it was the doorway because, through writing it, I was realizing that I was actually unwell. Some of the things I was singing about, those lyrics were all things that I wanted to believe, and I realized that I had to make changes. I had to stop doing something that felt normal. I had to leave the band that I was in, I had to stop touring for a while, and yeah, that in some ways does remind me of this moment, too. The only thing we really can control right now is how we take care of ourselves — and that’s also sort of the only thing we ever can control. But it’s easier to feel that when it feels like other things are so outside of our control. 

I felt myself stop, stock still in the moment that I heard the line, “Forgiving myself is the most I can do” go by, because I don’t think a lot of people realize that’s what we’re doing every day right now, to get through. Letting ourselves just be enough. Where does that line come from for you?

That line is specifically about staying. About staying in the situation I was in. Before I was in [the Stray Birds], I was a musician. I was playing fiddle tunes, I was really into old-time music, I was writing songs, and I started to draft up what would be a solo record — in like 2009 and 2010. Then the band became like an invisible fence. There was no room for anyone to be doing anything outside of the band. There was no physical room, for all of the time we were on the road, and there was no emotional room with the interpersonal dynamic of the band. It was not possible to continue to be myself, to nurture my own voice as a writer and musician and also be a member of that band, because of the environment of the band. 

Forgiving myself, in that line, is about forgiving my nineteen-year-old self for not knowing any better at the time. And forgiving myself for my fears, because it was easier [to avoid them instead]. It’s vulnerable to sing your lyrics at all, ever, and I’m forgiving myself for those fears I had. Instead of standing up with my name and my lyrics, it was easier to climb inside the identity of a band and feel protected and more secure.


Which is quite the contrast from How to Break a Fall, because, to me, this record feels like a statement, a declaration for women to be allowed to take up space. And to be allowed to access and enjoy as much of the oxygen in those spaces as they like. Songs like “Something In the Way She Moves,” “Gray,” definitely “Open the Door” all speak to this. And the rock ‘n’ roll aesthetic often feels angry and impassioned, but the music doesn’t feel hostile in the way that it channels those energies.

That’s one hundred percent right. That comes from that process of forgiveness. It comes from walking through that doorway, the doorway being “Better and Better,” and walking into this landscape of songs and being receptive to writing that story. I think the record doesn’t sound hostile because it’s not. These are the songs, these are the sounds that I felt like making, this is a story. These things are true for me. 

There’s this video of Sister Rosetta Tharpe playing incredible guitar, walking up and down this train platform, it’s an iconic taking-up-of-space. An iconic expression of joy. That kind of spirit is what’s behind this music and this record. For as much as I can control what people can get from it, I would hope that some of what it unlocks or awakens is, “Huh… there are a lot of female characters on this record taking up space and doing what they want.”

It’s not hostile because it’s taking the responsibility of going inward by going to my own interior and inviting listeners to go into their interiors and see what’s going on in there. In the song “Revolution” it’s like, What are these walls? What’s inside of me? If this is the way that my eyes have been trained to see, what new world am I going to see? If I can’t shift the lens or something on the inside, how am I going to see a world that’s [different?] It’s happened so many times in history, whether it’s women’s rights or gay rights or the civil rights movement. We have to practice imagining the impossible. That’s connected to why it’s not hostile. 

When that’s the reason behind the music and the intent behind the record, the volume of it or whether it’s an electric or an acoustic guitar or if it’s rock or folk — none of that matters to me. [Laughs] This is the story I’m telling! 

All photos: Laura Partain