(Editor’s Note: Find all of WXPN’s Artist to Watch Black Opry Residency podcast episodes on their website.)
Founded just two years ago, the Black Opry has a simple, but deceptively-difficult mission.
Simple in that it seems straightforward enough: To challenge the idea Black voices are only under represented in roots music because there’s little interest or talent in the black community.
But deceptive, in how hard that myth is to refute.
The truth is that Black and Brown voices have always (and continue to) contributed mightily to the pantheon of Americana music, but they are often overlooked by the very media channels needed to bring about a change.
Using the Philadelphia-based public radio station’s new Artist to Watch podcast to highlight a Black Opry Residency in the City of Brotherly Love, both organizations have teamed up to celebrate and elevate current Black artists, and to educate roots music fans on what they’ve been missing.
Over five weeks, host John Morrison seeks to introduce a new generation of talent to the broader listening public, telling some truly remarkable stories in the process. And, according to Black Opry founder and co-director, Holly G, it was just the type of partnership that could create a lasting trajectory change.
“Working with WXPN was great because they really let us take the lead on what the needs were for our community,” she says.
As a journalist/artist manager and self-identified “country music disruptor,” Holly G knows those needs better than just about anyone. She’s been shining a light on this community for years, which the podcast does a good job of explaining.
Holly G founded Black Opry as a blog and artist directory back in 2021, recognizing a blind spot in the genre and working to profile Black artists in the roots space. But it quickly became something more, and has now grown into a web of inter-connected talent and supporters which even includes a nationwide touring production – the Black Opry Revue. The WXPN show helps tell that story in a broad sense, but also zooms in to introduce a handful of artists individually.
In a five part series, each weekly episode features a different Black artist or act, taking listeners on a “deep and personal dive into the real-life struggles of emerging performers.” Along the way, each gets the chance to tell their story and let listeners see the unique contours of their world – namely, trying build careers from the ground up, in a genre that has all but said they don’t exist.
It’s part of a new drive WXPN has to help develop (and actually support) talent in the pandemic’s wake, since it exposed how precarious an emerging artist’s life can be. According to Bruce Warren – Assistant GM for programming at WXPN and World Cafe’s Executive Producer – featuring Black Opry artists is a natural place to begin.
“WXPN has for a long time had a reputation as a tastemaker, and part of that has been its ability to identify and curate new and emerging artists from across the country and connect them to wider audiences,” he says in podcast’s first episode. “We wanted to give [artists] an amazing, immersive experience that will help change their careers, and at the same time showcase a deeper piece of who they are above and beyond the actual music they play to our audience.”
The Artist to Watch season profiling The Black Opry kicked off on June 8, highlighting Nashville’s Tylar Bryant. Other episodes introduce Denitia and The Kentucky Gentleman (both also out of Nashville), plus Boston’s Grace Givertz and hometown Philly talent, Samantha Rise.
As part of the show, each artist sat for an extensive interview, and also took took part in a week-long creative residency in Philadelphia, writing songs, meeting with mentors and ultimately performing their work at a live showcase.
It’s a remarkably detailed and enlightening podcast, giving some talented and deserving artists a carer boost while also expelling an outdated premise about country music and the black community. New episodes continue to air weekly on Thursday nights, and although it’s just one more step in tackling a big and complex problem, Holly G says every little bit counts.
“It was great feeling empowered to provide the artists involved with resources specifically catered to them,” she says. “Our knowledge and understanding of our community paired with the extensive industry knowledge that WXPN provided enabled us all to have a great experience that was meaningful and substantial to everyone involved.”
(Editor’s Note: This conversation between Black Opry co-director Holly G and BGS executive director Amy Reitnouer Jacobs was moderated by journalist Jewly Hight and marks the culmination of our Artist of the Month coverage of Black Opry. Find more on Black Opry here.)
“I just wrote this down, because I need to look at this every single day,” Amy Reitnouer Jacobs informs Holly G while scribbling on a sticky note: “Your name’s on there. You get full credit.”
Holly G, the creator of the Black Opry, has just dropped a gem of practical, principled wisdom that she’s developed through dealing with event organizers, entertainment companies, and institutions who expect her to lend them her presence, while withholding her critiques of the racial biases baked into how they operate. Her hard-line posture? “My participation is not an endorsement.”
Even in a matter as small as pinning that sentence to her wall, an act we observe on the Zoom screen, longtime BGS leader Reitnouer Jacobs knows well the importance of receiving proper credit, and compensation, as a persevering music industry dreamer and doer who’s also a woman.
These two founders of influential, community-shaping music platforms have crossed paths on plenty of occasions, but they’d never before stopped to compare notes. Their work addresses the insularity of music scenes in different ways, Holly G’s taking aim at country music’s exclusion of Black performers and Reitnouer Jacobs’ at bluegrass’ fierce protectiveness of perceived threats to its purity. Still, the similarities between what they’ve experienced, how they’ve responded and who they’ve paid attention to pile up rapidly in our Zoom conversation.
By the time we’re through, Reitnouer Jacobs signing off from her Los Angeles home office and Holly G abandoning her laptop to check on guests she’s invited to a Black Opry mixer at a rented house in Nashville, they’re feeling a significant overlap in their labor and making plans to actually, some day, do something together.
Jewly Hight: You both had careers completely outside of music and then your own fandom drove you to start blogs and put your stakes in the ground in the digital space. I was thinking back to the crossroads moment that you each must’ve reached where you were starting to get a response and see other ways that you could decide to get involved in those musical spaces. What really mattered to making the decision to expand each of your missions?
Holly G: I don’t feel like it was a decision for me. I’ve never consented to any of this. [Laughs]
I feel like it really, really shifted right after you interviewed me for the first time, and that article went up on NPR. That’s when everybody was like, “Oh, this is serious.” And because what we were actually doing was so vague, because I didn’t have a plan, people were just asking me to do everything; I had never said what I could or couldn’t do. By the time people started asking me for heavier lifts, I had already met these artists and I was so invested in the artists and seeing how hard they worked. I was like, “I’m never gonna say ‘No’ to anything. What could be good for them? What could push them forward?” A lot of it just went over my head, ‘cuz I was just saying “Yes.” And then I was like, “Oh shit, how did we get here?”
Amy Reitnouer Jacobs: That actually really resonates, when you said once you started meeting the artists that suddenly you saw where the needs were. That was a huge shift for me. I mean, I got into this as a fan, but I really didn’t think about writing about this community, this genre until I started to become friends with the artists that were involved and get to know them and become kind of part of their circles.
I think there was definitely a moment of, “Oh wait, you’re not being served? We’ll work on that. We’ll start covering that. Wait, you also are not being represented over here? Let’s cover this, too.” I’ve had to learn how to say “No” over the years, but my immediate instinct is always to say “yes” and then figure it out.
HG: My rule is if it’s not gonna negatively affect my mental health, then I say, “Yes.” That’s where I draw my line at. As an outsider, when you come in, you see the gaps, but then you also see how easy it would be to fix them. Sometimes people don’t know or they’ve just never been asked to do the right thing. But if you can have somebody [involved] that’s not an artist, they’re like, “There’s no ulterior motive.” Nobody thinks that I’m asking for Black people to get on stage so that I can go sing, ‘cuz we all know I can’t.
JH: It changed everything when you each were put in close proximity to artists who were working toward things, and had ambitions and scenes that they were part of or wanted to be a part of. What did it actually look like to turn your desire to help into strategies?
ARJ: When you’re actually given real responsibility that you have to show up for and deliver, suddenly it all becomes a lot more real. I had to go through a perspective shift.
I would say producing the IBMA Awards was a really big thing, because it was suddenly very, very real. It wasn’t just me being like, “What the fuck, IBMA? Come on, get your shit together.” It was like, “Now they’ve handed me something that I can make a change in, and I have to do it and I have to do it right. And I have to do it to not only to an industry standard, but to the personal standards with which I wanna move forward and I wanna see this industry move forward.” So that and doing a [BGS] stage at Bonnaroo, doing a lot of the curatorial stages, like what Black Opry does as well. I think when you suddenly are putting this out in a packaged way for everyone to see, it kind of makes it all a little bit more real.
HG: It’s really cool to hear your perspective, because as you know, there’s not a lot of people who have journeys that are like ours.
When you say going from yelling about it to being in the room and they’re asking you what to do about it is a very weird feeling. Especially because I wasn’t criticizing [the country music industry] with any intent for anybody to ask me any questions. It’s like going into somebody’s house and you’re like, “I hate this wall color.” And they’re like, “Okay, well paint it.” And I’m like, “Well, I’m just giving you my opinion.” You know what I mean?
JH: There’s a big difference between critiquing from a distance and being handed a thing and asked to work on changing it. That raises the stakes.
HG: I was speaking before I knew what I know now, but as a fan, you’re not thinking about how the industry works. You’re just seeing the flaws and you’re like, “Well, this doesn’t make any sense.” But you’re not ever thinking with the expectation that you’re gonna have to be the one to fix it.
When we started booking shows that we were actually getting paid for, as soon as money started coming in, I was like, “Whoa, that always feels like a big responsibility to me.” Because it wasn’t a career aspiration of mine, not in any real substantial way. Once money started coming in, I’m like, “Number one, this needs to be distributed fairly.”
It took me a long time to take money from shows. My agent would yell at me all the time. She’s like, “Why aren’t you paying yourself?” And I’m like, “Well, because I wanna make sure the artists get paid.” And she’s like, “This is a business. You’re doing work. You have to pay yourself.” Finally, after exhausting myself and realizing that the exhaustion was because of the work that I was putting into it, I’m like, “Okay, I’ll pay myself.”
ARJ: Holly, that really struck a chord with me, what you said about the money. When those stakes came in, it was like, “Oh, this isn’t just a blog anymore.” There is something on the line and there’s someone investing in me and in this idea, too, and they’re investing with the trust that I’m gonna do the good work.
It took me over five years not to start necessarily paying myself, but to start prioritizing myself and considering myself part of that package, rather than just putting everything I had into it, at the sacrifice of personal life and sometimes physical and mental health and financial choices.
HG: I wouldn’t have made it that long. But you know why, though? I got to that point so much quicker, only because a lot of the things that people were asking me to do were so emotionally draining, like to constantly go through racial trauma and explain myself. That shit is so exhausting. I very quickly was like, “What am I getting out of this?” I do not mind taking money from that at all.
I still don’t think that I’ve seen the changes I would like to see overall – in any facet of the industry. But what I have seen is individual artists’ lives completely changed. They can tour in a different way because of the way that we tour. Our tour minimum is $400 per show. So they can go out and play a show with us for $400, and that means that they can go to that area and play a couple other bars where they might not really get paid anything, but they’ve gotten something to get up there to help them get a little bit of a leg up.
JH: You were talking about learning how things work in the industry. I imagine that part of that involved coming to understand the established pipelines that exist in country music, in bluegrass, and in roots music, how they work, who they work for, and who they don’t work for. Realizing that they are not built in a way that is meant to serve everyone. You didn’t just accept that those established models are the only options. What kind of relationship do you each have to the industry? And where do you place your trust?
HG: I don’t trust anybody. My mission is to serve the artists. My personal feeling is that we need to build systems outside of what exists and so that we can build it in a better way. Because you’re not gonna go into an institution that’s been around for a hundred years and fix things that have been wrong for a hundred years. It’s not gonna happen, especially not gonna happen quickly.
However, it is not my right or privilege to tell an artist that they shouldn’t participate in the industry. So that being said, I have to work in parallel. Yes, I’m building things, but I also have to interact with the industry in a way that I can advocate for the artists that wanna participate in that.
And so when I do interact with the industry, it’s basically like, “What can I get out of you?” Because I know this is how they look at me. And so my first thing is, “What do you have that I can get that will serve me, that will serve my artists, that will serve my mission and my brand?” If what I can get from you feels like it’ll be worth whatever it is that you want to take from me, then I do it. But if I can’t get something back, that’s gonna make that exploitation worth it–because that’s what the whole industry is, exploitation–then I just move on.
ARJ: It took me a while to realize that, when I was talking about not prioritizing myself and not paying or taking care of myself, that in doing so I was actually falling into the trap that so many of these institutions had established of not paying women the same amount, not paying us what we’re worth.
I know that there are industry standards of not paying Black women what they’re worth, even less. I thought for a while that just by being part of this panel or whatever, I’m doing the right thing, ‘cuz I’m there and I’m representing something new and different and fresh and modern.
But by accepting an honorarium that I would find out later was less than some of the male names also appearing at a conference, I was falling into the same trap. It still enrages me, still gets me mad and so I feel like now I can be in, but not of a lot of these institutions. I’m happy to work with them if they’re gonna pay up and have us there for a reason, but I’m not going to serve them. I am not going to help, assist or fix what is institutionally wrong.
That’s partially why I’m really proud that BGS has continued to be independently run and owned this whole time, because we don’t answer to anybody, and nor do I plan to.
HG: I’ve pissed quite a few people off, ‘cuz I’ll work with them, but then after it’s over, they do something else. Then I criticize them and they’re like, “But wait, you came and did a panel for us.” And I’m like, “My participation is not an endorsement.” My presence does not mean you are off the hook for everything that you have done or going to do in the future. And so it has been interesting to watch them fall apart as I continue to criticize them and to see which ones come back after that. And that’s how I can tell whether or not they actually wanna do the work. If I criticize you and you come back for more, that tells me how you wanna do the work. That’s been a really good filtering tool for me.
JH: Even with the healthy skepticism that you’re each describing, you’ve managed to execute really massive events and partnerships. How do you make those decisions about what powerful people or institutions are worth partnering with?
HG: There’s no science to it, I feel like, because the other thing is there’s good people at bad places and that’s across the board. If I can find the good people at the bad place, then I’ll work with those people. And that’s just kind of how I do it.
I’ve gotten to the point now where I tell them that part up front: “This does not absolve you from anything that you do. I’m still gonna speak up.” One of the things that I’m afraid of happening is for people to look at what I’m doing and be like, “Okay, well she got in the room now, so I guess everything’s fine. She’s not speaking out anymore.” I don’t want it to look like I’ve closed the door behind me. If you can’t handle that, then we don’t have any business together. And as long as you find those good people, they’re gonna understand that and they’re gonna push forward anyway.
And sometimes because of that, I’ve had people tell me, “Please continue to criticize us, because that’s the only way I can get my bosses to do [anything] is when you won’t shut the fuck up on Twitter.”
ARJ: For the most part, I find that there are really good people on the ground, doing the work and for me, a lot of it just comes down to – I don’t know – intuition. It’s not necessarily a financial thing. It’s not necessarily a visibility thing. I think that’s kind of my unofficial business strategy, which is probably not something that they teach you to do when you have an MBA. But I never planned to get into this job to begin with, so I just go on intuition and I work with people I love. I return to things that I love and places that take care of our artists and take care of our community and take care of us. Those are the people that I will continue to invest in and go back to.
JH: Bluegrass, Americana, roots, and country are so often spoken of as though they are strongholds of authenticity insulated from commerce, to an extent. But we know that all of these spaces are inherently commercial if anyone’s trying to make a living off of them. So as people who are very invested in building community where it doesn’t exist in the ways that it needs to, how do you hold those two things next to each other?
HG: I do not. I think that also the whole conversation about authenticity is bullshit. It’s a way to move the goalpost, so that they can keep the people they want in and keep the people they want out out: “That’s not real country. That’s not real Americana.” It doesn’t fucking matter, because what makes it real is usually who makes it. If they look at somebody and they recognize that person as somebody that they want in that space, they’ll accept anything. It doesn’t matter what it sounds like if it comes from the right person. It’s a tool that they use so that if somebody comes along that they don’t feel like fits in because of their gender, their sexuality, their color, whatever it is, they can then say, “Oh, well then it’s not real X, Y, Z,” and they can get away with it.
JH: I also want to get at how you’re acknowledging that this is commercial, but also insisting that building community matters. How do you do both at the same time?
HG: Very easily. ‘Cuz you do things where you bring people together behind the scenes when you know everybody’s in town. That’s what we do. We get a house and we make sure everybody has somewhere to come together. But when you ask me to show up at the thing, I’m gonna ask you for a check. You’re gonna pay me to have official participation, but behind the scenes, we do things that build community. I feel like that’s all relative, right? So I’m not gonna go to a festival that’s just starting up and be like, “We need $20,000.” But if you’re paying everybody, make sure you pay us what’s fair in relation to what you have. So it’s just figuring that part out, but also always making sure you’re asking for it. I’ve learned to ask upfront, “What’s your budget?” Because that way I know where the conversation is gonna go.
JH: That’s sort of like reverse gatekeeping, in a sense. When you put together events or decide to gather artists to participate under the name of Black Opry, some of those things are for the public, outward-facing performances. Then there are things you do, like rent this house and invite who you want to be here, where you’re creating a safe, private space.
HG: The way that I curate the shows is more community driven. I try to pair up artists, especially if they’re traveling for a tour, that I feel like their personalities either mesh or there’s something in their story that I know would [connect] with each other or like things like that. It doesn’t matter if two artists’ music would sound great on the same bill, if those people don’t connect. I mean, I can put people together that sound completely different. I’ve had Jake Blount and Kentucky Gentlemen on a show together before, and they all were so excited to be with each other. The best part of our shows is usually the green room. That’s kind of a private, intimate space.
ARJ: You keep saying a lot of parallel things to what we do. I didn’t realize how parallel some of our experiences have been, and it just makes me love you more, Holly.
So much of what we’ve done over the years, it will never be public facing and the public will never even know about, because it’s not why we do it. And I think it’s what makes artists continue to come back to BGS events or wanna be covered on the site. Artists that, 10 years ago, I would’ve never thought I’d ever get the time of day from will say “Yes” to things because we put them first and we have given them a safe and fun and communal space to be together.
When I started BGLA originally, and then BGS, I wanted it to be this place for modern fans, for younger fans, for all fans that I didn’t think were being served or represented. I think for a while I was really susceptible to this yarn that they were spinning of, “There’s just not enough women in bluegrass. There’s just no Black people in bluegrass.” And I’m like, “Wait, I don’t know if that’s right.” And then the more you dig and the more you get involved, you’re like, “These communities have been here the whole time.” This is not only about creating community, this is about connecting community. This is about bringing communities together, representing them, and, and connecting the dots, whether it’s a digital community or artists in a green room or in a house to hang out for a jam.
HG: It’s so funny, like how the parallels keep coming up. Cause people have asked me a lot recently in interviews, “How do you feel about this revolution in country music?” And I’m like, “It’s not a revolution. It’s recognition.” This has been here the whole fucking time.
JH: There are deeply entrenched perceptions about what the country fan base looks like that are based on the continual and artificial segregation of the industry. And there are equally entrenched perceptions of what a bluegrass fan base looks like, based on the fervent reverence for the models laid down by the first generations of musicians. How have you developed ways of speaking to audiences within audiences, those that have gone unseen and overlooked?
HG: I’m telling you, I thought I was the only one when I started Black Opry. It was more like a search and explore mission than it was like an intentional, “I’m gonna find these people.” Because as a Black person that loves country music, I promise you, anytime you tell somebody that, you get looked at like you just fell out of a UFO.
I was equally surprised when I found artists. I didn’t think there were more than five artists. I was like, “We got Mickey, Jimmie, Kane and Darius.”
There was so much passionate relief when people started seeing you and feeling seen. It still surprises me. And I’ll be honest: We still haven’t gotten to where we need to be as far as the fan base with country music. There are a lot more queer fans simply because there are a lot more white, queer people that like country music. So we’ve built up a really, really big white, queer fan base.
A big priority for me this year is how do we connect with Black fans? Because the Black publications and the places that Black people go to for music typically don’t interact with country music.
But I will say, every show that we’ve had that I’ve been to, there’s at least one Black person that comes up to me and goes, “I thought I hated country music, but I saw the word Black in front of it, so I came just to see what it was. ‘Cuz it sounded weird. And I loved all of this. If I knew country music was like this, I would’ve known I liked it.” We’re trying really hard to figure out how we get to those people in a more broad way and get more of them. We need our audiences to look like what we want our stages to look like.
A lot of the places I’ve been to, regardless of how kind the organizers have been, it doesn’t always feel safe. And so there’s no part of me that wants to advocate for Black people to come into some of these spaces, because I can’t guarantee they’re gonna feel good. At Newport [Folk Festival], we felt good, even with being all white people. It’s just the type of people that they attract; they’re good people. And so we’ve really, really been interested in seeing how we can figure that piece of it out, where we get more Black people to these spaces. But, I can’t consciously advocate for too much of that yet, because I need to see the institutions doing the work to make it safe.
JH: So it’s still very much an open question of how you find, reach, and speak to Black country fans.
ARJ: Something that we asked ourselves very early on was not how do we reach other Bluegrass fans or where do we look for other Bluegrass fans, but where are we not looking? Who are we not reaching? What’s gonna be unexpected in that crossover Venn diagram of fandom?
Because like you were saying, you felt like you were the only one. I felt like I was in a minority of young, urban dwelling, West Coast, female fans that didn’t grow up in the South, you know? I started the whole thing from a need to connect with other people. I mean, it really stemmed out of loneliness. But I realized that my online demographics wouldn’t have made me a targeted fan if I were launching BGS. Like, any advertising or any kind of targeting we would’ve been doing, I myself wouldn’t have been found.
I think we just realized within our first three, four years, we have to turn ourselves outwards and reject everything that we’ve been told of who fans are and who communities are. And we have to be looking elsewhere, and we’re continuing to do that. It’s a question that we’re constantly asking ourselves, and I think it’s something that you’re never done searching for because there’s always someone else who feels like they have been excluded or that they are alone in this, whether they’re a fan or a player, or they don’t know what they are yet.
I remember one of the first meetings that I had with some IBMA folks. They were like, “You keep putting up all this like modern stuff and this isn’t real bluegrass.” And I’m like, “You’re gonna tell me if a kid walks in to McCabe’s guitar shop in Santa Monica and wants to buy a Deering banjo and pick up a banjo for the first time ever because he watched a Mumford and Sons video, that you’re gonna tell him ‘No’? That you’re gonna say ‘No’ because that’s not bluegrass?” Fine, we don’t have to put a label on it. Why don’t you open up that door and introduce ’em to Earl Scruggs. Let’s take them down that rabbit hole and connect the dots once again for that person. How about we take their hand and help guide them through this expanse of everything?
JH: Since you mentioned a first-generation bluegrass icon, something that’s baked into country, bluegrass and roots music is venerating elders and creating canons. And that’s just as much about excluding people as it is about who belongs in the canon.
You each make elders very present in what you do. Holly, you recently advocated for the Country Music Hall of Fame exhibit that includes the Black Opry to also include its predecessors, Frankie Staton and the Black Country Music Association. Amy, you make decisions about meaningful coverage of multiple generations of performers all the time, and BGS just published an appreciation of an underappreciated first-generation picker, Gloria Belle. How do you think about ways of doing that better than you’ve seen it done?
HG: I don’t wanna make it seem like I strong-armed [the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum]. I would not have had a problem strong-arming them, but they were gonna do it anyway. So they said, “We’ve already sent a letter to [Frankie]. Calm down.” And I was like, “Oh, okay.”
I don’t really think of it so much in that light that you’re describing as I do that we don’t have a record of Black country music history. For me, it’s about building that record. There’s so many people – like Wendy Moten. Wendy’s been singing with Faith Hill and Tim McGraw and Vince Gill for years and years and years. She’s part of Black country music history to me, and we have no record of that. Nobody’s ever talked about it. It’s about finding those people from the other generations that have been doing this long before it was something I ever thought about, and making sure they’re included in this narrative so that whoever comes up after us doesn’t have to work so hard to find these things out.
There’s no reason I shouldn’t have known the things that I’m finding out now until I had to literally dig for them — and I get access to a lot of it, ‘cuz people see what I’m doing and will bring stuff to me. But it’s not out there and ready for the public.
ARJ: Building that history is such an important part. And because we have a platform, because we have this online record that we are building, that’s part of our responsibility, is to help maintain that.
Gloria Belle, like we heard about her passing and then we waited and there were no obits. And we were like, “Who’s, who’s gonna cover this? Oh wait, it’s us. We have to be the ones to cover it.” I should know that 10 years on. But I still get reminded time and time again, we still have to do the work.
I am not one to venerate folks who maybe don’t deserve it. But I do think it’s the same idea of you’ve gotta know the rules in order to break them. You have to know the history in order to figure out where you’re going and how to break out of that and how to change it.
JH: You both are continually adapting how you present and position what you’re doing. Do you feel like you have come up against the limitations of genre? And have you looked for ways to free your efforts up from those limitations?
HG: Yeah, that one’s been tough. I know what kind of music I personally like, and I like music that would be described as Country music by literally anybody who heard it. It’s usually not a gray area, the things that I like personally, and that’s what brought me to where I am.
But also, all of the artists that I talk to across the board say that genre is a harmful concept to their careers. And so it’s deconstructing that concept, but also realizing too that the advocacy, everybody needs all of this stuff. It’s not just people in this space. So it’s like, “Where do I fit into that?” Regardless of how I feel about anything, there’s enough people in [all parts of] the industry telling Black people “No.” And so if a Black artist comes to me and wants to work with us, I really don’t give a shit what they sound like. The answer is gonna be “Yes.” I’m never gonna turn anybody away. Right now where I’ve kind of settled is anybody can come and play with us with any style, but the advocacy work that I do is going to focus on country music spaces and institutions, just because that’s where my passion is and that’s where I see the greatest need for it. I do acknowledge that there’s problems across the board. If you look at the work that the Black Music Action Coalition does, they’re doing it across all genres.
I’m sure you get this too, Amy, where it’s like you want to work on the things that you care about and you like, but also once you have this level of responsibility, that really doesn’t matter anymore. It’s out the window. It should never be about what personal taste is. It should be about what’s best for the group at large.
ARJ: It was very confusing, I think, for folks to initially come to the site and realize that it wasn’t just Bluegrass. And our whole point was like, “This is pulling from the traditions of the genre that is called Bluegrass.” But that has taken on different incarnations and iterations over the years since it was established. I guess you could say, by the IBMA standards of 1945, you know, Bill Monroe. For a while it was about bucking people’s expectations when they would get to the site of what they thought they were gonna get versus what they were given on the website.
Then we made a very conscious shift to be called BGS. We still use the Bluegrass Situation. A lot of people still know us as that, but we have really made a conscious effort to switch over to BGS, in the long tradition of things like CBGB, or NME Magazine. After a while, it just becomes those letters. So that’s always been my hope, that it becomes more of an umbrella organization and that it’s not limited. I still lean on genre when I feel like it’s advantageous. Because at the end of the day, I’m not going to stop it from existing. It exists. It’s how certain people can identify what they want to listen to or how we search for a playlist, even. It’s just how things are organized, whether we like it or not.
So when I can be disruptive within those structures, I will utilize it. I know that I can make certain calls, or I can show up to certain conferences and I can make an impact within this community and I can have some kind of small change within this community. And that is what drives me, and that is when I’m willing to use genre, if it means that I can insert myself and continue to be a part of that and enact change.
HG: A lot of artists tell me that they feel like genre is weaponized against them. I feel like we have an opportunity to take that and then weaponize it back against the industry itself. Because it’s literally just a marketing tool, so you just have to figure out how to play the game so that it helps the artist more than it hurts him.
[Editor’s note: To mark the conclusion of Black History Month, we’ve invited BGS collaborator and contributor Brandi Waller-Pace to share her thoughts on how to take the ethos, mission, and action of BHM with us throughout the year.]
“Dr. Carter G. Woodson, Black American writer and historian, is known as the Father of Black History Month. One of the first scholars of African American history, he founded the Association for the Study of African American Life and History in 1915 and established Negro History Week in February of 1926. He chose the week of February that contained the birthdays of both Frederick Douglas (February 14th) and Abraham Lincoln (February 12th) as both birthdays were already being celebrated in Black communities. In 1970 The Black United Students organization at Kent State University began a celebration of Black History Month, and in 1976 President Ford declared Black History Month nationwide.”
– Brandi Waller-Pace, Decolonizing the Music Room, 2001
Dr. Woodson’s selection of Douglass and Lincoln’s birthday indicates how significant they were, especially since the 1920s being just one generation removed from the Civil War – with many formerly enslaved Black people still alive. Even today, we are not nearly as removed from that time period as we think we are. In 1976, the year of the United States’ bicentennial and fifty years after the first Negro History Week, President Ford expanded the commemoration to last an entire month and Black History Month was born.
Some folks ask, “If Black history is important all the time, why is it just a month?” But the literal history of the month itself, the fact that it exists at all, is part of Black history. It was a push to validate and celebrate the experiences, culture, study, and background of Black people in the land that came to be known as the United States, people who were viewed legally and societally as less than fully human, alongside the denial of their contributions to this country’s foundation and culture. Negro History Week was created to shine light on everything Blackness has created in the U.S. – and that week of recognition itself was created by a Black scholar. We know that Blackness and Black history is broader than just the U.S., and I find it important to look at that expanse in the context of Black History Month.
When we talk about heritage months in general, we have to think about how we use terms: “Black,” “African American,” and so on. These ideas and terms didn’t all begin at the same point, they didn’t come out of the same movements, and they aren’t all used interchangeably or even in the same fashion. They also are not universally claimed by people we would place under their umbrella.
This is exactly what this month is for, to have these conversations and to open up these spaces, not to relegate Blackness to one month. Celebrating Blackness isn’t geared toward denying other groups their history – framing the month in terms of what it means for the recognition of other groups perpetuates false binaries, as if the only options available are honoring BHM at others’ expense, or ignoring BHM altogether. Celebrating Blackness is just that– acknowledging the history and the continuing traditions, culture, and advances of Black folks, who continue to make history. That sort of celebration is huge, especially considering the erasure and exclusion of so much of Black history in curriculum, media, and literature.
It’s interesting to consider our ideas around Black History Month as they relate to our changing perceptions of time. As the world became more industrialized, mass communication advanced, and now we’re in the age of the internet where things seem to move lightning-fast and we are inundated with content, with emphasis on trends. This contributes to the impression of even meatier information simply being trends and waves in popular culture or only being flashes in the pan. This helps reinforce the idea that our celebrations of heritage months are just a moment, something for short attention spans, to be consumed in a second before scrolling on. You’ll see memes or posts like, “Now everybody is doing such-and-such a thing!” When that “thing” – almost always mocked as “woke” or “politically correct” – has possibly been around for hundreds of years.
It’s a function and arm of the myth of white supremacy to present the “other” as invalid, unless there is something about it upon which one can capitalize. Time and time again, Black folks’ creations – our foodways and folkways, our cultural creations, our music, our ways of dress – have been erased, ignored, or derided unless there’s a point at which some kind of value can be extracted from it. It is then taken up by the mainstream, gates are built around it, and Black folks are purposefully distanced from it while others profit from it.
It’s like so many of the linguistic trends that have pervaded TikTok and internet culture, which are referred to as “Gen Z language,” but they are really rooted in African American Vernacular English and Black language that have been adopted by the internet writ large, but without understanding of or general reference to their origins. Because of how quickly the world moves and how information is passed along in the age of the internet, these pieces of culture are picked up, stripped down, and decontextualized so quickly.
Or consider the banjo – which is still represented in the mainstream specifically as a “white Appalachian instrument.” In the past, this representation was even upheld broadly among many trad communities in a factual way. In recent decades – thanks to the labor and diligence of some great humans – the banjo’s true origins have become more and more widely known, along with the story of how it was taken up into mainstream popular culture and how many Black people were distanced from their connection to the instrument while many white people continued to profit materially and/or reputationally from playing it.
In this time, Black cultural appropriation is so often perpetuated that it’s easy to have no awareness of these phenomena as they happen. Part of the work here is understanding that intention – or lack of intention – doesn’t mitigate impact. It’s important for all of us to understand how we perpetuate what we perpetuate and how we co-opt what we co-opt, whether mistruths about the banjo, slang and language trends, or Black History Month.
When we talk about privilege and perpetuation of this sort of appropriation, we tend to individualize, because in our society and culture we are conditioned to think individually. This manifests itself in a lot of ways; for instance, many speak against funding community care for people who need it, against investing in and giving people what they need – income, shelter, nutrition, access, resources. This comes from being taught that each gets their own – if you do, it’s because you are sufficient as a person, if you don’t it’s because you are deficient. While our society individualizes, it’s important to remember these are systemic, holistic, endemic issues that must be solved collectively. We must collaborate to repair the legacy of antiblackness, erasure, and exclusion that Black folks have experienced on this land for centuries.
This doesn’t mean there isn’t individual responsibility. Each of us can and should make individual efforts – as well as collective – to reckon with our privilege and our roles in perpetuating this status quo. And I would caution against positioning the individual against the collective; it’s collective and individual work. People interact with one another individually and interact with collective systems and groups. It’s such a balance; not taking away the need for individual focus and responsibility, but understanding that that same individual is part of the collective and should also drive the collective. Something like voting– when you’re in that booth, you’re by yourself, but your vote is collective action.
So, what is needed for others to make progress toward Black people and their creations being treated equitably? Start by building human relationships, first of all. Representation within ranks shouldn’t just be for “diversity’s sake.” Diversify spaces not just for the sake of diversifying spaces, but so these spaces aren’t just white-dominated and white-led, talking about these issues and what to do about these issues. Having actual human connection, being in relationship with one another, is vital. Have a willingness to invest in real, human relationships with the Black folks that you’re inviting in. There’s a huge difference in how one cares for and handles people they’re in real relationships with – not as just a representative identity, but as a human, a community member. It’s easier to listen to folks and really hear them, if you care about them.
Make sure not to employ a “color avoidant” (AKA “colorblind”) approach. If you care about me as a Black person and my full humanity, don’t erase my Blackness, because it is an important part of my identity, of which I am proud. But it also is something society has painted as negative and caring for me means acknowledging that that affects me. The status quo, white supremacist norms, are intertwined with our particularly fierce brand of capitalism, and it all seeks to completely individualize us and strip away our sense of collective care. So, one must be intentional in building relationships. But don’t stop connecting at those of us who are the easiest to access, who have the most resources and the privilege to already be in exclusive spaces you regularly encounter. That has us tokenized and other Black folks still erased, outside of the gates.
Then, based on these real, personal relationships with Black folks, you can step in when necessary to check your peers who are perpetuating the erasure, marginalization, tokenization we regularly experience among organizations and groups. In bluegrass, old-time, and roots music the number of Black folks present is never equal to the true cultural contributions of Black folks, which can result in heavy tokenization. We can feel actions are being taken just to check a box, versus work being done to make structural change over time.
There is a great deal of societal resistance against taking deliberate, intentional actions to address antiblackness. It is important to view this work through the lens of reparation, in a real material and financial sense and to direct resources to Black communities, giving Black folks the discretion to use those resources as they see fit, rather than insisting on providing your oversight. At the same time, those who hold this industry and community power should understand that people aren’t always going to want to be hired in or brought on to diversify or as a solution to a diversity problem.
You can do both at the same time. I had a conversation recently with someone about the festival I founded, the Fort Worth African American Roots Music Festival, about pushes to diversify spaces, versus creating new ones. Both of these strategies are completely valid – if you run a festival, by all means bring on more Black artists next year. But at the same time, donate money to spaces specifically aimed at building a more involved Black community within roots music – ones in which we don’t often get to participate.
It’s also important to address the concept of inclusion. The word “inclusion” can be frustrating, because the baseline for inclusion is, “We made something in which you weren’t included upfront, and now we have to figure out how to put you in it.” The focus can’t always be on bringing Black presence into those spaces; there is also a responsibility to support what Black people are already building, letting us do our thing. If your support is given upon the condition that we stick within your established frameworks, is it really support?
I often remind people that it takes time and energy to process all this information, put it into a historical context, and really understand disparities caused by antiblackness – especially because, for instance, not all white folks are rich, not all privilege is financial privilege, and so on. On the grand scale, huge financial disparities exist between white and Black people in the U.S. Confronting this may cause discomfort; sitting in discomfort is hard. But I see it the way I see physical exercise – when you’re working out, if you aren’t pushing your muscles to failure you can’t grow. This work is building muscle. This is why understanding that you, even as individuals, are part of the collective is so important. Because, at this point, the individual gets fed up. The individual tires when it gets tough. It can feel so insurmountable, but this is when people can remind themselves that they are part of a collective and have others to help with the load.
When discomfort creeps up, one may go to, for lack of a better idiom, black-and-white thinking. So many people who aren’t Black want to ignore that antiblackness is so deeply rooted in the history of our country, in our economy, in this industry, in our perceptions of the world around us – whose full humanity is or isn’t acknowledged; what defines beauty; what defines intelligence; and much more. When we’re talking about these issues more broadly, going back to the original question of “Why Black History Month?” Why is this distinction, this specificity important? If you’re striving for justice, working to dismantle white supremacy, working toward creating pathways to success for Black folks in this industry and within capitalism, but aren’t talking at all about Blackness specifically, you’re missing something major. There’s something distinct about Black people’s position in this society – just as there’s something distinct about the position of Indigenous, Asian, Latine and other non-white folks in this society.
These white supremacist narratives that erase Blackness’ contributions on this land, that heritage months like Black History Month work to interrupt, became what they are today over centuries of very dedicated legal, cultural, and personal efforts to entrench them. That process took hundreds of years, so why do we expect one workshop, one presentation, one article to be all it takes?
While the entire industry surrounding roots music ratchets up its awareness around social justice issues and attempts to create a more representative and inclusive community, it’s apparent that, now more than ever, we need industry leaders of diverse cultural, ethnic, gender, and identity backgrounds. As we cap off this year’s Black History Month, BGS wants to spotlight not only the Black artists, songwriters, musicians, and instrumentalists who make these genres and this industry great, but also the writers, thinkers, leaders, and stakeholders working behind the scenes to craft a better, more just reality for all folks in roots music. Here are just a few of the Black industry insiders and community builders who inspire us and are leading the way.
Charleston, South Carolina’s first poet laureate, Marcus Amaker, is also a musician, author, performer, and designer. Oh, and he’s also composed an opera! A true multi-hyphenate, Amaker’s visual art has anchored No Depression’s print journal since 2017, just after its rebirth. He has released an impressive thirty-five albums of electronic music and his latest book, Black Music Is, is a “poetic love letter to Black music and history” through the eyes and ears of Bebop the cat, who spins vinyl records and listens to all sorts of genres – from bluegrass to hip-hop.
Songwriter, recording artist, and community builder Kyshona is well known in Nashville and in the folk and Americana scenes for her grounded, embodied songs that explore themes of agency, justice, mental health, healing, connection, and growth. Her career began in music therapy and she brings sensibilities from that expertise with her into every avenue of her professional life. She founded and runs Your Song, a non-profit, collaborative songwriting program that connects performing arts centers, musicians, and artists with vulnerable communities to promote healing and community connectedness. Following the COVID-19 pandemic, she also began holding events and meet-ups for music professionals seeking to move through this extractive, punishing industry more healthfully and mindfully and joyfully.
Writer, thinker, fashion icon, and Tennessean columnist Marcus Dowling has been publishing writings on dance music, food, hip-hop, Nashville, and country music for more than fifteen years. In 2021, he was awarded the Rolling Stone Chet Flippo Award for Excellence in Country Music Journalism. Just about everyone who has ever been anyone in the modern country scene has spoken with and been written about by Dowling, who brings vibrant, artful descriptions as well as thoughtful perspective and context to his interviews and features. But, it’s not just the Shania Twains, Kelsea Ballerinis, and Tyler Hubbards of the world that he covers, he connects the dots between past generations and the future, highlighting new artists, forgotten or underappreciated legends, and creators too often relegated to the shadows, as well.
Holly G and Tanner D are the co-founders and co-orchestrators of Black Opry, a touring collective, showcase, revue, and community that re-centers Black musicians, songwriters, and instrumentalists in country music. Black Opry rose to notoriety rapidly in the wake of the social unrests surrounding race, police brutality, and state-facilitated murder of Black folks in 2020, but the groundwork for this trailblazing group had been laid long before that pivotal year. Both Holly and Tanner began their work as fans of the music, giving them a particular perspective on how to create spaces in country music that truly feel inviting, receptive, and open to all, while still focusing their mission on the historic and current factors that continue to channel Black fans out of country and toward other genres.
Benjamin Hunter is a speaker, musician, educator, and organizer perhaps best known in roots music circles from his duo with Joe Seamons, but his work extends far beyond his expertise in the primordial musical ooze that became blues, bluegrass, old-time, and country. He’s founded and co-founded multiple organizations with artistic purviews: Community Arts Create (with a mission to break down social barriers through cross-generational and multi-cultural arts programming, especially folk art), Hillman City Collaboratory (a social change incubator), Black & Tan Hall (a venue, restaurant, and gathering space), and many more. Based in the Pacific northwest, Hunter was Seattle’s Music Commissioner from 2014 to 2020. And his resume continues, these being merely the tip of the iceberg of his experience.
Brandi Waller-Pace is an educator, academic, and musician who founded Decolonizing the Music Room, a non-profit with a mission of re-centering Black, Brown, Indigenous, and Asian voices in music education, complicating and subverting endemic colonialism and classism in Western European classical music, its history, and its instruction. She’s also a board member for Folk Alliance International and with DTMR founded the Fort Worth African American Roots Music Festival, which will be held this year on March 18. BGS first met and collaborated with Waller-Pace in 2020, when she and DTMR curated our virtual Shout & Shine Online showcase as part of IBMA’s annual business conference. Her approach to the work of anti-racism and decolonization is grounded and realistic, while offering models for how to move into the future with justice and representation as keystones in our musical spaces.
Lillian Werbin
Elderly Instruments in Lansing, MI has been a beacon of roots music for now more than fifty years. It’s a true community center, not just a purveyor of fine instruments, and Lillian Werbin recently took the reigns of this folk-, old-time-, and bluegrass-hallowed ground from her father, Stan Werbin. Lillian is not only CEO at Elderly, but also chairs the board of Bluegrass Pride, a non-profit with a mission of uplifting LGBTQ+ folks in bluegrass, and also serves on the board of the IBMA Foundation and advises its Arnold Schultz Fund, which strives to increase participation of people of color in bluegrass music. In Lillian’s free time, you’ll often find this musical workaholic running music camps, facilitating online events, and saying yes to just about every mission-minded project that comes across their desk.
Pat Mitchell Worley is the president and CEO of Stax Soulsville Foundation in Memphis, which oversees the Stax Museum of American Soul Music, Stax Music Academy, and The Soulsville Charter School, all with a mission to perpetuate the soul of Stax Records. Worley was just awarded the Spirit of Folk Award by Folk Alliance International earlier this month. She’s also a veteran radio host in Memphis, where she’s hosted the Beale Street Caravan, a weekly show that has run for more than twenty years and is the most widely distributed blues radio program in the world. She began her career as writer in her late teens, then went on to work at the Blues Foundation before starting on the radio in the early 2000s. While as a child she may have dreamed of becoming an astronaut someday, her work in music has always reached for the stars.
Georgia-born Brent Cobb is a true blue southern Gospel country artist. His music career kicked off when he shared a demo tape with Dave Cobb, one of Nashville’s finest producers and Brent’s cousin. The two have collaborated on numerous albums since Brent’s debut and I had a lot of questions about that creative relationship during our interview.
Cobb’s 2016 album, Shine On Rainy Day, earned him a Grammy nomination and saw him tour with country stars Chris Stapleton and Zac Brown. He has also written songs for artists like Luke Bryan and Miranda Lambert. Brent has fascinating insights about touring, collaboration, and his role as an interpreter of Southern culture in an interconnected world.
In July of 2020, Brent was driving with his one-year-old son when their truck was t-boned. He got up off the pavement and found his son unharmed in his car seat. This brush with death inspired him to create a Gospel album, drawing on the musical tradition in which he was raised. And Now, Let’s Turn to Page… reimagines time-honored hymns and features one original song co-written by Brent and his wife, Layne. Life, death, love, community, and Willie Nelson-style gentle vocal performances – this album has it all.
Suz Slezak is one half of the extremely talented, thoughtful and kind folk band David Wax Museum. Suz, along with her husband David, have been touring and performing their Mexican inspired, Americana folk act since 2009. Along the way, the two got married, had a couple of kids and settled pretty finely into the pandemic with bi-weekly and then weekly live streams. All the while, Suz has been living with her bipolar disorder, which has impacted her life in incredibly unbelievable ways.
She’s also been pretty vocal, especially lately, about how she interacted with her brain health, mental health and treatment for both of those elements, which includes her intense journey with medications. Her Instagram is filled with brutally honest posts about the difficulty of finding meds that continuously help her stabilize her brain. She’s also very willing to share stories from the times where it didn’t matter what prescriptions she was on.
On her new album, Our Wings May Be Featherless, Suz is addressing her life from the perspective of a person who is bipolar, a mother, a touring musician and a creative person. She digs into the power of acceptance, traumatic birth, and grief. In our conversation, we talk about what a special musician she is and how she’s been able to cultivate and keep a childlike wonder alive through her playing. This conversation is heavily rooted in Suz’s journey with her bipolar disorder and you’ll learn a lot about her experience, as she is very open. She addresses the choice to share her experiences publicly and how the sharing impacts her. About the album, she says, “I hope you will also hear the way that a song, or any piece of art, can transform haunting pain into sounds and rhythm, allowing it to finally diffuse. I have needed to make this record for a long time. The relief I feel that it is finally emerging into this physical realm for you to enjoy is immense.” SUZ!
Maya De Vitry released her third solo record, Violet Light, earlier this year and I, for one, am happy that my fiancée has a new Maya record to play endlessly in our house. Lol jk. I love Maya and this album is perfect. Maya’s originally from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where she lived and met the members of her old band The Stray Birds. Since the dissolution of the Birds, she’s been incredibly prolific with all these solo albums, co-writes and the like. If you’re not familiar, this record is a great intro to the genius of one of the greatest musicians on the scene today. The vibes I’m getting on this record are John Prine, Patty Griffin and, of course, Gillian Welch & Dave Rawlings. We. Are. Digging. IN!
I’m so happy Maya was up for going through this beauty of a record track by track! It’s a brilliant collection that subtly knocks you to the ground over the course of its eleven songs. Produced at home with her partner, the much in-demand bassist and producer Ethan Jodziewicz (The Milk Carton Kids, Sierra Hull, Aoife O’Donovan, Darol Anger, Tony Trischka), Violet Light actually contains a ton of collaborations from Maya’s extensive musical community. This includes her own family; her siblings all collaborated for the very first time on tape for the song “Real Time, Real Tears,” about losing a favorite uncle. Yeah, you try not to cry during that one. Anyhoo. It feels like a gift to be able to turn these songs over and over, contemplate their meaning, their creation and then be able to talk directly to the brains behind it all. I implore you to check out this whole episode and then go buy Maya’s new album, preferably on Bandcamp. Support an independent artist whose music is meaningful and worth getting paid for. She’s a once in a lifetime artist.
This week, we call into the Catskills of New York for a deep conversation with James Felice: accordionist, pianist, songwriter and co-founder of fun-house-mirror Americana group, The Felice Brothers.
James started the band with his brothers (poet lead singer Ian) and percussionist Simone in 2006 as a busking folk pop experiment with a literary rebel streak within the subways of New York City. They’ve joined roots-pop luminaries like Bright Eyes at venues as storied as Radio City Music Hall — but somehow the gritty, back-alley bar seems like their natural habitat. Ian, James and their longtime quartet (Will Lawrence and bassist Jesske Hume round out the band) returned after years of hibernation to release their daring party-through-the-apocalypse rollercoaster of a new LP From Dreams To Dust in 2021 on Yep Roc Records.
Some bands record at home, or maybe in tricked-out cabins or plush studios, but The Felice Brothers seem to make records that use their unique and often bizarre surroundings as an added character in the band. Their beloved self-titled record, which came out 2008, feels like a gin-soaked saloon party where Hemingway and Lou Reed and Sly Stone would join in on swaying sing-alongs besides a sweat-soaked piano. It was somehow recorded in a converted chicken coop, while their brassy, bizarro-rock romp Celebration, Florida (2011) was recorded in a booming high school gymnasium. “Honda Civic” is a musical-theater-esque favorite, with an explosion at the local Wonder Bread warehouse taking center stage in the narrative. Does any of it make sense? Does it matter?
Their newest work is a more emotional, sonically lush, storytelling-driven operation, having been recorded in a church in Harlemville, New York, with award-winning mixer Mike Mogis at the helm. Mortality takes the spotlight. Ian Felice is in rare form here, spitting more words and setting more strange scenes per song than most slam-poets or absurdist playwrights. The lead song, “Jazz on the Autobahn,” has become a staple on Americana radio, showcasing what TFB have always done best: taking their listeners on a white-knuckle ride that has no predicable end or resolve in sight.
This week, we bring you an in-depth dive with vintage roots-n-soul excavator and beloved Illinois-born songwriter Pokey LaFarge. With his trusty guitar on his lap during the talk, taped in his LA breakfast nook, we go through the making of his funky and cheerful new LP, In the Blossom of Their Shade.
For the last decade and change, Pokey LaFarge (born Andrew Heissler in Bloomington-Normal) has crisscrossed the globe making his own brand of historic-minded, literary-tinged folk blues. Europe, especially, has become a second home. From his fashion sense, to his high-cutting delivery, LaFarge seems like he could have stepped out of a road show with Hank Williams and Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and yet, rock luminaries like Jack White saw something deeper than just a player of old-time covers.
Out on his own from a young age, Pokey began busking to get by and soon teamed up with the South City Three to create his first run of albums in 2009. Opening for White got LaFarge in front of huge crowds, and standout records like the danceable Something In The Water (2015) and the darker Rock Bottom Rhapsody (2020) saw him transition from front-porch country folk to muscular jangly rock-n-soul.
If there are a few things that helped the new release In The Blossom of Their Shade come to be, they may have been falling in love again, rediscovering his faith in a higher power, and taking plenty of power naps during his songwriting sessions. During the pandemic, Pokey also began helping the local homeless community in LA.
Stick around to hear an exclusive acoustic performance of his single, “Get It ’Fore It’s Gone.”
During COVID, I rediscovered my love for waking up, drinking coffee, and listening to the right music in the mornings. This is a playlist for some of my favorite songs to compliment the most sacred time of the day. — Thomas Csorba
JJ Cale – “Cherry”
This is one of my favorite vibes not just of JJ Cale, but of music in general. He finds his groove and stays put. Why fix it if it ain’t broke?
Michael Hurley – “Lush Green Trees”
I’ve been a big fan of this Michael Hurley record for a little while, and it seems that some of the deep cuts strike me differently on the 100th listen. This is one of those songs — a beautiful, simple song with an earnest spirit to it.
Elizabeth Cotten – “Goin’ Down The Road Feelin Bad”
Elizabeth Cotten is one of those artists who I fell in love with at a pretty young age (thanks to a well-informed older brother). Her voice may not be everyone’s taste, but her singing and playing seem to really shine as the sun is just starting to rise.
Yusuf / Cat Stevens – “Father and Son”
This song has a really special place in my heart because it reminds me of my grandfather and his story as a refugee from Hungary in the ‘50s. It’s a wild picture of a conversation between a father and a son in that situation. This song got me thinking about writing my new song “For You” and pairs really nicely with a front porch morning.
Jerry Garcia, David Grisman – “The Thrill is Gone”
Sometimes I’ll wake up in the morning and listen to this record all the way through. Hearing some of these old songs in a new light has really unlocked something for me. This song in particular has a great vibe to it that really draws you in.
Anaïs Mitchell – “Tailor”
I’m obsessed with Anaïs Mitchell. Plain and simple. Her vocal delivery of these lines, and the lyric congruency throughout the song is as good as it gets.
Willis Alan Ramsey – “Muskrat Love (Muskrat Candlelight)”
Name me a sexier song about rodents — I bet you can’t! This song has the perfect cocktail of interesting lyrics and sonic vibe. The vocals are killer and the chord change right after the chorus just make me so happy.
Gillian Welch – “Winter’s Come and Gone”
This is a deep cut from Gillian’s catalog, but I think it’s one of my favorites. There’s a great quick minor 6 chord change that echoes some old-time songs that I love. It’s my favorite Gillian song to drink coffee to.
Big Bill Broonzy – “Glory of Love”
There’s a soft spot in my heart for Big Bill Broonzy. This song has been cut by a bunch of folks, but Big Bill’s version is by far my favorite. Love that he doesn’t start singing until the minute-thirty mark in the song. Effortless vibe and energy here from Big Bill.
Tony Joe White – “Little Green Apples”
I first heard this version of this song from a buddy this past year and I think it’ll end up being one of my most-played songs of the year. Tony Joe’s delivery of these lyrics helps paint the best scene in these verses. I’ll be holding on to this recording for a very, very long time.
Roger Miller – “Where Have all the Average People Gone”
I love Roger Miller’s voice in the morning. There’s something nostalgic to me about it. There’s no song that speaks to me more in this political and social climate than this one. Perhaps, even though we look at things differently, we can be kind to each other.
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