Tag: singer songwriter

Rose Cousins Honors Love in All Its Forms on Conditions of
Love – Vol. 1

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

One day, as a favor for a friend who was building a recording studio, Rose Cousins wandered through a piano showroom. She had no intention of buying anything for herself, but then she came upon a 1967 Baldwin baby grand. She asked the salesperson about it and was told it already had a buyer. She asked to put her name on a waiting list, though, just in case.

“A few days later,” she said in our recent Zoom interview for BGS, “they called me and said, ‘It’s become available.’ So then I went [back to the store] … and they pulled it into a room so I could play it. I spent a couple of hours with it and then freaked out over the next month. And then ended up buying it as my first real piano.”

Piano had been an early acquaintance for Cousins, when she was first finding her voice as a musician. Growing up on a Prince Edward Island farm, the second of five children in a tight-knit family, Cousins was both poet and athlete. The piano was an early friend to her empathic insides as she began to find her voice amid the bustle of a busy household.

More than twenty years and nine releases into her JUNO Award-winning career, Cousins has long since migrated to Canada’s mainland. Based in Halifax, Nova Scotia, she is one of her country’s finest contributors to her generation of singer-songwriters. Across her career, she has mostly recorded her own songs, often on guitar, but the piano has been a constant presence, both in the studio and her live performances. She has turned to it for pulling the feelings forward in cover songs like Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind” and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” She has relied on it for original songs that are especially emotionally demanding, such as the devastating “Go First” from 2012’s We Have Made a Spark and “Grace” and “Like Trees” from GRAMMY-nominated Natural Conclusion (2017).

Now, Cousins has reached her tenth release, Conditions of Love – Vol. 1. For it, she has laid her Martin acoustic guitar to the side. From the album’s opening instrumental overture, “To Be Born,” to its final rumination, “How Is This (the last time),” we hear Cousins playing that beautiful old Baldwin. Taken in its entirety, Conditions is a collection of songs that is even more deeply vulnerable than usual, with good reason.

“The sensation of playing a full, real piano of my own and having it in my space,” she says, “it’s kind of like a zone I go into. It’s a very intimate relationship.”

These are strong words coming from an artist who has sold T-shirts at her shows that read “Feelings Welcome” and “Rose Cousins Made Me Cry.” That there might be some deeper well of emotion available to her than she has been willing or able to access on previous projects, might make some listeners nervous. But there is no need for a wellness warning on Conditions of Love – Vol. 1.

Once the listener is “Born” into this album, the first song with lyrics is called “Forget Me Not.” It’s delivered in list form, an ode on spring and, perhaps, a nod toward rebirth.

In 2020, Cousins says, the pandemic lockdown saw her moving neighborhoods. “I got a dog, and that meant I was walking outside multiple times a day. I was walking through, particularly, the spring and summer.” Free of the administrative tasks that pile up when she’s planning for another show or tour, she adds, “It’s like my peripheral vision widened and my top vision heightened and my noticing was so much sharper. I was just noticing things blooming – and when they were blooming. It seems ridiculous, because I’ve lived many, many springs, but I actually haven’t experienced spring in the same place multiple times in many, many years. And here I was experiencing it. … It really was this, like, holy shit [moment]. Like oh, snowdrops are the first thing you see. You see them come up and there’s still snow on the ground.”

For an artist – a poet – who had grown up on an island roaming the woods and the beach and playing outside with her siblings, this return to the city oddly necessitated a return to nature. As the rest of us watched YouTube videos of mountain goats and bears roaming urban neighborhoods the world over quiet from COVID lockdowns, Cousins was developing a kinship with those wild things reclaiming their natural environment, even if just for a moment.

“Sweet fern and knapweed,” she sings. “Lavender and rosemary.”

Perhaps an accident, perhaps a nod to the album’s theme, the flowering plants come in pairs. There is some kind of partnership between, say, the “buttercup and poppy,” though it would take a gardening expertise beyond this writer’s own to specify why. And yet, the casual observer, rekindling a relationship with the earth, can sense it.

“Forget Me Not” shifts when Cousins begins listing trees. “Dogwood and gingko,” she sings as the lyrics evolve into sentences. “The poplar leaves clap as the wind blows.” Nature is spreading its roots and branches. There is more space for more observations, more developed ideas, more potential.

The blossoms open. The bees arrive. The eye draws upward.

By the end of the song, Cousins is simply imploring, “Don’t forget me,” but there is a sense that she is not speaking to a lover or even a friend. This is a dialogue with the earth, with the seasons and sky. She is speaking for and to them as much as she is speaking for and to herself.

“Dogwood was one of the trees that I absolutely fell in love with,” Cousins continues. “I planted one on my property two falls ago. The fall dogwood. I just couldn’t even believe how beautiful it is. … I probably would have seen the dogwood before, but didn’t know that it was called dogwood, you know. I didn’t have a relationship with that tree.” But now she does.

Perhaps one condition of love is first knowing what it is.

Here is where the idea of love’s conditions immediately turns. After all, love is one of the most commented upon musical subjects. Contemporary music typically focuses on the romantic sort – particularly brand-new or just ending. But that is not all Rose Cousins is here for. (The album is not called Conditions of Romantic Love.)

From the first set of lyrics on this album, we are handed an implicit definition of love: It is small and big. It is colorful and everywhere. It is where you may not expect it. It is of the self and of the earth. It emerges at the right time. It withers and hibernates and invisibly readies rebirth.

Perhaps love is always – even when it is not. Yet it can feel so elusive, so impossible to pin down. “Love makes us insane,” Cousins says, while discussing the album’s third track and its first single, “I Believe in Love (and it’s very hard).”

“We’re kind of told that we want it. We kind of do want it. We get into it. We struggle with it. It’s ridiculous. … And it’s like, ‘I want to have this. I’m doing my best out here to try and have this love thing.’ … But then [there’s] the choice between being in a relationship with somebody and working through all the ridiculousness – or being wild and free.”

Which brings us back to the mountain goats and bears wandering cities during lockdown. Back to Cousins walking her dog, noticing flowers and trees. Reacquainting with oneself is part of love, whether it comes in the throes of a long connection with another human, or after such a relationship has come to an end.

Indeed, this juxtaposition between endurance and ending is among the running themes on Conditions. In reality, love does not have a beginning, middle, and end. It is not a story we tell as much as it is an ongoing pursuit of life itself. “There [is] a cycle to every relationship where you come in close, and then you move back, [and then] you come in close,” Cousins says.

“Denouement” is another sort of list song. “Dissonance,” she sings in its final verse. “Elephants. Vigilance. Grand defense.” And as she lists these rhyming words, the inclusion of “Elephants” feels so ridiculous. She is recounting a lovers’ spat, which ends with “dinner mints” as her protagonists presumably leave the restaurant together.

All kinds of love relationships can turn on what we tend to call “elephants in the room.” There are the things we decide to not bring up over dinner – with our families or our lovers or our friends. The times we hurt one another, the grief and fear, the secrets between us. The willingness to hold these things, to let the elephants stand as we take our dinner mints and move on, that gives love room to persist.

“There’s this movie I watched on an airplane on my way back from Calgary in 2023,” Cousins recalls. “It’s just this small Canadian independent film called Wildhood. … There [were] a couple characters who come from tough homes. One of them says, ‘Love has conditions, I guess.’ … And I was like, fuck, it’s exactly that. Does it ever, you know?”

Cousins is careful to clarify that she doesn’t understand her album’s theme as merely a push-and-pull between conditional and unconditional love.

“Conditions, in all of the definitions of ‘conditions,’” she says. “It’s like – what is the weather in this relationship today? What are the guises under which I’m going to be loved and that I belong, or that I will be accepted, or, you know, that I can be vulnerable? There’s no one [condition]. There’s just so many.”

While many of the songs are clearly circling around an understanding of romantic love, there is also the love that exists within a family of origin. Love that is perpetual and yet can feel as though it rests on one or more people behaving a certain way. This love can feel more like a barrier than a connection. Like reaching toward a wall, unable to even see whether the person on the other side is reaching too.

The places where this image resonates most – “That’s How Long (I’ve waited for your love),” “Wolf and Man,” “Borrowed Light” – come in the second half of the disc. If we are to take Conditions as a birth-to-death exploration of love, these are the songs that come with middle age. When we have the same amount of time behind us as we do in front. When we begin to wrestle with familiality and community and our own identity in relation to both. The balance of love between self and others.

“I am borrowing light from the moon, who is borrowing light from the sun,” she sings in the album’s penultimate track.

Perhaps another condition of love is connection and disconnection, the way we use each other, the choice to depend upon another body.

“As we age,” she adds, “if you choose it, there’s a lot of facing oneself that can be really fruitful and deeply painful. And I think that the pandemic did that for me. As glorious as it was to have the ‘Forget Me Not’ experience of … [a] revisited relationship with nature. It also was really arresting in the way that it was holding up a bunch of mirrors.

“Like, where are all these mirrors coming from? I was able to kind of ignore [them before], or didn’t know that they were there, that I needed to look into them, because I was just so busy with work and motion and the next thing. So, as painful as that was, it was a rich ground for growth. And growth is most often painful. I definitely learned a lot about myself during the last four years.”

Cousins pauses before continuing: “I don’t really know how to talk about this.”

Fair enough. The music she’s created, as usual, speaks plenty.

Photo Credit: Lindsay Duncan

BGS 5+5: Rose Betts

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Artist: Rose Betts
Hometown: London, United Kingdom
Latest Album: There Is No Ship (released March 7)

What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?

When I lived in London, my parents would often come to my shows. Right before I’d go on, my mother would say, “Tell me a story.” It seems so simple to put it that way, but really it was such a wonderful gem of advice, a steady light, a root to hold onto. It’s easy to get caught up in other things, when I’m playing live I have to fight against the problems of not hearing myself, the lights, raucous crowds. When I’m singing a song to my phone to share on TikTok I’m thinking about the lighting, or whether its engaging enough. Even when I’m in a room with executives and they’re trying to figure out if I’m worth investing in – keeping that line of “tell me a story” in my head and my heart ties me to the old and beautiful tradition of what songwriting is and, when you take all the egos and the money out of it, what everybody wants to be a part of. We are born storytellers, all of us, and that is the thing that ties us together and helps us grow.

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

I actually turn to other art forms for inspiration much more than I turn to music. Literature has always been important to me and totally informs more songwriting. Melody is a gift from the air, it isn’t something I overthink, but words, and everything that can be poured into a melody through them, are so magical to me. Authors like Tolstoy, Turgenev, Austen, and Emily Brontë, poets like Keats, Philip Larkin, Seamus Heaney – they all inspire me in different ways to become a better songwriter. I love the challenge of finding new ways to say old things. It offers me and also the listener a chance to look afresh at the world and at themselves.

Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?

Nature is my church, it is where I go to free my mind. Living in LA, I’ve become acquainted with a different kind of nature and I’m not sure it suits me. England is lush, the greens are abundant, the air is rich and full of moisture, it weighs the sky down, bringing it nearly within touching distance. None of this is in LA. So my favourite thing to do here is to drive to San Bernardino, up into the mountains, to Crestline. Being around those trees fills me up, I can feel it nourishing something in me.

Nature roots me to the simplicity of what it is to be alive. It is passive and without pity – a witness. I feel like songs need what human beings need: air and light and water. But everyone has feet that touch the earth, so all songs need to have a part of themselves in contact with the ground, the roots, the stone.

If you didn’t work in music, what would you do instead?

I’d like to think I’d have some quiet job somewhere which gave me lots of time to read, maybe as a librarian or a translator of foreign literature. Or perhaps something in costume or fashion – I love making clothes and I love film costume, so being someone who brought the world of film to life through costume would be pretty wonderful.

Does pineapple really belong on pizza?

Surely trying to police pizza is like trying to say that a violin only belongs in an orchestra and you can’t have pancakes for dinner. Think about all the wonderful things we’ve made because we broke the rules. I love when cultures mix together and make something new and unexpected, it happens all the time, and should be celebrated. That said I don’t have pineapple on my pizza.

Photo Credit: Catie Laffoon

Basic Folk: Sierra Hull

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: The entire BGS team would like to congratulate Basic Folk on 300 amazing episodes of the podcast! Celebrate #300, featuring GRAMMY nominee Sierra Hull as our guest, with us below.)

When mandolinist Sierra Hull was little, her dad told her she was really good “for a 10-year-old.” The older Hull knew Sierra had a fiery passion for the instrument and he knew exactly how to motivate his daughter. He went on to say that if she wanted to go to jams and porch-play for the rest of her life, she’d learned enough. He gave her realistic advice, saying if she wanted to dedicate her life to music, she would have to work really hard. Because “that 10-year-old cute thing is gonna wear off.” Sierra, who would draw pictures of herself playing at the Grand Ole Opry with Alison Krauss and doodle album covers with the Rounder Records logo, took his advice to heart and got to work.

LISTEN: APPLE • SPOTIFY • AMAZON • MP3

Since then, Hull has shared the stage with more heroes than one could count. She’s inspired a new generation of younger players, she’s released five albums, and she’s considered a master of the mandolin. Her new album, A Tip Toe High Wire, is set for release March 7. In our Basic Folk conversation Sierra reflects on how growing up in the small town of Byrdstown, Tennessee, shaped her musical identity alongside bluegrass, gospel, and family traditions. She shares memories of family gatherings filled with music featuring Aunt Betty and Uncle Junior, the profound influence of church hymns, and how these experiences continue to resonate in her playing and songwriting.

Sierra also discusses the significance of A Tip Toe High Wire, her first independent release, highlighting the freedom and growth that come with that independence. She emphasizes the importance of authenticity in her music, allowing herself to explore new sounds while remaining grounded in her bluegrass roots. Elsewhere in the episode, she opens up about her personal growth, the pressures of being labeled a child prodigy, and her journey toward embracing imperfection in her art. We also dive into what we’ll call her “Stevie Nicks Era” with the amazing cover art on the new record. Sierra enjoys playing with elaborate styles in her album artwork and red carpet looks (helloooo CMA Awards). With a candid perspective on the challenges of the music industry, she encourages listeners to find joy in the process while appreciating the beauty of vulnerability.

Photo Credit: Bethany Brook Showalter & Spencer Showalter

Rapt Reflects On Life’s Many Endings With ‘Until the Light Takes Us’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Jacob Ware is a bit of a weirdo. Known onstage these days as Rapt, the singer-songwriter has a way of coming up with an album title and writing the entire record around a central sentiment. His fifth studio album – titled Until the Light Takes Us – serves as a direct response to a 2008 heavy metal documentary of the same name.

“I just thought, Until the Light Takes Us is such an evocative title. A few people have commented on that over the years as being unhinged – that I come up with the album name first and then write the album,” he says, adding that the documentary details “all the horrible shit in the ’90s of the black metal scene in Norway.”

From the gentle trickle of one-minute opener “Over Aged Borders” to the dreamy “Fields of Juniper,” Rapt’s latest album drenches in the notion of endings and existence. Heartbreak. Death. Suffocating blackness. Each song, as heavy as it might be, seems to coat the album with both dark and light – stemming from his confrontation with the end. 

Rapt’s delicately-spun indie-folk is awash in luminescent piano, aching between flaky layers of acoustic guitar. Ware finds himself scattering like a tumble weed, squeezed somewhere between the throaty ache of Carrie Elkin and scratchy pangs of yearning (akin to Bonny Light Horseman in their rawest form). His head swims in thoughts of death, leading his writing to root around in the afterlife. It’s a far cry from his heavy metal days, a sharp red underline to this chapter of his life. “I’m always slightly aware of mortality because I’ve had a lot of health issues, in my teenage years and early twenties, like epilepsy. It’s wild. It pulls the rug out from under your life daily, and you don’t know when the next seizures come in,” he says.

“I haven’t had a seizure for eight years now, so I’m blessed. But that shapes you on a subconscious level,” he adds. “It sets up your foundation to be ready for the next thing to happen. In a way, the next thing that happens is an end of something, so I think my subconscious has always thought about the finality of things. That’s probably where that sort of writing interest has come from. In a way, every single song I’ve ever written is about that. I don’t really know how to move away from that.”

Hopping on a Zoom call, Ware spoke with BGS about the afterlife, how the album grew, and the varied creative fulfillment compared to heavy metal music.

Does writing around a title help you stay focused on what you want the album to be?

Rapt: I think so. I’ve definitely done this where I write that phrase and put it up around wherever I’m living. Even if I’m not listening to music, I’ll walk past the album title a few times a day. The edge of my wardrobe is visible and the title I’m responding to now is written on it. One of the last things I look at at night and one of the first things I wake up to in the morning is… I don’t want to reveal it.

[Until the Light Takes Us] is not a breakup record by any means. I’ve noticed a few bits of press here and there, which may have lent it to being that, but it absolutely isn’t that. I feel like a completely different person to my music. I don’t relate to my own music. I would say it’s an album of endings, really. More so than a sort of breakup album. By the time I’ve finished one thing, something else is usually well on its way. And it’s always been like that for me.

What is your feeling about the afterlife?

I tried to look into religions a few years ago, but I have no faith system. I was brought up in a house without a faith system. It’s very hard for someone to start to believe in something unless it was in their very formative years from a caregiver. I expressed it in the title track. I’ve always thought that the afterlife is a sort of peaceful black. I have a sneaky suspicion that the afterlife is a hell of a lot like what it was like before we were born. I quite like to imagine this sort of sizzle reel, where you hang out with your highlights. That’s what I hope is going on.

Science doesn’t ask, science doesn’t answer everything. There are things that science gets pretty fucking close. But there are things that science can’t touch. I try and be mindful of that; I would call myself an agnostic. I think being 100 percent atheist is actually ignorant. We don’t know – we’re 99.9 percent sure. There’s just that 0.1 percent that I think is worth thinking about sometimes.

That’s touched on in the title track. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know that I’ll see my neighbor and my loved ones. I like to think that there’s a highlight reel. And that’s it, really. I’m talking about this as if I planned to write it. I didn’t. It’s the only successful time I’ve ever managed to just write something without thinking about it and letting my subconscious go. I cannot just open my subconscious.

I find lyric writing takes me months. The title track probably took a year to write. Very occasionally, I can get half a song written in an afternoon, but that happens about once every three years. The song “Until the Light Takes Us” is quite insular, and it’s almost says everything that you could say within a song about the afterlife.

“Until the Light Takes Us” is one of the seven-minute songs on the album. Did you have that intention or did it sort of grow by itself?

I just think I couldn’t make it any shorter. I don’t think I really tried to fight it being seven minutes, but I’m sure that there’s been a longer version of it. I just whittled it down and down, until I couldn’t whittle it down without doing it disservice. And I knew it would suffer for that. I just think that song is destined to be heard when it’s needed.

With endings, there’s always grief. Does that grief still linger with you or has songwriting helped you exorcise that?

That’s hard to answer for me, because I don’t recognize the human that wrote a lot of the songs. I think it might be an epilepsy thing. The medication I take for epilepsy gives me very odd memory and I remember weird little things. I have no memory of so much of my life, and I mean that in the present, as well. The word “remember,” if I really think about that, it’s just like a blur of things. I don’t remember things vividly.

One big thing for me is I cannot paint images in my head. If I shut my eyes and try and picture my best friend’s facial features or a partner’s facial features, or even a fucking apple, at best it’s a Van Gogh-looking painting, so I think it’s quite hard for me to answer that question.

I’m sure it does happen on a subconscious level. I’m sure I do successfully process things through creativity, but it doesn’t help that much. I’ve still got my shit in my head, but a lot of the record is very positive for me. I had depression up until my mid-twenties. I don’t have it anymore. I just don’t. I think life is a beautiful thing. And I think there’s a lot of positive in the record. I think it’s a very odd record in that it’s not… I don’t think it’s depressing and negative. “Until the Light Takes Us” is a positive song. It starts and ends with a letter to myself.

That song is about growing apart from someone because you bonded with them through a shared depression and when one of you isn’t depressed anymore, that bond breaks. That’s what that song is about. But all of this is hindsight. I wrote this in 2022 to 2023. So this all feels very considered and fucking artistic and it’s not. I’m just looking back and trying to work out what the fuck was I was thinking.

Now that you’ve been sitting with the album for a while, what is your takeaway from the creative process?

I guess, just to trust my instincts. I didn’t write it consciously… I think, in a way, I never cared about this record, because I had a lot of stuff going on in my personal life. This was just me keeping the engine going creatively, and then I turned around one day and had a record done. I didn’t know what it was about at the time. I sat on it for a year until I was ready to release it. My biggest takeaway is probably just I don’t fucking care anymore. Just don’t overthink it. If I had to give a tagline to that question: I’m too old to make it as a fucking fresh-faced person and I’m too young to be wise.

I’m right in the middle and when you’re stuck in the middle, you either quit or you just don’t care anymore. And I think I’m in the “don’t care anymore” phase. I’m not going anywhere. The only other takeaway is that I’m not going to do an album for a while. I never thought I’d say that, but I’m going to just do singles for the next two years. I say that, but I’m excited. It feels liberating. When you’re in album land, you’re there at least a year and a half. It’s interesting. I think that might change my writing a bit because I’m not trying to fit a song into a collection of songs.

With your past work being metal, how does the creative fulfillment differ from your current style?

I think metal is very good for connecting with people’s frustrations in life. And it’s good anger management shit. When you’re playing some real heavy fucking music and you slow it right down and you get a groove going, then you look up and the audience are like throwing each other around the room. There’s something cool about that. I think the biggest difference with metal is that the ceiling is a lot lower and reachable with metal. And I think there’s something really special about that.

My biggest thing I enjoy is my audience is far wider in this genre. Metal is very male-dominated and you get used to just looking up mostly at a room full of dudes, beards, and black shirts head banging long hair. And that’s great. That’s a beautiful thing. But I think I slightly prefer the more diverse crowd that I’ve played to. My last thing is also the age thing. There’s a huge age range in the people that turn up at the shows I play now. And that’s a really beautiful thing as well. In France, I had a very elderly lady come up to me and she said, “‘Fields of Juniper’ made me think about something I’ve not thought about in 50 years.” If there’s a reason to keep going, then that’s it.

Photo Credit: David Nix

Artist of the Month: Rose Cousins

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Rose Cousins is nothing if not intentional. With her new album Conditions of Love – Vol 1 (out March 14), Cousins demonstrates a controlled discipline as she considers the most unruly of our emotions. The JUNO award-winning artist is a student of love, from the sweet certainty of “One Love” from her 2016 album If You Were For Me to the entirety of her 2017 masterpiece Natural Conclusion to “The Agreement,” a consideration of the liberties and drawbacks of a long-distance open relationship from her most recent prior full-length project, Bravado.

Over the years, Cousins has honed her approach to her craft as carefully as her music, even taking a five-year break between albums to recover from burn out and focus on songwriting over performance. That commitment to her art is just one small part of what has earned Cousins the recognition of being named BGS’ Artist of the Month.

Conditions kicks off with “To Be Born,” an instrumental channeling of the rural Prince Edward Island where Cousins grew up. Buzzing wonderment introduces us to a song cycle of love in all its forms: romantic, platonic, a sense of one-ness with the universe – and what causes them to grow and die. At the beginning of it all, Cousins tells us, is that sense of wondrous possibility.

“I Believe in Love (and it’s very hard)” harbors a desire that Cousins hinted in a 2012 interview with No Depression – a fascination with songs that are upbeat and poppy, but communicate something serious. The song is a catchy thesis statement for this album: that as much we depend on our bonds with others to survive, we crave our individual freedoms and yearn for balance.

I know in love it’s hard to be
Everything that someone else could ever need
While holding onto “wild and free”

Wild and free
Wild and free
Wild and free
Wild and free

But there are certain types of love that require obligation. “Needed You” weaves bitterness and compassion together with the opening salvo,

Yeah I turned out fine
It’s what we do
I spent my time looking for clues
So I became a wishing well
And I don’t need water
Is what I tell myself

In this moving piano ballad, Cousins considers both the person she’s become and the inner child who needed nurturing. While the song seeks to find reconciliation between that vulnerable inner core and the people in our past who make us lock that core away, the song also invites us to empathize with the legacies of intergenerational trauma that can lead to a family’s failure to meet a child’s emotional needs. It’s an astonishing track, one that efficiently wraps years of therapy into four minutes.

“Denouement” is even more precise – an airy collection of word associations that invite us to fill in the blanks in the arc of a relationship.

Happenstance
Vast expanse
Circumstance
Second glance
Take a chance
New romance
Take my hand
Can I have this dance

Cousins’ abstraction is delightful, a wry acknowledgment of how cliche love can be, even as we revel in its glorious highs (and pray that the lows stay away as long as possible – forever, ideally.) But the cycle eventually starts again – after all, we’re only human – and the dance can feel as familiar as it does wondrous.

That feeling extends to another shade of love: gratitude. “Borrowed Light” asks us to reflect on the ways we connect with everything around us, and to appreciate the all-too-brief length of time we have to experience it.

I am borrowing light
From the moon, who is borrowing light
From the sun who comes back every time
Every time

“Borrowed Light” is anchored by a questing piano line, an instrument that Cousins feels is her first love. As the instrument – a 1967 Baldwin grand that Cousins and long-time collaborator/producer Joshua Van Tassel fell in love with immediately – traverses the cosmos, Cousins is buttressed by a backing chorus momentarily, sublimely, at the song’s apex.

Conditions of Love – Vol 1 doesn’t offer many answers and, of course, the title hints at further dives into the topic. However, Cousins does offer one example of how to live, a waltz dedicated to her late friend and colleague, Koady Chaisson, “K’s Waltz.”

Your heart
It did not give out or give in
It gave everything
It gave everything
It gave everything
It gave everything

As hard as it is, Cousins begs us to be as open as possible, to feel all of it – love and joy, yes, but also grief at partings that are inevitable, no matter what. It’s only when we push through our defenses to embrace radical openness, when we “give everything,” that we can say we have lived well.

We are so very excited to name Rose Cousins our March 2025 Artist of the Month. Dive into our exclusive interview with Rose all about the new album here, listen to Rose in conversation with her longtime friend Edie Carey on Basic Folk here, explore our Essential Rose Cousins Playlist below, and follow along on social media all month long as we go back into the BGS archives for anything and everything Rose Cousins.

Photo Credit: Lindsay Duncan

Mark Knopfler’s ‘Shangri-La’ Rearranged Adam Wright’s Artistic DNA

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: No Skips is a brand new feature from BGS that asks artists, songwriters, musicians, and industry professionals what albums they regard as perfect, with every track a masterpiece – i.e., No Skips!

For the first edition of the column, songwriter-artist-musician Adam Wright highlights Mark Knopfler’s seminal album, Shangri-La, as we look ahead to Wright’s own upcoming project, Nature of Necessity, coming later this year.)

There are only a few times in your creative life when someone’s work hits you so hard it rearranges your artistic DNA. I could probably count those moments for me on one hand.

Shangri-La was a big one. It told me that you can write away from the outside understanding of things. That you can start from the inside of your own knowledge and continue inward. It also taught me that you can write about anything you find interesting. That being understood is not as important as whether or not you’ve put something down worthy of working out for whomever decides to try to understand it. And that there are so many things to write about that are not falling in and out of love. (People probably could have stopped writing love songs in 1950 and we still would have too many.)

The depth and perspective of the storytelling, the crafted excellence of the writing and the sublimely tasteful musicianship make it, to me, Knopfler’s masterpiece. He’s done this on all of his albums, they all include brilliant gems of songs, but Shangri-La is just perfection from top to bottom. – Adam Wright

“5:15 AM” (Track 1)

Like all of the songs on this album, “5:15 AM” is exquisitely written and recorded. It is the story of a coal miner on his way home from the night shift discovering a murder victim who turns out to be involved with organized crime. It is chock-full of lingo and references to specifics about gambling machines, nightclubs, and lots of mining terms. The way Mark weaves all of this language into lyricism and brings it back to the tragic lives of the coal miners at the end is exceptional and beautiful writing. The recording is gorgeous and still somehow earthy as dirt. Just a masterclass in songcraft.

“Boom, Like That” (Track 2)

“Boom, Like That” is about the rise of Ray Kroc from a milkshake salesman to a fast food emperor. Like “5:15 AM,” there are plenty of specific references in this one. “Going to San Bernardino, ring a ding ding. Milkshake mixes, that’s my thing now.” You’re in the middle of the beginning of a story right off the bat. I love songs from the character’s perspective and few writers do that as well as Knopfler.

The movie The Founder was filmed in my hometown of Newnan, Georgia. I noticed the town when I saw it, so I looked it up and read a bit about the filming. While the song was inspired by the book about Kroc, I’d read the movie was actually inspired by the song. Even if the song weren’t so well-written, the riff at the end of the chorus is enough to keep any guitar player happily busy for days.

“All That Matters” (Track 11)

Much of Shangri-La is written from the perspective of the characters in its songs. The title track and “All That Matters” seem to be more personal. “All That Matters” is just a sweet, simple song from a father to his children. Again, beautifully written and pretty as porcelain. It has some surprising chordal and melodic turns in the B section to juxtapose the nursery rhymey-ness of the verses. Just perfect. And a nice respite from the mostly cynical tone of much of the album.

“Stand Up Guy” (Track 12)

“Brew the coffee in a bucket/ Double straight man and banjo/ If you don’t got the snake oil/ Buster, you don’t got a show.”

Again, you’re right smack dab in the middle of someone’s story. This time it’s a musician in a group of traveling, Victorian-era pitchmen. They apparently have teamed up with “the Doctor” who peddles snake oil medicine to townspeople and does it well enough to keep them fed on beefsteak and whiskey. Just wonderfully interesting, both lyrically and musically.

If you wanted to become a very good songwriter (or musician or producer, for that matter), you could only study Shangri-La for years and get a very long way toward the goal. I’ve been mining this album for inspiration for twenty years. It always gives me something more.

Photo Credit: Jo Lopez

Basic Folk: Gary Louris

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: This special episode of Basic Folk featuring Gary Louris is guest-hosted by singer-songwriter and friend of the podcast Mark Erelli.)

You probably know Gary Louris as the leader of The Jayhawks – or as they refer to themselves, “a band from Minnesota.” The Jayhawks are pioneers of roots rock, alt-country, and Americana. Whatever you wanna call it, they’ve been making records where rock, pop, country, and other forms of American roots music overlap since the mid-1980s.

But Louris’s hidden superpower is that he’s kind of like a musical Swiss Army knife – he’s basically got a creative skill for any application. Want him and his band to serve as accompanists for some of the most distinctive singer-songwriters, like Wesley Stage and Joe Henry? He can do that. Looking for achingly perfect, near-fraternal harmonies on hit songs like Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones”? He can (and did) do that. If you’re Tedeschi Trucks Band or The Chicks and looking for someone to write you some catchy, melodic, roots-pop songs? Gary’s your guy. If that’s not enough, he has also produced records for artists like Dar Williams, The Sadies, and The Jayhawks, too. Whatever your musical need may be, chances are that Gary Louris can do it.

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In between all these varied musical roles, Louris has also found time to release several solo albums, the newest of which – Dark Country – was released earlier this month. He recorded it mostly solo in his home studio and the word on the street is that this collection of songs, inspired by his wife, is his most intimate and romantic album yet. I’ve been a big fan of Gary Louris for basically my entire adult life and enjoyed our wide-ranging Basic Folk conversation, touching on the way technical limitations can shape an artist’s style, what he’s learned from a career’s worth of collaborations, his process working on his new solo album, the relationship between versatility and longevity, and what the influence of romance on his songwriting looks like now, in the fifth decade of his music career.

Listen to Mark Erelli guest on Basic Folk here.

Photo Credit: Steve Cohen

Ron Pope Chases His Dream On ‘American Man, American Music’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

It may look rough around the edges, but Ron Pope’s journey through life encapsulates the American dream. He buffs out those spots, uncovering a hefty dose of humility, wisdom, and empowerment on his 11th studio record — American Man, American Music.

On it, the New Jersey-born, Georgia-raised singer uncovers moments from his childhood (like waking up before school to unload semi trucks) to the present day that have shaped him into the man he is and made his musical dreams a reality. But despite its title, the album is anything but exclusionary. Just like our nation’s diversity, American Man, American Music is a patchwork quilt of sounds, stories and experiences that serve to remind us that we’re all dealing with the same struggles and desires no matter what we look like or where we came from.

“I want to make music that other people can take and put into the moments in their lives,” says Pope. “The goal is that if I’m doing it right they’ll feel less alone. I want to put that back into the universe because I’ve taken so much of it out that it’s part of what buoyed me to get me to this point.”

This manifests itself in heartfelt vignettes centered around his family and recently discovered meaning of “home” on songs like the ode to his wife, “In The Morning With the Coffee On,” as well as “Mama Drove a Mustang,” an homage to his mom’s “let it ride” attitude that he wound up carrying into his own musical pursuits. But he’s also not afraid to get political on songs like “Klonopin Zombies,” a story about losing his grandmother that directly calls out the callousness of the pharmaceutical industry and sees him painfully pleading, “I swear there must be a heaven, ’cause where the hell else would someone like you go?”

Speaking by phone from his Nashville home between a mid-morning job and picking his daughter up from school, Pope spoke with BGS about home, family, platforming the next generation of artists and the experience that make up American Man, American Music.

You duet with Taylor Bickett on “I’m Not The Devil.” What spurred you to bring her aboard for it?

Ron Pope: Lately I’ve been finding so much inspiration in new artists. Growing up you tend to fetishize the stuff that came before you, almost like hero worship. Luckily I’ve come up in an era where so many of my contemporaries are masters, from Jason Isbell to John Moreland, which is really cool. But now I’m at a phase in my life where I’m getting more and more inspired by the artists coming in behind us. I remember first hearing Taylor’s songs, reading her lyrics, and seeing people making posts about sunsets and storms with her songs in them and was blown away. That’s what I love about music – you’re always finding new ways to be inspired.

What are your thoughts on the practice of platforming younger artists and what you stand to benefit from it as well?

If you make records your whole life, it’s going to be an ongoing challenge to find things that keep you engaged and excited about making music. It’s like a game that I’m always playing with myself. I want to find things about music that make me feel the way I did when I was a kid. Sometimes when people imagine an artist, they assume you’re only listening to people who sound like the same handful of songs that they know and that’s it, but I listen to all different sorts of music. Just the other night I was making pasta with my daughter in our kitchen listening to Dean Martin. On any given day I’ll move from that to some Tony Rice, Jason Isbell’s new song, Turnpike Troubadours, people like Taylor on Instagram, and then John Prine. I find inspiration everywhere and love that the music I make still feels fun and exciting because of it.

You just mentioned your daughter. I know family plays a big role on this record, from “In The Morning With the Coffee On,” to “Klonopin Zombies,” “Mama Drove a Mustang,” and others. Mind telling me about how that helps to serve as a through line on this project?

The central message is that we all share so many of the same sorts of experiences. For instance, in “Klonopin Zombies” I’m talking about this point in my life when my grandmother passed away eight days after my grandfather, leaving me wildly devastated. In life, we’re all going to experience powerful loss in that way; it’s just a matter of if it has happened to you yet or not. It’s the nature of living. My goal for doing that was to reach people on a more general level. If you are blessed enough to love people, then one day you will suffer because you lose people.

When I was first starting out, one of the complaints that music industry people would have about my music was that my songs were too specific and didn’t feel general enough, which was weird because for me those are the [kind of] songs that I always felt the most attached to.

Think about the Eagles’ – “Standing on the corner Winslow, Arizona/ Such a fine sight to see/ It’s a girl, my lord, and a flatbed Ford/ Slowin’ down to take a look at me…” or James Taylor’s – “Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone/ Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you.” You’re in the room, but you don’t know who he’s talking to or why. It’s like, how many times in your life have you watched someone struggle with the expectations people put on them? Even though he’s telling a very personal and very specific story, you’re brought in and it reminds you that there’s a human being on the other end of this.

We got to go to all these places and meet a lot of people, and what I have found as I have done that is most people want the same things – they want opportunities for themselves and for their children. They want to know that they’re safe, and that their kids are safe and are going to get educated. We have a lot more in common than we do that separates us, which can be hard to see when you’re just watching videos of people yelling or complaining about how differently they believe your neighbor is.

How does that idea tie into the album’s title – American Man, American Music?

It’s inherently political to say “I am an American man and this is American music.” It’s inherently political, but I didn’t want to make something to bash people over the head, because it’s hard to write stories that are both protest songs that feel like they matter and are actually good songs. So I decided to, with the exception of “I Gotta Change (Or I’m Gonna Die)” – which is a pretty open rebuke of the pharmaceutical industry expresses my anger towards it about the opioid crisis – I try to speak in more sweeping terms and not focus in on the things that I was angry about, instead focusing more on humanity and openness.

I’m following myself from when I was a child in these stories all the way to this moment in my life. I’m singing about the car my mother drove when I was six years old in “Mama Drove a Mustang,” then I’m singing a little prayer for my family that I wrote while I was out on the road in “The Life In Your Years” or how my wife and I have been together for almost 18 years on “I Pray I’ll Be Seeing You Soon.” It makes me realize that I have lived the American dream.

I’m just a regular person from a blue-collar family born to very good-hearted, well-intentioned teenage parents who didn’t have a lot of resources and did their best with the opportunities that were in front of them. There was no reason to believe at the start of my story that I would end up in this place. All of that is in there because I am an American and I am an American man, and I am making American music, but I don’t mean any of that to be exclusionary. So many people that are using all of those words do so to exclude others and I have lived the American dream and want others to be able to do the same. On this album I wanted to focus on telling great stories that highlighted my journey and my humanity and what it took for me to get to this place where I got to as a way of showing that I don’t think it’s something that we should hold hostage. We should want other people to be able to reach these things in a nation built by immigrants on stolen land.

What does “home” mean to you – both as a physical place and as an idea – in relation to this album?

My mom loved us a lot, but we also moved often, which can be destabilizing. When I got to the point in my life where I was out on the road I almost felt engineered to do it, because I never had a real sense of home growing up. When I went on tour it felt like I was supposed to be there, which made it easy to wake up whether I was in Lincoln, Nebraska; Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, or Pompano Beach. For a long time I thought you had to live that way to write songs.

At one point I was living in New York and hung out with my wife during a break from the road, who at that point I’d known since we were kids in Georgia, but had never dated. Suddenly everything changed and I started feeling her no matter where I was and yearned to be back in New York. I didn’t feel at ease unless I was with her, before realizing that she had become home for me. I’d never understood that homesick feeling that others get until then.

I feel that even more now with our little girl. It’s different, because my wife chose me and knew what I was and what I wasn’t, whereas we chose to bring our daughter into this world. Because of that I feel an even stronger pull from home than I have in the past because this little girl doesn’t care that I sing songs for people, and at the end of the day she doesn’t need that – she just needs me to be her father. It’s important that I’m able to make a living with my music, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that I wasn’t there to witness her losing her first tooth and other core memories. You have to grapple with that every day if you’re going to do this for a living. At the end of my life, if people say I’m a family man before they say I’m a musician, then I did it right.

What has the process of bringing American Man, American Music to life taught you about yourself?

There are points in the process of making any record where you look at yourself in the mirror and ask “Am I full of shit? Or can I actually land this thing?” The content on this album, what I’m talking about, it felt heavier and deeper than some of what I’ve done in the past. And I hate the idea of taking myself too seriously. At the end of the day, I’m an entertainer; everyone who makes music is supposed to be one, no matter how much they call themselves poets and stare at their expensive loafers oh-so-thoughtfully. Whether you’re Bob Dylan or Jackie Wilson or Tom Waits, at your core, you’re fundamentally the same as a clown or a breakdancer. Your job is to bring people joy, to entertain them. Walking around with this understanding has always made me sort of sick to my stomach whenever I find myself taking any of this noisemaking I do too seriously.

But on this album? I surprised myself. We are making music about serious things and I didn’t feel embarrassed or disgusted by it. It’s serious because it’s supposed to be serious; I’m not being a self-important asshole. Somebody needs to talk about the opioid epidemic and no one else was doing it in a way that I felt satisfied with. I did it because I felt like I had to, not to feed some inflated notion I had of myself as a capital A “artistè.” So I guess I learned that I’m not full of shit. Or at least, not entirely full of shit.

Photo Credit: Blair Clark

MIXTAPE: Denison Witmer and the Meaning of “Home”

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

What does “home” mean?

Answering this question became one of the main themes in my lyrics over the last several years – especially on my new album, Anything At All. After touring consistently for the first 15-20 years of my music career, I finally bought a house in South Philadelphia. Ten years later, my family and I relocated to my hometown, Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Before moving back to Lancaster, most of the places I lived felt kind of like a coat rack. Sure, most of my belongings were there, but I knew I’d be traveling again soon – things that felt centering or “home-like” to me existed outside of the confines of a space.

My current life is a lot different than that time. Now I am a husband, a dad of two young kids, a carpenter, and a part of my local community. I spend a lot of time trying to build a comfortable and consistent home life for myself and my family. My idea of what a home means is changing yet again. I’ve compiled a few songs that encompass the various meanings of “home” to me. – Denison Witmer

“Homesick” – Kings of Convenience

I think this is one of the best opening tracks on any album. The way the two guitars immediately start walking down the scale is captivating. My favorite lyrics are the last few: “A song for someone who needs somewhere to long for/ Homesick because I no longer know where home is…” It makes me think about the many days I’ve spent in headphones traveling in trains or tour vans, leaning my head against the window and listening to music that made me feel at home.

“Rene And Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After The War” (Original Acoustic Demo) – Paul Simon

I put this song on almost every mix I make. This is Paul Simon at his finest – just him and a guitar. In this story we follow Rene and Georgette Magritte as they reflect on the differences between their time in New York City and their lives in Europe during WWII. Ordinary moments like opening dresser drawers or window-shopping trigger memories of home.

 “Just A Song Before I Go” – Crosby, Stills, & Nash

Starting with a crash cymbal and leading right into a fuzzy guitar riff, this song has an instant warm vibe. I’ve always loved the way Graham Nash leans into writing about his life as a musician/songwriter. There’s a risk that it might not be relatable to a wider audience, yet he always finds a way to make the feeling universal. The lyrics “When the shows were over/ We had to get back home/ When we opened up the door/ I had to be alone…” connect deeply with me.

There were a lot of times on tour that I felt like I was turning into a ghost – passing through towns and people with no real sense of deeper connection or longevity. No real sense of home. Sometimes weeks would pass with mostly small talk and I would lose sight of who I was. Finally getting home, dropping my bags, closing a door behind me, and spending a week alone in silence was just what I needed to recoup.

“In Tall Buildings” (Live) – Gillian Welch

A lovely song written about returning to and centering your life around the things that really matter to you. I love the lyrics “When I’m retired/ My life is my own/ I made all the payments/ It’s time to go home/ And wonder what happened/ Betwixt and between/ When I went to work in tall buildings.” It’s a beautiful reflection on the things that we leave behind either knowingly or unknowingly when we get swept up in the paths our lives take. Gillian Welch’s vocal delivery is always beautiful. The way she can take any song and filter it through her own style with honesty and sincerity is incredible.

“A House With” – Denison Witmer

Yes, adding one of my own songs here. It fits with the theme. Mid-COVID lockdown, my wife and I got really into two things: birding and plants. We did everything we could to get birds to visit our yard. We did everything we could to green the outside and inside of our house. This led to hanging bird feeders all over the place and planting everything from shrubs to trees to lots (and I mean lots) of indoor plants.

This song started as kind of a joke. I often walk around my house playing a small classical guitar and making up goofy songs to make my wife and kids laugh. This song started that way — I was watching the birds on our feeder and naming them as I saw them, then I went from room to room naming the plants we have in our window sills. I recorded an iPhone voice memo and forgot about it. I’m not sure what motivated me to share it with Sufjan (who produced my new album and this track), but I think it was because I knew he is a fan of concrete nouns and words that are interesting phonetically. He ended up choosing this from the batch of demos I presented to him. I am glad he did, because it’s one of my favorite songs on the album.

Sufjan didn’t like the original lyrics of the last verse… I remember him saying, “In the first two verses you are telling us what you are doing and how it fills your heart, but you never tell us why. You should try to answer that question for yourself.” I rewrote the ending and it was at that moment that things clicked into place for me.

“Take Me Home, Country Roads” – John Denver

You can’t really go wrong with the earnest nature of John Denver. I love the lilting quality of this song – lyrics about longing juxtaposed against the happy upbeat sound. It’s a love song to a place. I have a lot of respect for John Denver, because he was always unapologetically himself. He talked about how he wanted to not just entertain people, but also touch them. I think he understood the magic of music and connection. Listening to John Denver also makes me think about my dad because he was his favorite musician.

Photo Credit: Lindsay Elliott

Brendon Anthony & Jon Randall on Only Vans with Bri Bagwell

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

This is one of the more serious – and important – conversations I’ve had so far on Only Vans and I was lucky enough to get to have it with two good friends. Brendon Anthony is the newly named VP of Big Loud Texas and a brilliant fiddler. Jon Randall is a hit songwriter, producer, and co-founder of Big Loud Texas. We talk about things like the Texas music scene, the politics of live music, product versus legacy, and the impact of AI.

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Here is another Only Vans recording in front of a live audience at MusicFest at Steamboat in Colorado. Thank you so much to John Dickson and everyone at MusicFest for making this happen!

Today I am joined by two amazing human beings that I’ve known for over a decade (and a half…?), Brendon Anthony and Jon Randall. Brendon Anthony has recently been named the Vice President of Big Loud Texas, which is a record label that was founded by Randall and Miranda Lambert. It is a branch of the Big Loud record label that has artists such as Lambert, Hardy, and Hailey Whitters to name a few. Before that, Brendon was the director of the Texas Music Office and was instrumental in the creation of BMI Texas and the Texas Music Incubator rebate program, which supports music venues in Texas with over $20 million in tax rebates. We talk about a lot of other great things Brendon has done for Texas music and music-friendly communities, and even I was fascinated by it and learned something new. You can also find him playing fiddle on stages with people like Pat Green!

Jon Randall, co-founder of Big Loud Texas, has some hits you may know as a songwriter, including “Whiskey Lullaby,” “Tin Man,” and many of your favorite new Hold My Beer Volume II tracks by Wade Bowen and Randy Rogers. His producer credits are equally impressive: Dierks Bentley, Parker McCollum, Miranda, Jack Ingram, Pat Green – you get the picture.

These two guests are funny, down-to-earth, approachable, and they truly care about art in the midst of a time I’ve been referring to as “The Wild West” of music. When Jon also called it “the Wild West,” I almost fell off my chair with validation. Don’t forget to subscribe and share this episode!

Thank you so much again to Jon and Brendon and to Dirt Trail Entertainment for sponsoring these very special and very cold MusicFest episodes. Thanks to our show sponsors, Hand Drawn Pressing & CH Lonestar Promo, too!

Find our Only Vans episode archive here.