In recent years, Tami Neilson has been learning to carry both great joy and great sorrow simultaneously. The New Zealand-based, Canada-born powerhouse’s new album, Neon Cowgirl, is named after the towering electric figure on a sign that’s overlooked Broadway in Nashville watching over Tami’s career since she was 16 years old. The songs were born from a five-month family road trip combined with a major musical tour that would allow Tami the once-in-a-lifetime chance to really give it her all with her career. It was the chance for her children to experience what her life was like at their age, when she toured the country with her family’s band, led by her eccentric and wildly lovable dreamer-father, Ron Neilson. Before she got the chance to hit the road for that trip, Tami landed in the ICU with sepsis and nearly lost her life. She blessedly recovered, but found that all her priorities centered around trip/tour had changed.
In our Basic Folk conversation, we talk about the songs on Neon Cowgirl, her dear friendship and collaborations with Willie Nelson, and Tami’s exciting performances at the Grand Ole Opry. One of the songs on Neon Cowgirl, “Keep On,” was inspired by a cosmic conversation she had with Wynonna Judd. Judd, to her surprise, quoted the same exact phrase – “Keep on, keep on, keep on” – that Tami’s late father had written in one of her most cherished letters.We also talk a lot about her brother, Jay Neilson. For all of her career and life, Jay has been by her side as her guitarist, co-writer, and musical partner. Last July, Jay suffered a rare and debilitating brain injury that he is still recovering from. Tami and Jay have not been able to perform together since that injury. She shares what it’s been like to be without Jay and how it’s been for him to be so public about his condition.
Tami Neilson and I first connected during the pandemic. She was a guest on the podcast after she released her 2020 album, Chickaboom!and again after she released her fifth album, Kingmaker, in 2022. Since those chats, I have loved following her career, listening to her new music, and experiencing her highs and lows with her. She’s one of my favorite guests and I’m thrilled to welcome Tami back to talk about her wonderful new record.
Dallas Ugly is not a country band. Except that they are?
More than a decade ago now, college classmates Eli Broxham, Owen Burton, and Libby Weitnauer began playing together as a new acoustic band, bluegrass and old-time chops combined with jazz and jammy virtuosity. Eventually, via COVID pandemic cloistering together, they crafted a collective identity as Dallas Ugly, a vibey and tight alt-country group built around original songs that made a splash with their 2022 debut, Watch Me Learn.
On that album you can hear bluegrass grit, the tenderness of folk and indie songwriting, influences of Southern rock and pop, and dashes of Texas twang – perhaps supplied by confirmation bias thanks to their moniker. On their latest album, See Me Now (released in April), the trio are abandoning any and all claims to Americana and country. But this collection – one of the best roots albums of the year – still listens like so many classic artists and albums at the intersection of indie, country, and the vast musical horizon.
When you ask the Nashville-based band how they’ve landed in this new, borderless, agnostic genre territory, they seem as surprised by their own chosen style markers and aesthetic vocabulary as their audiences. “It’s an accident,” says Weitnauer – with delight. “We don’t know why we sound this way. We’ve been able to loosen up more, build on the experience we’ve gotten just as musicians. … With this iteration, I feel like it shows a full development of our sound.”
In truth, however See Me Now and Dallas Ugly strike your ears, it’s quite a straightforward task to trace their journey through genres. (Though it’s not the most straightforward to discuss!) The trio simply follows each song down their own individual creative rabbit holes, trusting the music and each other to find or carve out sounds that encapsulate the feelings, textures, and stories that they craft together. They don’t lead the songs, the songs lead them. As a result, Dallas Ugly alchemically transform barn burning old-time fiddle, endless country twang, deep honky-tonkin’ pocket, earnest, sentimental songwriting, and pop-informed sweet tooths into smooth, artful, endlessly interesting indie rock.
Dallas Ugly’s brand of roots music – if you can call it that – is downright beautiful. We spoke to the group via phone between tours in May about making the album, claiming genre (or not), and the sometimes passive, sometimes overwrought process of shepherding these songs into the world.
I wanted to start with getting the genre conversation out of the way, as it were. Y’all have been very forward with communicating that this isn’t really a country album; that you don’t really see yourselves as a country band. You call it indie, indie-pop-rock. I hear you as decidedly Americana and country, personally. Obviously you have those indie-pop touches – plus, we know you have string band bones as well – but can you talk a little bit about your relationship to genre and how you intentionally stepped into this much more free, borderless sonic space with this project?
Libby Weitnauer: It’s funny, because as I’ve had more conversations with people since the album’s come out I’m like, we definitely marketed it wrong. [Laughs] The other way we could’ve gone – everyone is like, “Do you ever listen to Sunbelt?” “Do you ever listen to Wilco?” “What about like The Breeders?”
But you asked what were the intentional steps that we made – and I would say there have been no intentional steps towards any genre. Which is why we are having trouble pinning it down, because I think we decided to market it the indie route. Honestly, the Americana world seemingly wants to have nothing to do with our music. [Laughs] So we were like, “Okay, then, I guess it’s not Americana, I guess it’s not country.” Every time we bring it to those people they turn it away.
I would say our relationship with genre is very passive. When we’re making decisions and writing songs, genre isn’t a consideration. It’s always been that way. When we started playing together as the very goofy band that we were before this band, that was a sort of attempt at new acoustic music. It was the same thing, we just make decisions [based on] things that we like, or think we’re supposed to do sometimes, or sound good. Then it comes through this Dallas Ugly Eli-Libby-Owen filter, no matter what.
We’ve honestly tried so hard to fit into a genre. Where we’re like, “Okay! We’ve done it this time. You guys, we made a song that sounds like something else that exists.” Which is a funny thing to aspire to. Just trying to create stuff that we like and then it’s, “Oh, nope, nevermind. There it is. Just as weird as ever.”
Do you feel like the songs are what’s guiding you in that passive way? That you’re just trying to give the songs the treatment they each want or are asking for or deserve? Do you feel like it’s taste? Or is it just how it ends up is how it ends up? What do you think is the process for how it ends up being borderless and amorphous and not quite any one thing?
Owen Burton: Yeah, I think those are all in there. I think it isn’t as if we’re striving when we’re writing, it’s not like we’re intentionally pointing to a specific genre. There’s just things that we don’t realize are so genre-coded that are kind of inescapable about our musical voices. When we are asking how to start a song it’s, “Let’s do a fiddle kick.” It’s not, “Let’s do a country thing.” It’s just, “I feel like a fiddle kick would make sense.” And then, on the other end of that is people being like, “This is a country record now!”
It’s fair enough. But I think with this record, too, [as] I’ve learned with our first album – which we were like, this is a country record – I feel like we learned, in how it was received, how actually regimented the Americana style is. And how we weren’t within certain signifiers that are pretty regimented. Indie rock is way more broad, in terms of what it tolerates stylistically.
So the next one, this one, certainly can fit in that big tent. Now, the way it’s been perceived that way too, [I’ve realized] indie rock’s pretty regimented in ways that I didn’t understand, too. Mostly about singing. I think just none of us sing like indie boys. [Laughs]
LW: Or country voice. That’s the thing, I think what it comes down to is if different people were singing our songs, maybe it would be clearer. But I think, especially Owen and I, we have acquired taste, stinky cheese voices. [Laughs] It’s definitely not for everybody. Eli, obviously he doesn’t sing quite as much, but weirdly I would say Eli has the most familiar voice.
I happen to love stinky cheese.
LW: Exactly! Me too.
How does Justin Francis play into the genre paradigm here as your producer, as somebody who effortlessly walks between those sonic worlds? Can you talk a little bit about working with him and having him in the control room?
OB: He understood what we were going for. When we started, we intentionally controlled less variables going into the studio for this one. It’s not as if we had a strategy meeting about what kind of album this was gonna be before we started, making creative decisions on it. The songs were vaguely written before we went into the studio, but not arranged and not figured out like across the band ahead of time.
I feel like even just that process– I guess that’s a bit of a question, is that more of an Americana process or more of an indie rock process? I see that as more of a rock process; I feel like rock bands often go into the studio with songs not even written and they just write it in the studio. With [Justin] on board, he had all kinds of ideas when we were writing in the studio, little bits of studio vocab that we don’t have ourselves. [He] pushed and pulled in different genre directions, for sure.
LW: Part of the reason that we worked with him is we did these two singles with him, “Big Signs” and “Born Crying” just to try working with another producer and see what happens. I don’t even know that we were really [thinking] we could make an album with him, because honestly, he’s the real deal! We were like, “He’s famous, so he probably won’t make an album with us, but let’s just see what these things will sound like.” It was so effortless and he let us do our thing on those two. I feel like those [songs] are just as unhinged as anything else that we’ve made and he was right there with us with the ideas.
I would say, generally, working with him was really effortless. That’s the word I would use. The whole time, even the pre-production meetings.
Let’s talk about some of the music. My favorite is “Bad Feeling.” I know the lyric may say, “It’s a bad feeling, I don’t like it at all…” but I do like it. I like “Bad Feeling” a lot. I heard you guys play this song live a bunch before the album, too, but can you talk about the origin of it, its writing, how it came together in the studio?
LW: That’s the one song I think on the whole album that we had been performing [before recording]. Maybe “You Can Leave,” but it changed a lot. “Bad Feeling” we had been performing pretty much as it is, for the most part. I’m glad that you like it, because that was the song I was like… not disappointed in, but I had so much trouble breaking out of the live arrangement that we had. We had played it so much that I felt like the track suffered a little bit from how attached we were to the live arrangement.
But the making and the writing of that song, I feel like I wrote it [because] I’d been listening to a lot of Judee Sill. I guess I was inspired by that and was trying to capture how some of her songs, the chords move with the lyrics a lot. I didn’t end up really sounding like her at all, but some of the original harmonies we had for that song, played [off of] some of the harmonies in her music.
I feel like that song is like the epitome of my writing style, which is pretty autobiographical. Every time I try to write like feathery stuff, it sounds really goofy. And so with lyrics, I just try to find the most straightforward way I can say something. Usually that ends up being the most poetic, from my voice.
How do you know when you have a hook or you have the bit of the song that’s gonna be what everybody shouts along with? To me, it doesn’t feel like any of you are writing songs because you think they’re gonna be a hit. But at the same time, when I hear a really hooky song or a really catchy song – like basically this whole album – whether it’s “Bad Feeling” or “Sugar Crash” or “Circumstances” or “See Me Now,” I can picture a “light bulb moment” when you find that hook or line that ends up being the sing along.
LW: When I’m writing, I don’t really consciously think about hooks like this. That being said, a lot of my songs start with either a phrase or a melody. I’ll be on a walk or doing something in the kitchen just singing little thing. Like “Circumstances” – “I put a letter in the mail…” – that just happened in my brain when I was doing something. Then usually I’ll grab onto that and write the song around whatever little melody piece comes to me. I guess what ends up being the hook, a lot of the time, is what comes to me. And then I find myself singing it and I let it take off and do what it’s gonna do.
Eli Broxham: I feel like something that comes up, a question we end up asking ourselves that I’ve heard Libby ask a bunch of times is, “Is this super cheesy?” [All laugh] Which, we definitely ride the line of cheesiness, but at some point, you have to just be like, “I don’t know. I like it. And that’s good enough.” If it’s borderline to me, maybe it’ll be over the line for somebody else, but clearly, within bounds for another listener.
At some point, trust your instincts and be like, “It might be cheesy, but that’s okay.” And yeah, I think melodically is where I have my surest footing [writing hooks]. I still feel as a songwriter, if I hit the mark, it’s maybe by chance or something.
I also want to talk about “See Me Now,” because it’s the title track, because it’s a great song, but also because I feel like it epitomizes the journey y’all have been on, from Watch Me Learn to this album. Not just musically and creatively, but also genre, and also politically and socially. This song is “of the moment” in a really interesting way, because you can listen to it down and it’s a love song and it’s a song about seeing and being seen, but it’s also about perception and, “Is my existence valid?”
All of that is really deeply resonant, but if you zoom out and view the song in the context of the band, it changes its meaning. If you zoom out yet again and you view it in the context of y’all really coming together during COVID to do this project as Dallas Ugly, being friends for more than a decade, it changes the meaning of the song again. It’s a tesseract of a track where you guys are writing in four dimensions – it’s not too intellectual or conceptual, but it has endless depth. How!?
OB: I actually wrote that very quickly, because Elise Leavy was having like a songwriting circle. I hadn’t written a song terribly recently, so I was just gonna write something real quick for this. That was the song I wrote and at the time – this is years ago – I was very into that Kacey Musgraves album, Golden Hour, and the lead track, [“Slow Burn”]. That acoustic intro thing, I was messing around with that, because the chords are really simple, but the voicings are so interesting.
Those two things – “hurry up and write a song” and the somewhat new vocab I had just learned – came together. That first draft of it was soft, crummy – plus those lyrics, it’s hard to say what they’re about, because I wrote them very quick. Sometimes this spiel I give on stage is:
It’s three people meeting each other after some kind of apocalypse. In the universe of the apocalypse, because nobody has anything anymore, it’s very hard to [determine] what status anyone was before the apocalypse. It’s three different kinds of people with different former social status, wishing that people they interacted with could tell what status they used to have. People are very comfortable in their status, I feel like whether it’s high status or low status, people find comfort in both. Personal comfort in your own status and the comfort in feeling like you know how to treat people once you derive their status.
I feel like audiences never understand that spiel and it’s maybe too heady to be worth anything. [Laughs] Maybe that’s also why it feels like there’s so many different reads you could have of that song.
I think the most interesting thing about it – and maybe I’m projecting y’all – is the sentiment, “Can’t you see me now? I want you to see me.” Maybe that’s just the millennial condition. All of us having nostalgia for something that never existed, generationally, and being like, “I need you to see me. I need you to perceive me. But also I’d rather you perceive me from the golden era, from the before times. From when things were right.”
Also the “Can you hear me now?” reference of it all feels very millennial, very of the 2000s in a great way. Again, is this cheesy? No, of course not. Listen to it! But also, yes it is.
OB: Yeah, that’s where we live.
LW: That’s where we live! And I would say, before this, before the version that’s on the album, it had a very different flavor. I can’t even remember how it sounded exactly, but it was definitely more country – almost like country rock – and that was over the line. I’m glad we found [this style] and Justin helped us find that. Just pulling it back to the other side a little bit, because yeah, lyrically and melodically, it’s so solid and awesome. But we had to go to the drawing board a few times to get the setting right for it.
EB: That one is like the musical ideas are blocks that are put in place. I remember when we were doing this – after some of the drawing board stuff that Libby was talking about – but I was listening to that Mac Miller album, Circles – which I think is maybe the best Mac Miller album. I was listening to how the elements didn’t change, they just turned on and off to make the song, which I feel like is pretty common in pop and rap production. But often, especially in this band or in Americana and rock, things tend to sneak in and out and evolve.
But for that song in particular, the bass line just turns on, then turns off for a little part. It turns on and turns off. There’s different parts of different sections, but they are like binary, which I think is an interesting approach – and a first for us, in that sense. Somehow, that takes it out of the realm of cheesy country and accentuates the lyrics in a nice way. Even that final chorus, where it’s just a big pause and then the chorus turns on.
LW: That’s interesting that you say that, ’cause I feel like for my fiddling, that was the approach I took on this whole album. Honestly, until we got to the pre-production meetings I was like, “I don’t even think I’m gonna play fiddle on this album.”
I took more of [an approach like] I’m a sample of a thing, rather than being a fiddle in a band. Like even on “You Can Leave,” which is the more fiddle-y of the tracks, in the verses I’m not doing traditional fills. I’m doing this one rhythmic hook every time this comes around and that’s what I’m playing on this song.
It was the idea of turning things on and off rather than trying to be part of the whole song. And I let myself punctuate things and not feel like I need to play the whole time.
Jesse Daniel is carrying on a family tradition with his fifth studio album, Son of the San Lorenzo. As a kid growing up in Northern California, specifically in the San Lorenzo Valley, Daniel spent hours upon hours in his dad’s truck, listening to the songs that defined ‘70s rock and country radio. When the opportunity arose to create a new album inspired by those sounds, Daniel booked the Bomb Shelter studio in Nashville, recorded live with his band, and enlisted harmonica player (and Country Music Hall of Fame inductee) Charlie McCoy to add an unmistakable flourish to the new recordings.
Just as country fans have come to know their favorite singers as the Coal Miner’s Daughter, the Possum, or the Storyteller, Daniel’s hometown is enthusiastically embracing his alter ego: the Son of the San Lorenzo. Daniel dialed up Good Country to talk about how bluegrass music played a role in his musical development, the silver lining of his checkered past, and what he’s looking for in his fellow musicians when it’s time to hit the road.
For this album, you wanted to go back to the music you grew up on, which is ‘70s country and rock. How did you get introduced to that era of music?
Jesse Daniel: My dad was – and still is – a musician. Growing up, he was playing in bands and always just raised me with a guitar in my hand. Whenever we’d go on road trips, or we’d drive up to Oregon to go see family, we would be listening to Led Zeppelin or the Eagles, bands like that. There was a classic rhythm & blues influence on rock and roll, but a lot of that stuff had a very country influence, too, from Creedence Clearwater Revival to the Eagles. A lot of the bands were California bands, also.
I just heard that music growing up. That’s what was played by my dad’s band, and at birthday parties, events, and school gatherings. That was just good-time music, aside from what we were listening to as kids, when we were getting into metal and punk rock. But I guess that’s what all our dads were listening to, and the older people. So I went back to that, now that I’m in my 30s. That music has such a spot in my soul for that nostalgia, and it’s just so good.
Can you describe the experience of having Charlie McCoy on these sessions?
That was incredible. He showed up on his day to cut some harmonica and he was a very humble, unassuming dude. He told us the coolest stories about old Nashville, all the stuff he’s cut on, and all the people’s personalities back in the day that he used to know. I asked him all kinds of questions, soaking it all in. From the moment he blew on that harp and played some licks, Andrija [Tokic, the studio engineer] and I looked at each other like, “Yep! That’s the sound right there.” He just nailed it.
When I listened to “Child is Born,” the first track, I sensed you’re making a statement with this record. It’s a powerful way to open it. What was on your mind as that song was taking shape?
That song is about generational traumas or generational patterns within families and raising children. I pretty much wrote it from the perspective of trying to give some advice on how to raise a child, almost like a template. Throughout the verses, it talks about the pitfalls and what will happen if you focus on yourself and don’t raise your children right. That’s happened in my family and to so many other people. These fathers and mothers aren’t there for their kids, and when it ends up being their time to be taken care of, when they’re elderly, nobody’s there for them because they weren’t there in return. It becomes this vicious cycle that’s perpetuated. That’s where I was at with writing that one. It was an emotional one. It’s an emotional type of record in general, but I just wanted to start it off with that, for sure. A good, heavy starting place.
One of my favorites is “Son of the San Lorenzo.” I think you have had that title for a while.
Yeah, that one is a special one, too. I wrote that song in 2019 and I included it as the last song on my Rollin’ On record. I decided to re-cut it for this one and name the record after it, because since I wrote and released that song, it’s become a fan favorite all over the place, but especially where I grew up in the San Lorenzo Valley.
Whenever I would go back home for hometown shows, people would call me “the Son of the San Lorenzo” after that song. They would always sing that song. That became my nickname over the past five or so years. I thought, what better title for the record than that? With this record going back to my upbringing, to where I’m from, and identity and all that.
You’ve got references on this album to Highway 9, the Sierra pines, and the redwoods. You’re skilled at setting the scene in your songwriting. Why is it important to bring Northern California into these songs?
With my identity as a songwriter and an artist, it shaped a huge, huge amount of that. I always do things through the lens of being from Northern California. Going back to that sound, so much of the music I grew up on was from that exact area – bands like The Doobie Brothers, Larry Hosford, guys like that, who were making this country-rock and roll-blues stuff that really influenced me a lot.
Painting a picture of where you’re from, and of these things that are important to me and my music – I feel like that’s something that’s lost in music nowadays. People don’t do that as much, or if they do, it’s pretty well dominated by Appalachia or Texas. They have a lot of identity and pride in their musical heritage there and I just feel like it’s missing from California in general. And it shouldn’t be. It’s an amazing place, an amazing landscape, an amazing musical history. I see it as my cross to bear to try to carry on that legacy as best as I can.
Has bluegrass been an influence on you?
It definitely has. When I was in high school, I had a teacher for a short period of time who had a bunch of burned bluegrass mix CDs. She was the person that turned me on to bluegrass. I remember listening to that Tony Rice and Norman Blake song, “Eight More Miles to Louisville,” and I was like, “This is incredible!” The songwriting, the picking, the tempo. That made me fall in love with bluegrass. I’d been playing guitar for quite a while at that point, but that’s when I started learning the banjo rolls and trying to emulate some of those bluegrass things I’d heard and adding them into my chord progressions. Even though I don’t explicitly do bluegrass, I always have a bluegrass song on my records, or something that’s at least along those lines. For this record, it’s “Mountain Home” It’s got the banjo and fiddle and a little bit more bluegrass texturing. It’s a big part of my influence.
I was listening to “One’s Too Many (And a Thousand Ain’t Enough)” on Spotify and I couldn’t help but notice your mug shot from Santa Cruz County [as the Spotify Canvas] in the player. How did that come to be?
Yeah, that’s my mug shot from one of the times I went to jail. During that period of my life from 18 through my early twenties, I was a heroin addict, a methamphetamine addict. I was in a vicious cycle of addiction I had gotten into in high school. Once I was out of high school, it accelerated and I became a full-blown junkie, a full-blown drug addict. So that took me on frequent trips to jail for a week here, a week there. I never did any serious time, thank God. I should have, but I didn’t. I was constantly in and out of jail or rehab programs.
That mug shot is a reminder of that past and of that period of my life I wrote about in that song. That song is comprised of all the advice I had gotten from older people who had gotten their stuff together over the years, including some of my own family members who have been sober. They would tell me all these little bits of wisdom and try to help me, and I was just too deep in it to really see. But that song is basically the advice I’d give to somebody now, made up of all the advice I got back then when I was in that position.
Do people who know your story approach you for advice when you’re out on tour?
Quite a bit. There’s a cool, cathartic element to it for me, because I get to put my story and struggles into these songs and they help me. Then it becomes that for other people. I had a woman come up to me at a show, and she told me that my song “Gray” helped her mother get clean. She sent this song to her mother and it broke her down so much that her daughter was sending it to her, saying, “Hey, listen to the lyrics of this song. I care about you and I want you to get help.” And she did. She’s been clean for a couple years now and she says it’s because of that song.
I’ve had a lot of people reach out with similar stories, that they’ve gotten their stuff together after hearing my story or listening to my music. That’s the ultimate form of redemption for me, that I could take my destructive past and turn it into something constructive in helping people. That’s my whole mission. Aside from making the music I love, that’s my mission in my contribution to music.
That’s interesting to hear your mission statement, because you’re the head of your own organization now. I don’t know if you think of yourself that way, but you’re a businessman.
Yeah, more recently I’ve started to think of it that way. And it’s true, especially doing it independently like we have for so long. We’re just now starting to work with a bigger booking agency, a bigger management. We’re stepping things up. But my fiancée Jodi and I really built this together ourselves, brick by brick.
I’ve often heard you shouldn’t get in a relationship with someone until you know you travel well together. What do you remember about those early years with Jodi on the road?
In the early years, even before we started touring in a band together, I would play regionally and Jodi and I would go on road trips together, camping trips, whatever. We just wanted to keep going. That was always part of our relationship. We traveled really well together. We had similar interests. We’d just listen to music and talk and go pull off at roadside swimming holes up in the mountains. We loved that sense of adventure and going places. It was one of the main things that drew me to her when we first got together. She had just as big of a sense of adventure as I did.
So, in the music aspect of it, that’s really helped because we both have that wanderlust and we’re just down to be on the road and to go play new places. When one of us gets tired and burnt out, or maybe sick of being on the road, or something’s not going right, we have the other one to put it in perspective and help balance things out. You lean on that person, which not a lot of people have. A lot of times, your wife or your husband or whoever is at home and you’re out there, alone, missing them. So, I do have the luxury of being with my person out there.
What did Jodi think about the song “Jodi” when you played it for her?
She loves the song. Just like I say in that first line, “To write a love song for you was not an easy thing to do.” It really was a hard subject to tackle, because it’s so vulnerable and true. I had to sit with that one and try to make it as meaningful as possible, so it didn’t come off as a corny love song or too cryptic. I wanted it to be straightforward, but really meaningful.
What do you look for in musicians as you start to put together a band for a tour?
First off, they’ve got to be a great musician. That’s number one. They’ve got to understand the styles and the stylings that I like to go for with my music. I know it’s not for everybody. Sometimes the guitar style is a little bit outside of their bubble, so the playing has to be there.
On top of that, personality-wise, it helps to have people with good attitudes. That’s a huge one I’ve learned over the years. If somebody isn’t there for the right reason, or if they’re halfway in, halfway out, or maybe they’re partying a whole bunch on the road. I’m clean and sober on the road, I don’t do anything, but my guys will go out and have a beer or whatever. That’s totally fine. But if guys are going out and doing drugs or drinking and having it affect their performance or attitude… That is something that happened in the past, so I have a pretty strict policy with that. If you’re going to be in my band, you don’t have to be a teetotaler, but just try to keep it pretty mellow. It’s about the music. That’s what the focus is.
When you listen to Son of the San Lorenzo front to finish now, what goes through your mind?
I see a pretty complete body of work. Sometimes I’ll listen to some of my earlier records and I’ll look back and think, “Oh, I’d change this,” or “I’d do this a little different,” or “Maybe I would have put this song here…” I think that’s easy to do, to pick things apart, especially when you’ve grown as an artist and a songwriter. But when I listen to this record, I put so much time into the song arrangement and into each lyric and each part of the production. I wrote all the guitar licks. Well, ninety percent of the ones you hear on here are ones that I wrote, and then I showed them to the guitar player and he played them better than I was able to play them. [Laughs] All these little things, I put so much effort into this record that I listen back and I’m just really proud of it.
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From their earliest days as a duo, Gillian Welch & David Rawlings have crafted utterly timeless old-time, bluegrass, and American roots music of the highest order. Their lyrics and melodies sound as though they could have been plucked from any/every golden era of folk music on this continent, while at the same time being effortlessly forward-looking and grounded in the present. Perhaps that timelessness is why it feels so surprising that Welch & Rawlings have entered their own new era, as sceptered elders in their chosen genres and communities. The surprise being, of course, the realization that… have they not always been roots music elders?!
Last week, NPR Music unveiled a brand new Tiny Desk Concert by Welch & Rawlings, 15 years since their last appearance at the internet’s biggest smallest stage. In the roughly 20-minute performance, the pickers, singers, songwriters, and life partners perform three songs from their most recent album, 2024’s Woodland, as well as revisiting one of their all-time classics, “Revelator” – from 2001’s Time (The Revelator). Viewing 2025’s Tiny Desk Concert alongside their 2010 performance (watch both sets below), the circuitous journey they’ve taken to sage old-time veterans is obvious, apparent. But it’s still no less mystifying that two artists and creators so adept at musical time traveling have landed in this new phase of their careers right under our noses. With silver hair, wizened voices, a lifetime’s supply of grit, and a tenderness that’s begun to eclipse their fiery, razor’s edge aggression, Welch & Rawlings continue to be their generation’s epitome of modern folk troubadour-ship.
And aren’t they suited for it! “Empty Trainload of Sky,” a song inspired by their titular recording studio Woodland’s propensity for landing in the middle of catastrophic tornado tracks, hits just as hard in this context, their Tiny Desk performance released mere days before tragic and fatal natural disasters and flooding hit multiple states across the U.S. Their songs constantly bend time like this, finding resonance in specificity and universality, both. “Lawman” and “Hashtag” sound like numbers that could’ve been sourced from wax cylinder recordings – or from 9:16 short form videos ripe for virality and topically delicious. “Revelator,” then, reminds that Welch & Rawlings know that they operate from within and outside of the constructs of time, at least as far as music goes. They are perfectly at home in this wormholed medium.
Fifteen years feels like a mere instant, a split-second, in the grand scheme – and, certainly, when you consider the ubiquity and staying power of Welch & Rawling’s body of work over the decades of their career. Still, you can see and hear the age, the miles traveled, the hardships overcome, and the joys celebrated on their faces, in their voices, and in the pluck of their strings. Gillian Welch & David Rawlings, with each and every note they utter, invite each of us to step outside of time. It’s no wonder that they’re thriving, at the highest of heights they’ve reached yet, as they enter their latest golden age, as roots music heroes and elders who’ve touched countless scores of us with their art.
Gillian Welch & David Rawlings continue on tour now through the fall. More info here.
Artist:Caitlin Canty Hometown: Danby, Vermont Song: “Bird Dog” Featuring Matt Lorenz Album:Night Owl Envies the Mourning Dove Release Date: June 26, 2025 (single); October 2, 2025 (album)
In Their Words: “‘Bird Dog’ is the most recent single from my new record, Night Owl Envies the Mourning Dove, and features the intrepid Matt Lorenz as my duet partner. It is pure joy to sing with Matt (you likely know him best as The Suitcase Junket). Matt and I first met at Club Passim’s Campfire open mic years ago, and he sang backing vocals on my Reckless Skyline way back in 2015. We were long past due making music again, and his fiery vocals are an essential thread in my new record coming this October.
“Brian Carroll, who filmed and edited this video, has been such a steadfast creative partner behind the lens and microphone. I first got to know his work when he shot some gorgeous live videos in lightning fast sessions at Green Mountain Bluegrass and Roots and I’m thrilled to be working with him on some live video versions of songs from Night Owl Envies the Mourning Dove.
“I wrote the chorus of ‘Bird Dog’ a few years back when I lived in Nashville and then finished it at our new home in the mountains in Southern Vermont. Our dog Bell sparked the song with her barking and carried on through much of the writing process. I suppose that makes her my muse?” – Caitlin Canty
Video Credits: Caitlin Canty – Vocals, guitar Matt Lorenz – Vocals, guitar Filmed and edited by Brian Carroll. Mixed by Dave Sinko.
Photo Credit: Lead image by Brian Carroll; alternate image by Laura Partain.
Ian Munsick carries Wyoming with him wherever he goes. Though he’s now based in Nashville, Munsick consistently documents his affection for the Cowboy State through his music. For example, he named his new album Eagle Feather, a title that alludes to a gift he received at his honorary Crow Native American tribal adoption last year.
The closing track on that 20-song collection, “The Gate,” is bookended by the voices of his father and his son, underscoring the life lessons within the poignant lyrics. He even enlisted Buck Brannaman, an inspiration for Nicholas Evans’ 1995 novel, The Horse Whisperer, to appear in the music video for “Horses, Not Hearts.”
On a rare break from touring, Munsick chatted with Good Country about moving to Nashville as an 18-year-old, his admiration for bluegrass musicians, and his most reliable piece of advice.
Let’s start by talking about the video for “Horses, Not Hearts.” Why did you like the treatment for that video?
Ian Munsick: When it comes to everything for the eyes, my wife has a huge part in that. She’s also my manager and she’s very good at branding. The majority of my imagery comes from her, and she had that idea of going back home to Wyoming. There’s an old cowboy in Wyoming that’s one of the best horsemen in the world named Buck Brannaman. We always try to incorporate and feature real people in the West that are very good at what they do. This is a common theme for us, and he was one that we hadn’t included yet. We’re from Sheridan, and his wife is best friends with my mom, and we go way, way back. Before I was even born, they knew me, so it was cool getting to work with him and his daughter and his wife.
We’re really trying to portray an accurate picture of the real West. That’s always been my goal as an artist, and there’s no better way of doing that than to have world class horsemen and cowboys.
I think you’re a visual songwriter, too. “Too Many Trees” has a lot of visuals in it, and it’s a love song, but there’s also that issue of where to settle down. Is that something you and your wife talk about – thirty years in the future, where you want to be?
Oh yeah, all the time. I lucked out in that my wife loves Wyoming and I knew that that was going to have to be a precursor, because that’s where I belong. That’s where I feel most at home. She’s from North Carolina and there’s a lot of trees and hills there. I started to think to myself, “What if she didn’t like Wyoming?” That’s how that song came about. Being from Wyoming, there’s no trees there. They’re only on the mountains and by the rivers and that’s it. So, moving to Nashville when I was 18, it was a pretty dramatic geographical change.
I always had that idea and that title and then I picked up my three-year-old nephew from the airport. He flew in a couple years ago with his parents and we were riding back home in the truck back to our house in Nashville. I don’t think that he had ever left Wyoming, so it was his first time out. The first thing that he told me in the truck on the way home was, “Man, there’s so many trees out here.” I was like, “I’ve got to write that song!” That’s what sparked it.
When you thought, “All right, I’m moving to Nashville,” what was your goal?
I didn’t really have a big goal. My main goal was to play music for a living. I knew that if I was making music, then I was gonna be happy. It didn’t matter if I was writing songs or if I was playing in a band, or if I was producing songs, or if I was being an artist. I just knew that I wanted to be playing music all the time. Then slowly after I got here, I started to realize everybody that’s an artist right now is from the same area. They’re from Georgia or Tennessee or Texas and that’s it. So it’s like, maybe I have a unique outlook on what country is. That’s what inspired my whole artistry.
Photo Credit: Raul Esparza
Did you get a lot of radio stations where you grew up?
No, man! As you can imagine. There were three stations, two of them were country and one was rock. That’s it.
Wow. Did you listen to rock and roll coming up as a kid? Did you like it?
Yeah, my dad – he’s just a very good musical mind. He plays a bunch of instruments, writes his own music, so he turned me and my two older brothers on to all kinds of music when we were young. So honestly, I didn’t really listen to country radio very much, just because my dad hated it. He’s like, “Oh, this isn’t real country music.” That’s always what he would say. So we didn’t really listen to much radio country. It was like old tapes of Merle Haggard and George Jones – and the Beach Boys, Fleetwood Mac, Chris Ledoux, all kinds of music.
Did you get up on stage a lot as a kid and play with your dad?
Yeah, my dad taught my two brothers and me how to play music at a young age. By the time I was about 10 years old, we were on stage all together as a family band. That’s how I started. We’d play rodeos and after-parties, dances, just whoever would have us. That’s how I came up playing music, learning through them.
From the videos I’ve seen, and looking at your videos on social media, it seems to me like you don’t have stage fright. Did you lose that early as a kid?
Yeah, my dad knows how to engage an audience very well, so I got to learn that at a really young age. And my two older brothers already knew, from him, how to engage a crowd. So I had three people I looked up to that were already really good at that and I definitely learned from them.
I found one of your songs on Spotify called “Me Against the Mountain” and I was surprised to hear banjo on there. What was on your mind as that song was taking shape?
Like most writers, I have my voice memos on my iPhone, just hundreds of them on there. During COVID, I was writing with two people that I had never written with that would quickly become two of my favorite people to write with, Jeremy Spillman and Randy Montana. I had this little thing that was just like [imitates twangy licks] and it felt very backwoods mountain bluegrass. So I just picked up my banjo and started to play that. I did have the word “mountain,” and Randy was like, “Man, that’s just a really cool vibe. I wonder if it’s ‘me against the mountain?’” The mountain could be an actual mountain, or it could be a metaphor for an obstacle that’s between you and the one you love. So that’s how it came to be.
I recorded the whole thing in my studio and I mixed it right there. My wife and I were about to get married and I played it for her in the car. She’s like, “This needs to be our wedding song.” I was like, “All right, sweet.” So we made that music video around our wedding, which is something I feel like only happens when your wife is your manager. [Laughs]
How did you acquire a banjo?
For that one, that might have been a ganjo. Right after I made that track, I was like, “Man, you have no idea how long it took me to get that thing to sound good.” Like all ganjos do! But after that, for my birthday, my wife went to Carter Vintage and bought me a Deering banjo. It’s a beautiful banjo! It’s honestly one of the nicest instruments that I own. I just keep that bad boy in my studio. I can play “Cripple Creek” and that’s about it. But when you’re in the studio, you have the advantage of tuning it weird and making weird noises with it and fooling around until it’s good. What a cool instrument that just immediately puts you in a vibe. The acoustic guitar obviously can do a lot of things, but when you hear a banjo, it’s like you’re there. It just takes you to that place. It’s a very special instrument.
Do you remember when you got introduced to bluegrass or learned about it?
Yeah, my dad’s primary instrument is fiddle. I remember him playing all those old fiddle tunes when I was growing up. He gave me my granddad’s mandolin at a young age and he would teach me how to play those old fiddle tunes on the mandolin. So that’s my first real intro to old traditional bluegrass music.
But then, through people like Yonder Mountain String Band, Steep Canyon Rangers, Doc Watson, and Ricky Skaggs & Kentucky Thunder, I really started to navigate my own [path through] bluegrass music. I fell in love with harmonies, number one. Those were the main things that drew me in. I’ve always been a huge harmony guy. I love the Beach Boys. I love The Beatles. And bluegrass was that other thing that really played on those three-part harmonies. Being the youngest of the three brothers, that was our thing – to sing harmonies. That’s probably what drew me in, right out of the gate as a kid. And the older I get, the more I appreciate the playing. Those are some of the best musicians in the world playing bluegrass music.
On “Cheyenne,” you’re putting yourself out there with just a guitar and not much else. What stands out about that song for you?
Lyrically I really love that one. You probably know a little bit about that town, but Frontier Days obviously is when everyone comes to Cheyenne. People think that’s the big hot spot of Wyoming, through that rodeo, but really that’s the only two weeks that anything ever happens there. Other than that, it’s a total ghost town. Not a lot of action. Even though it is the state capital, nothing goes on there. I thought it was a cool idea, lyrically. I had that guitar riff going into the write and I’ve always been a huge believer in four-chord or five-chord change, back and forth, like Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” How it never goes to the one, how it never resolves. That’s the vibe for that one.
I produced that with Jeremy Spillman, and him being older and much wiser than me, he’s like, “Man, this song doesn’t need much. It doesn’t need a kick drum. Just throw a little snare in there and maybe a steel guitar, and that’s it.” That’s what I’ve been liking, too. The older I get, the more I don’t like a bunch of noise, which is probably the human experience! [Laughs] I feel like overdoing it is pretty easy for producing music, and I think it can speak more if there’s less in it, and it allows the audience to have a little bit of room to imagine things.
Man, I’ll tell you what. Dude, I heard that maybe not for the first time in high school, but that’s the first time I remember hearing it. It was my freshman year. Holy shit, dude, it rocked my world. I listened to it on repeat on iTunes for two weeks straight. It was like, “I can’t get enough of this.” To this day, that’s probably my favorite country song of all time. So good.
There’s a lot of life lessons in your song, “The Gate.” You probably learned some of those lessons the hard way. Especially in the music business, no doubt. When people approach you for advice, how do you handle that?
I’m always really inspired to try and help people as much as I can through my experiences. First thing I tell them is that I’m a ranch dude from Wyoming. So if I can do this, you can do whatever you want. There’s no world that’s more opposite than ranching in Wyoming to the entertainment industry. That’s as opposite as it gets. So if I can do it, then they can do it.
Man, I just try and use my mistakes, so that hopefully they don’t have to make those mistakes. I’m still young, I still have plenty more mistakes to be made. But what the main thing is, growing up in Wyoming, you’ve got to work your ass off and you want to be around people that are good people. It’s great if they can help you, or if you can profit with them, but the number one thing is just making sure you’re with good people that have your back.
It’s Friday, so we’ve got a passel of new songs and videos just for you. You Gotta Hear This!
Kicking us off, Nashville-based Americana duo Haunted Like Human bring their new single, “Married in Savannah,” about change, growth, and vowing to break generational cycles. It’s a thoughtful track with a beat and vibe that lean forward expectantly – or, perhaps, still hopefully. Meanwhile, Lauren Lovelle shares a song that she released earlier this week, “Anxiously Attached,” a two-steppin’ honky-tonk number about repeated disappointments in love and relationships that’s perfectly lonesome and self-deprecating.
Aptly timed for our current heat wave, Hawaii-born country artist Maoli drops his new album Last Sip of Summer today, and you can hear “Better Off on a Beach” below. While you sweat through these high temps, hit play and lean into his mainstream island-drenched country sounds while you imagine the sand between your toes. Plus, keeping the summer mood going, roots rockers Little Feat have released a brand new video for “4 Days of Heaven 3 Days of Work,” the groovin’ opening track from their new album, Strike Up The Band, which was released last month.
Mandolinist Danny Roberts shares a new instrumental tune below, too. “Leitchfield” is a pulsing, acrobatic original mandolin composition that pays homage to Leitchfield, Kentucky, a place Roberts calls “the fiddling capital of Kentucky.” (He should know, too, as he holds a Key to the City!) His labelmate and fellow mandolinist Darren Nicholson also has a new single today, “I’ve Got No Tears Left to Cry.” It’s a lonesome fast waltz that follows Marty Stuart’s sage advice to always trust a simple song.
To wrap us up, check out singer-songwriter Jackson Scribner’s “Depression Kids,” the title track for his just-announced album that was unveiled earlier this week. “…Although [depression is] looked at in a negative manner most of the time,” Jackson says, “it’s something that can bring us all together.” Packaged in vibey steel guitar and equal dashes of Americana and indie folk, the song ends up where our collection this week started, finding traces of hope in perhaps unlikely sentiments.
Of course we think this is a lovely round-up of new music, but you ought to decide for yourself. After all, You Gotta Hear This!
Haunted Like Human, “Married in Savannah”
Artist:Haunted Like Human Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee; originally Fayetteville, Georgia (Dale Chapman) and Milton-Freewater, Oregon (Cody Clark) Song: “Married In Savannah” Album:American Mythology Release Date: June 27, 2025 (single); October 17, 2025 (album)
In Their Words: “‘Married in Savannah’ is a song about growing up and realizing that you’ve grown into someone very different than the people that you thought that you knew. The song unfolds as the narrator looks at their relationship with an old and dear friend that they’ve drifted apart from. She was fiery and passionate and felt stifled by the expectations of the posh Southern family that she came from. The two spent their younger years vowing to break cycles and craft lives of their own, but the narrator now finds that their friend has seemingly become all of the things that she used to hate. Our narrator has to sit with the questions that they won’t ever get answers to, like whether the friend’s spirit was broken or if it was all just youthful naiveté that she set aside as she matured. They mourn the loss of the friend that they knew and the future that she could have had.” – Haunted Like Human
Track Credits: Byron House – Bass Paul Eckberg – Percussion Charlie Lowell – Keys Eleonore Denig – Violin Cody Clark – Guitar, vocals Dale Chapman – Vocals Engineered and mixed by Mitch Dane. Mastered by Veronica Conners.
Little Feat, “4 Days of Heaven 3 Days of Work”
Artist:Little Feat Hometown: Bill Payne – Emigrant, Montana; Kenny Grandy – Los Angeles, California; Sam Clayton – Fallbrook, California; Fred Tackett – Los Angeles, California; Scott Sharrard – New York, New York; Tony Leone – New York, New York Song: “4 Days of Heaven 3 Days of Work” Album:Strike Up The Band Release Date: May 9, 2025 Label: Hot Tomato
In Their Words: “‘4 Days of Heaven 3 Days of Work’ is the opening track on our new album. The ‘Gonzo Funk’ in the song’s lyrics and groove exemplify our lineup’s take on the classic Feat boogie. It is also the only tune on the album that was co-written by Bill, Tony, and I. All the riffs and lyrical imagery could only have come out of the three of us throwing ideas around together. Once the band got a hold of it, it went to a whole other level. This one was a true collaboration in service of the song.” – Scott Sharrard
Lauren Lovelle, “Anxiously Attached”
Artist:Lauren Lovelle Hometown: Newton, Kansas Song: “Anxiously Attached” Album:Other Dreams EP Release Date: June 25, 2025 (single); September 9, 2025 (EP)
In Their Words: “[‘Anxiously Attached’ is] about begging for the bare minimum, putting your partner on a pedestal, and in turn, repeatedly disappointing yourself. I find myself laughing during that ‘dammit I gotta work the dinner shift’ line, because I often am playing a gig right after working a dinner shift.” – Lauren Lovelle
Maoli, “Better Off on a Beach”
Artist:Maoli Hometown: Maui, Hawaii Song: “Better Off on a Beach” Album:Last Sip of Summer Release Date: June 27, 2025
In Their Words: “‘Better off on a Beach’ is such a vibe. There’s something magical about the beach – it’s like time slows down, and everything just clicks into place. Honestly, I don’t know a single person who isn’t better off with their toes in the sand. Being from Hawai‘i, I’ve always felt a deep connection to the ocean. The sound of waves rolling in, the warm sand beneath your feet – it takes you to a different place mentally. This song brings all of that home for me. It’s about letting go of your worries, surrounding yourself with good friends, and soaking up the good times. It’s about leaving your troubles behind… back where the pavement ends.” – Maoli
Darren Nicholson, “I’ve Got No Tears Left to Cry”
Artist:Darren Nicholson Hometown: Canton, North Carolina Song: “I’ve Got No Tears Left To Cry” Release Date: June 27, 2025 Label: Mountain Home Music Company
In Their Words: “I heard Marty Stuart say once that you should always trust a simple song. That stuck with me. So, ‘I’ve Got No Tears Left To Cry’ is just that. It’s a blunt goodbye letter from a jaded lover who is completely over being burned one too many times. It’s a ‘moving on’ song. Musically, it’s a traditional sounding piece that is reminiscent of classic bluegrass and honky-tonk music. It’s written to sing with big harmonies and Kevin and Avery nailed those. I am very proud of this cut and think bluegrass fans will enjoy it!” – Darren Nicholson
Track Credits: Darren Nicholson – Mandolin, lead vocal Mark Fain – Upright bass David Johnson – Acoustic guitar Deanie Richardson – Fiddle Avery Welter – Harmony vocal Kevin Sluder – Harmony vocal
Danny Roberts, “Leitchfield”
Artist:Danny Roberts Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee Song: “Leitchfield” Release Date: June 27, 2025 Label: Mountain Home Music Company
In Their Words: “When I wrote this tune, I didn’t have a title in mind and needed to come up with something to call it. While listening to the song and pondering on a name, I got thinking about the fact that my lifelong friend, Jimmy Mattingly, played fiddle on it. That led me down the path of recalling us growing up on adjacent farms, going to school and playing music together which gave me the idea that it would be cool to have a song named after our hometown of Leitchfield, Kentucky. Leitchfield/Grayson County is the fiddling capital of Kentucky and has produced many fiddlers and other musicians over the years and I’m very proud to call it home. I was honored to receive the Key to the City from Mayor Harold Miller at last year’s Twin Lakes National Fiddler Championship and I’m dedicating ‘Leitchfield’ to all the wonderful folks there.
“It was so much fun getting to record this with some of the greatest musicians I’ve ever picked with – Jimmy Mattingly, Tony Wray, and Andrea Roberts, and I appreciate them helping me bring this tune to life. I hope everyone enjoys it!” – Danny Roberts
Track Credits: Danny Roberts – Mandolin Andrea Roberts – Bass Tony Wray – Acoustic guitar, banjo Jimmy Mattingly – Fiddle
Jackson Scribner, “Depression Kids”
Artist:Jackson Scribner Hometown: Melissa, Texas Song: Depression Kids Album:Depression Kids Release Date: June 25, 2025 (single); September 19, 2025 (album) Label: State Fair Records
In Their Words: “I wrote this song on a bunch of sticky notes on my bedroom floor, thinking about the different ways I feel depression. It occurred to me that no matter what sort of depression people are dealing with, everyone deals with it. Everyone’s in the same giant boat. In a way, although it’s looked at in a negative manner most of the time, it’s something that can bring us all together.” – Jackson Scribner
Photo Credit: Darren Nicholson by Jeff Smith; Jackson Scribner by Brendan Blaney.
(Editor’s Note: Welcome to our Reissue series! For the next several weeks, Basic Folk is digging back into the archives and reposting some of our favorite episodes alongside new introductions commenting on what it’s like to listen back. Enjoy!
This episode featuring Lizzie No interviewing Joy Oladokun was originally posted on February 24, 2022.)
Joy Oladokun grew up in Arizona listening to her dad’s extensive record collection and falling in love with the wide and wondrous world of rock and roll. You can hear these diverse sonic influences, from Genesis to Tracy Chapman, in Joy’s rootsy, contemporary, and pop-savvy 2021 album, in defense of my own happiness. Of particular note are her superpowers for melody and smart repetition, which have made her a force to be reckoned with ever since she made the leap from LA to Nashville to make a life as a musician.
Joy is not only a phenomenal songwriter, but she’s also fearless and hilarious on social media. Believe it or not, it was Twitter that brought us together and catalyzed this Basic Folk interview. It was fascinating to hear her talk about how she uses her platform as a rising star in indie pop and folk to create the kind of world she wants to see. She’s using emotional transparency as a tool for political change; she is healing in public and gently nudging others to heal as well. Her single, “keeping the light on,” is the perfect distillation of her radical softness.
We know we’re not the only ones constantly clamoring for more bluegrass, string band, and old-time music on television – especially primetime and late night. So last week, on Monday, June 16, we and roots music fans across the country were delighted to find a superlative bluegrass song broadcast on Jimmy Kimmel Live!
Actor, comedian, and banjo renaissance man Steve Martin and his pal, preeminent five-string picker and record label executive Alison Brown, brought another of their musical collaborations to the world from the Kimmel stage in Hollywood. Joined by Tim O’Brien singing lead and playing mandolin, Robbie Fulks on guitar and harmony vocals, Christian Sedelmyer on fiddle, and Garry West on bass, the sextet performed “5 Days Out, 2 Days Back.” (Watch below.)
Martin and Brown have worked together quite a bit (watch a couple of past BGS posts highlighting their work together here and here) and have a seamless musical rapport, even in this instance pairing his clawhammer with her three-finger style and low-tuned banjo. Their songs are often hilarious, or sweet, or intricate, and always whimsical. “5 Days Out, 2 Days Back” is about the call of the road, the life of an itinerant musician, and the push and pull between longing for the horizon and missing one’s home and loved ones. By the track’s conclusion, we find the singer passing along the life he loves, however bittersweetly, to his own child – whatever the pros and cons. O’Brien offers the lyrics in his classic, laid-back and reedy voice with Fulks lending a sharp, ‘grassy tenor.
The song’s arrangement is intricate and technical at times, but flows easily on down the highway; it’s orchestrated and well-rehearsed for television, but feels down-to-earth and intuitive at the same time. This balance is a hallmark of Martin’s roots music forays, whether with Brown and company, the Steep Canyon Rangers, and beyond. You can sense the intention in each lyric, each note, and the flow of the number. But, ultimately, the result is each of these impeccable musicians getting out of the way of the first-rate song.
Martin, Brown, Fulks, and band (sans O’Brien) appeared just two days after their Kimmel appearance at the Hollywood Bowl for Rhiannon Giddens’ American Tunes (see exclusive BGS photos of the event here), making for a musically lush few days of bluegrass and roots music in Southern California, on the airwaves and wafting on the breeze over the Hollywood hills.
We are in a moment of extreme distress. Especially, but not limited to, the formal politics of America’s dying empire. Living in its wake, it’s easy to collapse into hopelessness. Hopelessness seems reasonable, considering the criminalization of trans voices, or ICE raids, or the tariffs that wipe out hard earned income, or climate change, or any of the other myriad disasters we are in the middle of. There has to be some way forward – a full understanding of how bad the situation currently is, but also that there might be a small amount of hope; that it has been worse than this, but it has also been better.
Willi Carlisle released an album of traditional songs, called TheMagnolia Sessions, in December 2024 and will release Winged Victory June 27 via Signature Sounds. Winged Victory includes original songs and covers of Utah Phillips, Richard Thompson, and Patrick Haggerty, among others. These songs are about the delicate negotiation between historical understandings, current realities, and the possibility of a progressive future; about carving out small moments of pleasure against melancholy; of building a small paradise against these impending crises.
I reached Willi Carlisle by phone on Good Friday, the saddest day of the Christian calendar. On the first Good Friday, no one thought Christ would return. I have not been a believer for a while, but I remember sermons in college which warned against racing through Friday to get to the hope of Sunday. So when I call this album a hopeful one, it is hopeful with a full acknowledgement that it might not get better. The work needs to be done with the assumption that there is no intervention, divine or otherwise.
When asking Carlisle about optimism, or about hope, he makes his choices sound purposeful, mentioning that he had been wanting to make this kind of album for more than a decade and that these two albums are “more just like musical moments that continue to say the things I want to say, as opposed to saying the things that I want to get off my chest.” This is not a manifesting energy, or an optimism despite all odds, but one which is well earned after decades of performing.
Those decades of performance tile with decades of listening, each working together mutually. Winged Victory has several moments which cross cosmic time – decades or centuries – looking backwards or seeing what is possible in the futures of our children’s children’s generations. The collection begins, for example, with the Utah Phillips standard, “We Have Fed You All for 1000 Years.” Its chorus states baldly:
Go reckon our dead by the forges red And the factories where we spin. If blood be the price of your cursed wealth, Good God! We have paid it in!
This album is one of reckoning, of refusing the standard moments. In the original song, “The Cottonwood Tree,” a slow waltz, Carlisle talks about a “place where nobody lives, and everyone is free.” He is singing in first person while he plays a concertina, mentioning how he is part of nature now and how he will be part of nature in his own rotting. He is happy to die trusting people, but even after dies, even when he is buried under “the cottonwood trees,” he will be heard.
He concludes the song, believing that he will meet his friends six feet under the cottonwood tree. In a subtle moment, his friends are “the tall grasses rustling between his ears,” or the forget-me-nots in a parking lot, and maybe even other humans. Here time collapses, between the immediacy of the moment and the length it takes a body to absorb fully into those cottonwood trees.
Carlisle’s album of traditional songs, TheMagnolia Sessions, has moments of this cosmic time as well – a much eerier version of “Leatherwing Bat” than the one made famous on Peter, Paul and Mary’s children’s album, as well as the last song, a version of “Jubilee,” a moment which reminds us again that the joy will come, after working and waiting.
Conversation between original tracks and new work is central to Carlisle’s practice. His reckoning, which occurs over and over again, is also about the complex matrix of listening and performing other people’s songs. When asked about the covers, he talks about working together – that he had a “strong relationship to the material…”
“I see my whole project in folk music is hearing history with all of its interpretations, its historicity, back to the lives of actual human beings. It’s time to take off the cowboy hat and put on the work gloves.”
The strength of the relationships between material, is partly due to how the original songs on this album work in conjunction with the old songs. For example, how the waltz of “The Cottonwood Tree” leads into the harder, faster waltz of the Patrick Haggerty-penned “Cryin’ These Cocksucking Tears.” That Carlisle includes a Patrick Haggerty song at all is remarkable, even more so that he makes it full of joy and he considers it as part of the tradition of folk and country music. It’s a cult song in queer folk circles – the mainstreaming of this work is a foregrounding of queer desire, another tradition and another culture. Carlisle sings it with horns and an accordion which sounds like a circus calliope (between this and Lucy Dacus’ “Calliope Prelude,” the instrument is having a moment).
Collapsing of time can again be seen in his version of Richard Thompson’s “Beeswing.” Also running a little quicker than the original, it’s a song about lovers who cannot be kept and immediacy about “the price you pay for the chains you refuse.” But the next song, “Big Butt Billy” – a comic riff on possibly hooking up with a non-binary server at a diner in the midwest – makes other arguments, models other kinds of hope (for an immediate pleasure).
Other versions of “Beeswing,” meanwhile, take the side of the narrator and have a misogynist tinge against the person who roams. Having these two songs back to back argues in favor of roaming and typifies desire as a kind of roaming – Haggerty wants, the Romany wants, the server wants, and at the risk of thinking he might be a little autobiographical, Willi wants. Throughout these two albums, the hunger is palpable.
Roaming is central to Carlisle’s music, not only on this album, but as a theme. Roaming through time and space, through the cosmos, and on the very real roads of California, Texas, or Wisconsin. The first thing that Carlisle and I talked about was BBQ and about Kansas City, where he is staying on Good Friday when we connect. That could be seen as a kind of metaphor – having strong feelings about a very local meat & three and about the history of a song that is brand new; having thoughts about the place where he is landing and a song that is centuries old.
Roaming is a way through this mess, through catastrophe and disaster as a way of finding community, against despair while not naively thinking things will get better without labor. This pattern of Carlisle’s interpretive skill is top notch throughout both of these albums, because of that curious hunger, that roaming, and that possibility of a way forward, even in the darkest era.
The last question I asked Carlisle was about theater – he had worked at Fringe shows in his 20s. He said that he wanted to direct or act again, especially Brecht. I keep returning to Brecht’s “Motto,” which reads in its entirety:
In the dark times, will there also be singing? Yes, there will also be singing. About the dark times.
This poem was the epigraph to a book written when Brecht had moved to Denmark, escaping German fascism.
Winged Victory reveals there is great beauty in darkness, that singing itself is an act of optimism, and that exile creates its own narratives. Therein, Carlisle has found a way of singing through dark times.
All photos: Whit Stone
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