Artist:Matt The Electrician Latest Album:We Imagined an Ending Hometown: Austin, Texas
Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?
As a songwriter, I have to go with two, often copacetic, though possibly somewhat diametrically opposed forces, Paul Simon and Rickie Lee Jones. The way they both use language in their storytelling has always been inebriating to me, and feels very much like home. They both often stuff words into spaces that feel, all at once, both incongruous and at the same time, absolutely perfect in their placement. It encompasses for me the way I aspire to be as a writer. And musically, they both have a lot of influences in their own songs from early ’50s rock ‘n’ roll and doo wop, which I’ve always felt speaks to me as well. I think that hearing artists that seemed unafraid to change or break whatever rules around the ways you’re allowed to use words and language in a song was always very liberating to me, and made me not feel not quite as weird writing about whatever I wanted to. And all of that freedom, couched in the confines of the pop rock idioms, feels comforting to me, like a cartoon Tasmanian devil wrapped up tightly in a cozy blanket.
What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?
As much as I’m a bit of a planner, I also love it when plans fail, and as a performer, I think I’m often better when I’m improvising. Once when playing a showcase at the Folk Alliance conference, the sound system went out in the room I was playing. It was a smallish room, but was very full of people. The sound guys were gonna go get some more equipment, but knowing I only had a short set time, I stopped them, and did the show unplugged. Everyone gathered in tighter. A friend in the crowd came up on a couple songs and sang backup, unrehearsed. The community vibes were in full effect and the warmth of that particular room is how I wish all shows always felt. I’ve played giant festival stages in front of thousands, and none of it compares to being huddled in a small room with people singing along with you.
What other art forms – literature, film, dance, painting, etc. – inform your music?
I’m a voracious reader and a film buff. I’d say that both inform my music a great deal. It never feels super linear, like I rarely sit down to write a song while directly referencing a movie or book, but I know in retrospect, that quite a lot of both filter into the process all the time. I think I tend not to like looking directly at any of my influences per se, but rather, hope to allow them to seep in sideways, when I’m not paying attention. That being said, book-wise, I’m currently reading John Lurie’s memoir, The History of Bones, and watching lots of 1950s film noir.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
Watching my dad play rhythm 12-string electric guitar in a ’60s rock cover band at a pizza joint in Rogue River, Oregon, when I was 4 or 5 years old. A few of us kids were allowed to watch the first set, and then we were relegated to a camper in the parking lot for the rest of the night. There was a sax player in the band named Willie, and although I don’t remember watching him play the trumpet, he had one in a case at his feet, and I decided then and there that I wanted to be a trumpet player. Soon after, my parents found a $5 trumpet at a garage sale and gave it to me for Christmas. I played that same trumpet through sophomore year of high school before getting a new one and went on to study trumpet in college.
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?
I married into a backpacking family, so we spend a good chunk of time every summer in the Sierra Nevada mountains, and I love those wooded forests, always have. But my main draw is the Pacific Ocean. I grew up alongside it, in California and Oregon, and even being in Texas for the last 25 years, I manage to get back to it at least a couple times a year, every year. The overwhelming power of it absolutely hypnotizes me. I think it is literally the rhythm of my thoughts, and I aspire to my actions falling under its spell someday as well.
Artist: Anya Hinkle Hometown: Asheville, North Carolina Latest album:Eden and Her Borderland Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): Anyabird
Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?
I guess far and away I have to answer — Gillian Welch. I grew up in the New River Valley of Virginia listening to Tony Rice, Norman Blake, Taj Mahal, Hot Tuna, Muddy Waters, Grateful Dead, and Old and in the Way, loved bluegrass and blues, but also female folk singers like Joan Baez and Judy Collins, pop stars like Madonna and Cyndi Lauper, and songwriters like Sarah McLachlan, Natalie Merchant, and Suzanne Vega. It just took Gillian to come around with her Revival album and put all that together for me, that you could incorporate all those great roots sounds into something completely modern and original. I was living in California at the time I heard her first album. I grabbed my fiddle and headed straight down to 5th String Music in Berkeley and started going to every bluegrass jam I could find. I thank her for giving me the idea that I could do it too — because of her genius, I could begin to imagine myself singing and playing guitar and writing songs too. It’s important to have someone you can look up to and that you can relate to so you can even have the idea in the first place.
What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?
For more than a dozen years now, I’ve been hanging around the Cumberlands with my buddy “Hippie” Jack Stoddart, someone who, in his rough and audacious way, brings people together to make a lot of magic. Hippie said to me one day, “I want to introduce you to Zona.” He’d been doing a lot of outreach work out of an old school bus bringing groceries and coats and toys and stuff to people living in former mining towns in Middle Tennessee. So he brought me up the mountain to meet the hardened sweetness that is Zona Abston. We sat around her kitchen table and she told me her life story, a miner’s daughter, growing up with little education and no money, not much luck or hope. When we collapsed back in the truck, Hippie said to me, “You better write this shit down!” And so I did. I wrote every detail: the cancer, the hunger, the cheating, the shining, the debt, the babies, the heartbreak. I came back with a mess of notes and thought, “How do I make a song out of this?” So I sat down and tried to pull out the most specific and moving details of everything she told me and created a ballad for her. I was super nervous to play it for her because, well it was HER life. SHE had to live it. But when I sang it for her the tears rolled down her beautiful face. She said, yup it’s all true, every word of it.
If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?
I actually thought about this a lot earlier this year, during the pandemic when I was trying to understand what my purpose was in music when it seemed like the industry was going to hell. I decided to focus on three things, and wrote them on a yellow sticky note that is taped in front of my desk for quick reference. The first is authenticity, and a commitment to truth and honesty to who I am as an artist. It’s a challenge to believe that it’s all already inside. I don’t need to grasp at something outside of myself. I just need to continue to learn to trust myself and be myself. The second thing is connection — connection with other artists and musicians, connections with my fans and supporters, and connections with anyone along the path. Those beautiful relationships are the foundation for anything I can possibly hope to accomplish in this lifetime. Saying “yes” and valuing the people that show up for me is oxygen. The third thing is creativity — growth and discovery. Allowing myself to surrender to the journey, giving up thinking I have to have everything figured out and under control. I need to just submit to curiosity, openness, and faith.
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?
Before I was a musician I was trained as an ethnobotanist. I traveled half the world studying plants and their uses and connections to culture. I love referring specifically to plant species in my songs because they can be so symbolic in our physical world. For example, in the the title track for my new record, Eden and Her Borderlands, I use a couple of plants that carry a deeper meaning. The cedar is fragrant and twisted, it’s green the year round, its oils are used to protect against decay and disease, it is sacred and ancient in its symbolism. I also use the sycamore. It is stately and grand, always grows near sweet water. It is often a boundary and its presence on the landscape signals a threshold that we approach and then cross over. Adding these botanical details to the song is like adding spices to a recipe, it gives more depth, even for those that might not know anything about botany. And who knows, maybe it will inspire people to love plants like I do!
How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?
I love this question because initially there can be so much fear in exposing your true self. Absolutely mortifying to lay bare the thoughts and emotions of a real human, the one behind the Facebook posts and the stage persona and the person you think you are or wish you were. The real one with all the real flaws, that is the person that is actually interesting. But the songs really push yourself (myself!!!) to look in the mirror and substitute the “you” with “me,” to get personal. Well, it’s a journey of acceptance and insight. Getting personal is the thing that connects us to the rest of humanity and, honestly, the thing that makes a good song, the thing that makes a song relatable.
I recently took a songwriting course with Mary Gauthier. In the song I shared, I kept referring to myself as “babe.” She said, who is babe? She focuses a lot on pronouns, you know, who are we talking about here? Because in our heads, it’s always about us. It can’t NOT be. We are trying to figure out what the hell we are doing here and if we are at all worthy of anything we are pretending to do. It takes a lot of working through fear to write songs. It’s good work.
Within the songs of her new album Outside Child, Allison Russell delves deeply into the extreme trauma she experienced in her youth spent in Montreal both as a mechanism for personal relief, but also in the hopes that it might reach people with similar experiences.
Although she is a member of multiple bands (including Birds of Chicago and Our Native Daughters) and is an accomplished speaker and poet, the release of Outside Child marks Russell’s first solo work as a recording artist. BGS caught up with our Artist of the Month, Allison Russell, from her home in Nashville.
BGS: This is a deeply personal record. What was your writing process like?
Allison Russell: The writing process was having to delve deeply into the most painful parts of my past and childhood and history. I experienced severe childhood abuse, sexual, physical, mental, and psychological. In many ways, I think the psychological is the toughest part to unpack and defang. I don’t know that I am ever going to be entirely free of that and the process of dealing with that. What was very beautiful about this to me is that I didn’t have to go on that fearsome journey alone. My partner J.T. [Nero] was with me every step of the way. He co-wrote many of the songs on this record with me. He scraped me up off the floor when I was in the depths of it.
I have tried at different times in my songwriting life to tackle some of that material and I did on various songs with my first baby band, Po Girl, but I didn’t have the same kind of support and stability at home that I have now. I didn’t have the same amount of distance in time from the events and trauma of my childhood. Time and distance, plus boundless unconditional love that I receive from my partner, were really healing to have that collaborative sense on these songs. It is tough. It is hard to contemplate pain and trauma. That is reflected in the macrocosm of what is happening in our world right now. We are dealing with it every day with each news story of violence towards communities of color. …
We have to go into the pain of it or it perpetuates. The cycles self-perpetuate if we don’t take a stand to stop them. That’s what I’m trying to do personally. Art builds empathy and connection and it helps stop cycles of abuse when we really listen to one another and see and hear one another. It is a lot more difficult to practice abuse and bigotry. I believe in harm reduction. I don’t think we are going to achieve nirvana in this lifetime, in this world, but I do believe strongly in harm reduction and that small things can create mighty ripples. That’s why telling our own stories in our own words under our own names is so important because it can provide a roadmap for somebody else going through similar experiences.
I wish my story was unique. It is not. One in three women, one in four men, one in two trans or non-binary folks have experienced stories very similar to mine.
In “Persephone,” you sing about a lover in your youth who was seemingly a refuge from the trauma you were living through. It feels like a really loving tribute to her. Is that a story you’ve always wanted to tell?
It has become more important to me as I get older to honor those friends of our youth and loved ones of our youth and lovers of our youth who helped shape us and in this case, she literally saved my life. And I wanted her to know that. I also wanted to acknowledge that I am a queer person who is now in a straight passing life and marriage. I fall in the middle of the spectrum of orientation. I’ve been in love with women and I’ve been in love with men and I’ve been in love with trans people and I’ve been in love with non-binary people. I wound up falling in love and committing to share a life with a man, my husband.
One could assume that I’m straight, but I am not and especially in this time of increased polarization and bigotry, it is really important that people understand that nothing is black and white. Nothing is simple and you can’t assume that because I am married to a man and I have a child that I am a straight person. You can’t say homophobic things to me and have it pass. Part of me wanted to really acknowledge that publicly. I am grateful. I don’t get to be here singing today and having my child and my family if it wasn’t for that first love. She taught me how to love and that it was possible. She taught me about kindness and unconditional love. She taught me about acceptance, courage and bravery.
I’d love to know about your influences coming up in music.
Growing up, my mom was my first musical influence. She is a beautiful piano player. We had a really troubled relationship, but one of my first memories is crawling underneath her piano and just listening to her play and watching her feet on the pedals and hearing the resonance under the piano and feeling connected to her in that way, even though she didn’t know I was there. It was a feeling like the music she made was a truer expression of her than the often very hurtful words or violent things she did. That was my first sense of understanding the depth of music, that it goes beyond language.
My grandmother taught me lots of very violent, creepy lullabies from Scotland. She knew a lot of old murder ballads and child ballads and she sang me all of those songs. I loved them. That oral distillation of archetypal stories over generations and time, generally very matrilineal and passed down from mother to daughter, I connected deeply with those songs. That was my first sense of the hidden archive of the world.
My adoptive father was very repressive about what we were allowed to listen to. If it wasn’t Baroque or Classical or maybe Romantic, we would get in trouble for listening to modern music. One of the sort of transgressive things that my mom and I sometimes did was listen to Joni Mitchell or Stevie Wonder together. I have such distinct memories of holding the Ladies of the Canyon album and poring over it and reading the back and seeing Joni’s art. That was very formative music for me.
With Tracy Chapman, I was 9 the first time I heard her. I was on a trip with my uncle and I remember hearing “Behind the Wall” and just bawling because we were the family behind the wall. We were the family where there was violence and abuse and the police were constantly being called. To hear someone writing this and have this sense of recognition that this happens to other people and I’m not alone in the world and hearing her voice and her writing and poetry made me feel I wasn’t alone.
And when I left home at 15, my sonic world exploded. There were all these endless possibilities. I’m a huge Staples Singers fan. John Prine, Lucinda Williams, Emmylou Harris, Taj Mahal (particularly Giant Step/De Old Folks at Home). And Mulatu Astatke, who I’ve been obsessively listening to over the pandemic. His music is expanding my understanding of melody and structure. It is ongoing. The influences never stop and I’m influenced by my brilliant peers as well.
Has your daughter listened to these songs with you? What do you want her to learn about you from the music?
She has listened to it. One of the hard things has been having to talk about abuse with my child. I think it is incredibly important. I think that by the time we start to do that in schools, it is often much too late for the children, including me. I’ll never forget in Grade 4, hearing the song, “My body’s nobody’s body but mine,” and for me that had not been my reality since I was 3. What I want her to know is that we are strong enough to live through hard things and come out the other side of it. I want her to know that she is strong enough, in whatever struggles she faces.
I want her to know that her stories are worth telling and her experiences are of value. She is an infinitely strong being and she is part of a whole long lineage of strong women. I want her to know that. And that she is loved so much and a huge part of why I strive to do anything or be any kind of good ancestor is because of her.
No BGS reader needs a rundown of Tony Rice’s biography or accomplishments. Earlier this month I chatted with Todd Phillips, Tony’s close friend and bassist across multiple groups (David Grisman Quintet, Bluegrass Album Band, Tony Rice Unit) from 1975 to 1985. During these years Tony used inspiration from mid-century jazz and musical peers, along with his innate willpower, as levers to crack open a stunning new guitar vocabulary. In doing so he rose from a bluegrass badass to a global force, operating well above tribes and vogues.
When Todd emerged in the 1970s, bass guitar was a cross-genre norm. A young upright player who melded Scott LaFaro’s gracefulness with J.D. Crowe’s timefeel was a fairly wonderful anomaly in bluegrass. I started working with Todd in 2014, and grew close with him fast. He brought something rare — a relaxed whiphand — to the feel onstage. In the van, he indulged my ceaseless fanboy questions about the old days. An equable ex-stoner with a mildly grumpy edge, he’s as adept at building an instrument or a chicken coop as analyzing acoustic riddles, and his long experience working with people as unalike as Joan Baez, David Grier, and Elvis Costello gives him a high perch from which to reflect. He reminisced fluidly about Tony over the phone with me for two hours, stopping only twice, once overwhelmed by emotion and once to get a bottle of tequila. (Read more from our conversation at my blog.)
Members of David Grisman Quintet, 1977. L-R: Tony Rice, Todd Phillips, David Grisman, Darol Anger. (Photo by Jon Sievert.)
Robbie Fulks: I listened back today to California Autumn and other records I hadn’t heard for ages, and heard little passages that sounded uncharacteristic of Tony. Did gestures come into his vocabulary, stay there for a while, and then fade off as he went to concentrate on another idea?
Todd Phillips: That’s true, yeah. He would go through cycles, get on a kick. He’d get on riffs, like hearing Billy Crystal: “You look marvelous.” He’d say that 40 times a day, and a year later, drop it for some other riff. The vocabulary would change, according to the era.
That’s fascinating, to compare it to a non-musical example. So let’s dive in, go back to the start. Tell me about meeting Tony — when, where, and how you guys got underway with the Grisman project.
I was a beginning mandolin player, and I was certainly in over my head, playing mandolin with David, but he’d never heard me play bass, which I’d played since I was a little kid. This was 1974, and Clarence White had died the year before. And we just thought, this is a good band, we don’t need a guitar — no one else could fill Clarence’s shoes, and he’d be the only guy that would work in this thing. Then David came home from a Bill Keith recording session and said, “I just met the guy that could do it.”
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Shortly after that, J.D. Crowe and the New South were on their way to Japan, and they stopped in San Francisco to play one gig. They hung with us for a couple days and… I had never hung with, um, that many guys from Kentucky all at once. [Laughs]
I’ve told you about that Mexican restaurant in Berkeley. The Californians — me, Darol, and David — and the Kentucky guys — J.D., Tony, Ricky, Jerry, and Bobby — were seated at one giant round table. First, Crowe ordered: “Six tacos and a Coke!” Then each New South guy ordered exactly the same. I guess they were used to the little three-inch tacos you can eat in two bites. So this big table ended up covered with plates full of giant tacos, surrounded by a pretty interesting mix of characters. I wish we had a photo. Polyester and tie-dye T-shirts all around.
After they came back from Japan, Tony gave J.D. his notice. He hooked up a little U-Haul trailer — clothes, suitcase, guitar, and stereo system — and got an apartment in Marin County. And we started rehearsing. At that point, we had what we had, but then Tony’s chemistry came into it. And it just catalyzed the whole thing. It was huge. Tony had to learn his harmony and a bunch of chords he hadn’t really played before — but we had to learn to play rhythm like J.D. Crowe. So we probably rehearsed for another six months before we went out and played our first shows.
Recording the first David Grisman Quintet album. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Tell me about the first gig.
Our first show was in Bolinas [in Marin County], in the community center. We made our own posters and put them up all over Bolinas, so it was sold out. And no sound system. We wanted people to hear us just like we rehearsed. There were probably 200 people there.
So small room, gather round, and somehow the guitar projected through.
We played with dynamics — if Tony was soloing, we shut ourselves up. We got down light and tight under him. Since we hadn’t played through a sound system, we just did what we did every day anyway.
The first on-the-road thing, not long after, was in Japan. Our show was a bluegrass quintet with Bill Keith and Richard Greene, followed by a set of DGQ. Then, as soon as we got back from Japan, we recorded the first quintet record. So it still had that energy. We were still excited to hear it, too, every time — it would raise the hair on our arms! It was kind of a… strong existence. Life felt — pumped up, you know?
First photo of David Grisman Quintet, 1975. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Close companions in an intense situation. A lot of people have been in a band or in the army. But on top of that, you guys were altering the course of music.
Yeah. Maybe it is a little like an army buddy. I was a cross between his bass player and his little brother. Also his babysitter, sometimes! He had left his old friends, and when he came to California, I seemed to be the guy he gravitated to. On off days, all of a sudden there’s a knock on the door at 10 a.m., and it’s Tony — “Hey man, let’s go the boardwalk, ride the roller coaster. Let’s go to the record store.” We went to the record store a million times. Came home with bags of records and stayed up all night listening — I mean, he taught me to listen close, whether playing music or just listening to records.
Any memories of the 1975 Grisman Rounder album sessions?
Tony was hilarious! We’d go out to eat, and he’d come back with a couple of cloth napkins. He’d fold one up and put it on his head, and put on sunglasses. Looking like a weird Quaker. And then drape another napkin over his left hand and go, “I don’t want anybody to steal any of my licks.” [Laughs] He’d leave that thing on his head, with the sunglasses, for like, three hours.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Have you heard guitarists who managed not to sound like Tony, in the years since?
Well, because Tony opened the door, after Clarence, you can’t help but sound like him as a bluegrass soloist. He found those avenues on a fingerboard that you can play with a strong attack and accurate, strong expression. A lot of it is mechanics. A D-28 with semi-high action, there are certain phrases that fall naturally under your fingers, and Tony found those. So I think a lot of guitarists use those avenues because — they’re there. You might hear different phrases but they’re not as strong. They might be more interesting, or more academically pleasing, but the effect — I haven’t heard it as strong as in those passages that Tony found.
Tell me about Manzanita.
There was no preparation that I remember. The guys came to Berkeley and we went to work. We ran a tune for 20 minutes, then recorded it maybe three to six times.
Béla Fleck said Tony didn’t like to rehearse much.
Yeah. Sink or swim.
David Grisman, Todd Phillips, Tony Rice (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Any road memories involving Tony?
He didn’t go out a lot. We went to Japan once, the three Rice brothers — Larry, Wyatt, Tony — and me. And Tony — maybe that’s when he started — he just never left his hotel room.
What was he doing in there?
Ordering room service. Later, traveling with the Unit, he’d stick to the room. I mean…he pretty much lived in front of his stereo, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. That’s what he thrived on.
How did you listen to music away from the home stereo back then?
In the early days, he drove a noisy Dodge Challenger. A muscle car, with a cassette player in the dashboard. We’d listen loud. And driving from Grisman’s house back to mine every night, it was pretty much all John Coltrane, the classic quartet.
Interesting!
Yeah, and later, a lot of Oscar Peterson. He’s like Tony: you recognize the phrases, and they’re strong as hell. Meticulous mechanics. Tony never studied music academically — but the sound of it. He took that in and it’d come out later somehow, the power and the attitude, more than specific notes or theory.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Did he have any relationship to the written page?
No. Not at all.
Tony cited Miles Davis and Eric Dolphy as favorites, but I don’t hear a strong kinship.
I think those were unique voices. Like Django, or Vassar.
Individualists.
I think that’s it. The attitude. He liked those kind of characters, like David Janssen — he really had an obsession with David Janssen. Or Lee Marvin.
Ha!
I’m not kidding! The Marlboro Man.
People that laid it down.
Exactly.
David Grisman Band in silhouette, 1976. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
I’m curious about the chemistry between Tony and other strong personalities. You’ve told me your take on the Skaggs-Rice dichotomy, the good and bad guys from everyone’s high school…
Yeah, Ricky would be class president and Tony would be Eddie Haskell. [Laughs] There’s a little of that, but musical respect bridges all gaps.
With David, did Tony slip easily into a sideman role?
The chemistry was — not volatile, but exciting. The New Jersey hippie and Mister Perfection. You know, when Tony was new to California, David’s living room was a real event. You never knew who you’d run into — Jethro Burns, Taj Mahal, Jerry Garcia. I think that excited Tony. He’d dig in his heels, just be who he is, and people respected that. He was…I guess I want to use the word “stubborn.” Clear-headed, with his vision.
Were cigarettes it for Tony, or were there harder things he liked to do?
No! He actually went light on the marijuana, compared to everyone else in Marin. He kinda puffed a little bit, just to participate.
Any whiskey?
No, he drank a few beers at home. I don’t remember any hard liquor at all.
New Year’s at Great American Music Hall, 1978-1979. (Photo by Jon Sievert.)
I read in The Guardianobit: “apprentice pipe fitter”…?!
Yeah! His dad was a welder, pipe fitter, and Tony and his brothers did that too.
What did he do to keep his fingers strong besides play?
Nothing. He bit his nails. He had no fingernails, and his fingertips looked like blocks of wood. Like the rounded end of a wooden dowel. The guy played a lot. He had hands that physically, mechanically, work in a different way. He could push down with his thumb, on his right hand, but also push up, with his first finger. You can look at YouTube and see it — a really strong muscular mechanism between thumb and index.
His down and upstrokes weren’t ascribed to the usual beats, weren’t automatized in the normal way — and were equally forceful.
Yeah. And rhythmically, a lot of triplet syncopation on the upstrokes. People just say “syncopation,” but technically it’s playing 3/4 against 4/4, like Elvin Jones’s drumming. You can’t tell if it’s in 3 or 6 or 4 or 2. It’s all of it. It’s all of it! And those subdivisions, I learned that from Tony — you slice that up in all kinds of ways, so those polyrhythms are all churning in your hands or head at the same time. That’s what generates good time, not tapping your foot. Tony had all those superimposed polyrhythms in him.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Bluegrassers work hard and live long, on the whole. And with so many players of your generation now in their 70s and performing as energetically as ever, Tony’s story looks more profoundly sad to me.
You know, I don’t know why Tony went the way he went. Why he couldn’t be as youthful as Sam Bush. Who knows, if there was some kind of a depression, or if that desire for perfection wore him out. You know? Because he did play with joy, but it was also that crazy obsession, to be perfect and accurate — maybe he was just too hard on himself.
He was hard on everybody around him. I know that I developed way more than I ever would have developed if I’d never known him. It was not that he was ever mean or harsh to me, but being around him, you put pressure on yourself to live up. I think everybody that played with him was like that. He jacked up the music to this level — and then it was your challenge to get up there with him. Being around him changed me forever.
Lede image by Heather Hafleigh. All photos provided by Todd Phillips and used by permission.
Summer approaches, the heat and humidity are here, at BGS South in Nashville the fireflies are alight every night, and it’s the perfect season for a porch swing reading session (if you can stand a little sweatin’).
The BGS archives will keep you stocked for just such an occasion! Each week, as we share our favorite longer, more in-depth articles, stories, and features to help you pass the time, we post our #longreadoftheday picks… yes, daily across our social media channels [on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram]. But of course, here’s the weekly round-up, too. Get your long reads wherever you like!
This week’s stories cast daylight, share wisdom, get toes tapping, revisit old memories, and much more.
An excellent long read for starting us out, with this one you’ll get a bit of fresh air and a whole lotta Daylight, Grace Potter’s most recent album, which was released last fall. Our interview explores the cinematic quality of the album, how Potter built her band post-Nocturnals, and little things too — like how bluegrass and southern California resonate within her. Grace Potter’s voice is commanding, on the stage or on the page. [Read the interview]
We debuted Tunesday Tuesday in January 2018 for a pretty simple reason. Roots music has a world-class stable of talented pickers, and unlike other more commercial genres, that talent is something of a prerequisite — especially in bluegrass! This short list-formatted Tunesday is a perfect long read/listen, and even though the IBMA Awards’ second-round ballot is now closed, you may need to do some studying for the final ballot still to come this summer! [Get listening]
Anyone who ever had the extreme good fortune of seeing Doc Watson perform live can easily recount their favorite moments remembered from his time on stage. Lucky for any of us who can’t get enough of those memories, Watson put so many of them down on recordings and live tapes. Stroll a bit back through the catalog of those live performances with BGS. [Read more]
And he understands it! The wisdom and storytelling gifted to us by blues innovator and legend Taj Mahal in this 2016 interview is not only perfect for a long read pick, but it was perfect for a #ThrowbackThursday, too. The voices and perspectives of our elders are vital as we struggle for a more just future, and our musical elders have plenty of insight to pass on, as well. [Read the whole interview]
In a little over a week our friends at Bluegrass Pride will hold their online Pride festival, Porch Pride, featuring performances by queer artists, musicians, and bands and their allies — such as Jake Blount, Tatiana Hargreaves, Cathy Fink & Marcy Marxer, and Molly Tuttle. In advance of the event, we spoke to Bluegrass Pride’s Executive Director, Kara Kundert, and artist Amythyst Kiah about Pride, roots music, and what to expect from the festival. [Read more]
Even for knowledgeable fans of folk music, the lineup of the Kauai Folk Festival offers plenty of artists to discover from Hawaii and beyond. Along with headliners like Taj Mahal’s Hula Blues Band and Peter Rowan’s My Aloha Bluegrass Band, the two-day roster also features Hawaiian music from Puka Asing, Wally Rita y Los Kauaianos, and more representing the diversity of Hawaiian traditional music.
With five stages running continuously, the lineup also includes Jonny Fritz, Blaine Sprouse, Ed Poullard, Reeb Williams & Caleb Klauder, Mike Bub, and many others. Meanwhile, Kauai Folk Workshops will offer instruction on guitar, fiddle, banjo, ukulele and mandolin, in addition to dance instructors teaching hula, square dance, swing, and two-step, and voice instructors teaching harmony singing, ballads, and Hawaiian song.
Festival director Matt Morelock fielded a few questions by email about the festival, slated for September 28-29 at the historic Grove Farm Museum in Lihue, on the southeast coast of Kauai.
BGS: What inspired the idea to create a folk festival in Kauai?
Morelock: For decades, Hawaiian music has stood on the periphery of the ‘folk’ genre. Its undeniable and indelible influence on all forms of American music deserves to be celebrated. We created the Kauai Folk Festival for such a celebration and invited all of our favorite performers, both local and continental, to sing, pick, dance, and meet one another in this tropical paradise.
When you are selecting artists, do you have a certain audience in mind? In other words, is there a common thread that runs through your lineup and/or your ticket holders?
We’ve attempted to represent the broadest swath of ‘folk’ music and musicians that we could find. From bluegrass to blues – from Cajun to country – we chose the best performers in as many genres as possible to illustrate the diversity of American folk music. The common thread is diversity. Artists were chosen for their enthusiasm and skill.
What have you learned about the process of booking festivals that has really surprised you?
We’ve learned that a worthwhile festival is one with a purpose. Hawaiian music and musicians are fighting against the expense and logistical complication of geographical separation as well as the mass perception of their music and culture as ‘foreign,’ when in truth Hawaiian music and culture is both a product of and strong influence on what we consider ‘American’ culture and music. We’ve learned that a higher purpose can confound the typical challenges that festivals face in finding an identity and audience.
For someone who has never been to Kauai, how would you describe it to them?
In addition to being GORGEOUS BEYOND BELIEF, Kauai is rural and cosmopolitan at the same time. There are more wild pigs than human beings living on this island. The natural beauty and local hospitality are legendary. You can book a hotel and rent a car here just like you can anywhere else in the U.S. Flights aren’t as expensive as you think. Beer is cheap. Fresh food and clean air are abundant. There’s really no reason NOT to visit!
In addition to interest from the locals, you will be hoping to attract people from the mainland as well. What are some of the amenities or unique qualities that will make this festival a destination event?
We’ve opted to keep festival admission affordable rather than spending time and resources on lodging and flight packages. We trust that Kauai Folk Festival attendees from the mainland won’t have trouble booking a flight, renting a car, and finding a hotel room. Kauai itself is a uniquity. The festival and the astounding Grove Farm Museum are an amenity. There’ll be a broad selection of spectacular local cuisine (plenty of accommodations for vegan/vegetarian/gluten-free diets), and extremely creative beverage and local juice options. We’re also ‘on call’ via www.kauaifolk.com to assist with any travel questions or complications!
What do you hope that attendees will take away from the Kauai Folk Festival experience?
We hope that Kauai Folk Festival fans will leave the event with a deeper understanding of the historical interconnectedness between Hawaiian culture and ‘mainland’ culture. In the production process, we are finding similarities and cross-influences on a daily basis!
I have long known that I am, at times, a highly emotional creature. I’m good with that and ever grateful I have the music to help sooth me through it. Folk music has always been a part of that balm and always had a quiet place in me. Although, over time, the definition of what folk music is has changed, depending in part on its popularity. For me, this is a beginning of some of my always and all-time favorite folk music. These tunes contain both comfort and melancholy — for me, two of the “absolute musts” to great folk songs by great artists. — Janiva Magness
Bob Dylan — “If You See Her, Say Hello”
How is it possible to not love this track? Besides, there is no one who can turn a phrase like Mr. Zimmerman. No one!
Blackie and the Rodeo Kings — “Brave”
Steven Fearing of B.A.R.K. has such a soulful voice and tone, then add Holly Cole’s vocal with him, and I find it a haunting tale of deep and abiding love born of infidelity. It is both comforting and stunning.
Joni Mitchell — “Both Sides Now”
An epic song written by a then very fresh Joni Mitchell with so much wisdom, it seemed impossible to come from such a young woman.
Joan Baez — “Diamonds and Rust”
This classic — and at the time controversial — track about Joan and one other very famous folk singer and their love affair remembered.
Gillian Welch — “Look at Miss Ohio”
Just love this song and, though it’s not one of Gillian’s most played tracks, I have worn this out at home, in the car, and everywhere. I love it because it’s about a beauty queen being herself behind the scenes, and doing wrong — grinnin’ all the while.
Taj Mahal — “Corinna”
I have loved this track since first laying my ears on it in the ’70s. Simple folk blues. It don’t get any better than Taj.
Ry Cooder — “That’s the Way Love Turned Out for Me”
A haunting song originally recorded by James Carr, I believe, and then adapted by Ry Cooder. I just love this version because of its fractured vulnerability.
Bonnie Raitt — “Love Has No Pride”
A song penned by Libby Titus and portrayed by Bonnie. Her early ’70s material is incomparable for me really. This tune is a heart broken in two and laying on the floor right in front of you.
Zachary Richard — “No French, No More”
A haunting and, as I understand it, true tale written by Zachary Richard about his upbringing as a young Acadian boy in the swamps and woods of Louisiana, where his native language was French but, once placed in public school, the children were forced to abandon their language and culture for English.
Bobbie Gentry — “Ode to Billie Joe”
A captivating tale of love gone wrong with two teenagers in the rural South. Bobbie Gentry’s painful and almost detached vocal track make it all the more mysterious
Jackson Browne — “My Opening Farewell”
One of the most beautiful and lonesome songs of all time to me. Love and grief. Nuff said.
Sometimes the future makes itself known in curious ways. Without the overarching scope of a narrative viewed from “The End” or the prescient understanding usually ascribed to mystics, however, it’s often hard to see in the moment. Comprehension follows chronologically. For Keb’ Mo’, scanning his life from the vantage point of the present, one such instance occurred during a Compton High School assembly in 1969. “When I was a kid in high school, I saw Taj Mahal,” he says. “He came and played. He didn’t talk to me. He didn’t even know I was there, but he showed up and played, and something happened.” Keb’ may not have known it at the time, but he got a glimpse of what lay ahead for him. “What I’ve learned over the years is that my work paid off to be in the presence of Taj Mahal and be in the game.”
He ascribes that early experience — hearing a musician on his way to becoming a legend — with helping him discover the value of showing up, of giving others your time and even sometimes simply your presence. (It’s a torch he’s carried by supporting a variety of music education programs, such as Playing for Change.) But beyond the importance of that philanthropic foundation, he came face-to-face (or perhaps more like ear-to-ear) with the musician he would one day play with, first on stage and now in the studio. “I’ve had moments on stage with him over the years, but we’re going in deep now,” Keb’ laughs.
He and Taj have partnered to release TajMo, a collection of covers and originals that take the blues as a starting point and move out, likes waves, to the other genres such waters touch. Classics like Sleepy John Estes’ “Diving Duck Blues” sit alongside John Mayer’s folksy-blues “Waiting on the World to Change” (replete with vocals from Bonnie Raitt) and the Who’s boisterous “Squeeze Box.” It’s a smorgasbord, as if Keb’ and Taj were hungry for all sorts of sounds and refused to curtail their diet. “The creative freedom to flow through and go different places — with and without the blues — was the note I took from him,” Keb’ says, summarizing what he learned. “That it’s okay to go. With this record, we knew we were going to do some breezy stuff, but it was also okay to go.”
Going places has long been Taj’s M.O. The prolific musician may have his foot firmly in blues, but he’s often wandered free from those constraints in order to find equally compelling cultural intersections. So, too, has Keb’. Known especially for his guitar playing — loosely relaxed yet robustly impassioned — he actively participated in Compton’s numerous music scenes, each of which added a component to his making. Where Taj wandered geographically, Taj wandered instrumentally. “I played French horn and I was the percussionist for the jazz band,” he says. “Everything was there for us to thrive and to become.”
It’s clear now how becoming, for Keb’, was always going to be a matter of finding the sounds first. It’s an inclination that remains with him to this day. When words don’t fully encompass what he’s feeling — if he isn’t entirely sure how to articulate a thought — he plucks his electric guitar. Such moments are quick, mere flashes in the pan that can be easily missed or mistaken for background noise, especially over the phone, but it happens often enough to see how a quiet A7 loosens the words necessary to make sense of the world.
The patience he brings to conversation can be seen in his work, as well. It’s a quality that helped him when it came to recording TajMo. The album took years. He recalls recording “Om Sweet Om” with friends during a party on New Year’s Day in 2015. “It was just magical,” he says about that session. “That album took a long time because we were tedious, and we were never in the same place at the same time for a lot of time. That gave me a lot of time to keep going in and listening to it, to really massage it. It gave me great perspective.” The two would exchange songs, deciding which to include, before Keb’ recorded them and sent them back. Then they’d get together to record the vocals, harmonies, and guitar overdubs.
The entire endeavor began with “Diving Duck Blues,” a song Mahal has covered often, both as a solo artist (including on his 1968 self-titled debut album) and with an array of musicians. “We did Crossroads [Guitar Festival] in 2012 at Madison Square Garden. Taj and I just sat down and did a version of ‘Diving Duck Blues’ and it made it onto YouTube.” When it came time to work on an album together, Keb’s wife knew exactly what they needed to do. “My wife, she said, ‘You gotta do ‘Diving Duck Blues’ on the record.’ She’s smart. So we went into the studio and recorded a version of that.” The version they came up with airs on the lighter side of the song’s despondent chorus. Thanks to a more relaxed and at times meandering rhythm, the two men edge away from bleak to find fresh perspective. Considering that the version Mahal included on his self-titled debut album falls closer to a feeling of prickly, wounded pride, their latest effort together suggests more than a touch of truth to that adage about wisdom blossoming with age.
The lengthy amount of time both musicians invested in TajMo, while working on other projects and touring independently, also meant that the world shifted around them as they neared release. “When we started making the record, all this stuff wasn’t going on,” Keb’ says about partisan politics and the country’s divisiveness. “And so to all of a sudden look at now and go, ‘Whoa,’ I’m so glad we finished it because in two months we’d be dead already.” A laugh follows his momentary apocalyptic thought. “I’m not happy about having Trump as president, but at least, if that was inevitable, then we got in some kind of divine flow to have a piece of art that can shed some light on a dark situation.” Mahal echoed that very sentiment when discussing his own music, “It gets me through all of this,” he says about music. “That’s why people like what I do, because it gets them through it.”
Where Taj is more likely to dive into a deep conversation about politics, race, and the state of things, Keb’ refrains from going too deep. Not because he doesn’t have opinions, but because he sees the benefit of approaching things from a different perspective. “Rather than speak out against an individual, I would rather speak out against divisiveness and spread more positive energy out there,” he says. That impetus explains why Keb’ and Taj decided to cover Mayer’s call for peace, “Waiting on the World to Change.” The song falls in line with other positive messages included on the album, such as “All Around the World” and “Soul.” It’s an idea that more and more R&B artists have been striving to include in their new releases, including Lee Fields and Aaron Neville: Take care of each other; take care of the world. Listening to “Soul,” it’s hard not to get swept up by the vision Keb’ and Taj put forth, listing off country after country to illustrate the soul connecting every living creature.
Rather than add to the country’s divisiveness, Keb’ wants his music to stimulate positivity. Get enough people in a room — like an audience — and he reckons music can shift anyone’s attitude. “It’s got to come from telling a bigger truth that’s sincere in your heart, that’s going to resonate,” he says. “If enough people are doing it — artists of all types, newscasters of all types, journalists of all types — we can raise the vibration of what we’re all going for.” But the work can’t come from any one person. What he and Taj have created and put out into the world is only one part of the larger need. “I can’t do it alone,” he admits, pointing back to TajMo. “That’s just a small piece in the overall narrative.”
February is Black History Month and, in celebration, we’ve been going through our archives and re-reading some of our favorite pieces about Black artists working in the roots community. Here are 10 of those stories:
Counsel of Elders: Taj Mahal on Understanding the World — The legendary bluesman shares his knowledge of African music and emotional intelligence in this 2016 interview. Read on to find out why, “If you don’t like my peaches, dont bother me,” are words to live by.
Music Maker Relief Foundation: Keeping the Blues Alive— North Carolina organization Music Maker is one of the most important resources for regional blues musicians hoping to get their music recognized. This interview with founder Timothy Duffy gives an overview of just how they do it. BONUS: Check out Music Maker’s new Black History Month podcast here.
Counsel of Elders: Bobby Rush on Staying Sexy — The title says it all: funky bluesman Bobby Rush offers a crash course in staying sexy, and discusses his newest album, Porcupine Meat.
A Conversation with Jamaal B. Sheats, Director of Fisk University’s Art Galleries — Nashville HBCU Fisk University is home to one of the South’s most impressive collections of visual arts, drawing largely from the personal collection of Georgia O’Keeffe herself. The gallery’s curator speaks about working with the collection, as well as the role of visual art in protest.
Sitch Sessions: Dom Flemons, “Going Down the Road Feeling Bad” — This session with Dom Flemons will forever be one of our favorites, with the former Carolina Chocolate Drop member reimagining one of our most beloved folk songs on a beautiful Portland day.
Lightning Bolt Writing: A Conversation with Yola Carter — Yola Carter is one of the most exciting young acts in roots music. In this interview, she discusses her quick rise to notoriety, a forthcoming debut album and institutional racism.
Son Little and the Truth of Absolutes — The Philadelphia blues artist discusses his musical breakthrough, working with Mavis Staples and the evolution of contemporary R&B in this 2015 interview.
Aaron Neville: Sharing Edifying Messages in a Dark Time — If musical styles were counted as lifetimes, then Aaron Neville has lived several. Known for his almost instantly recognizable falsetto, Neville has sung in all sorts of flavors throughout his 50-year career: doo wop, pop, gospel, country, soul, funk. You name it, he’s likely sung it.
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