Artist:Dallas Burrow Hometown: New Braunfels, TX Song: “River Town” Album:Blood Brothers Release Date: June 16, 2023 Label: Soundly Music
In Their Words: “The record kicks off with the true story of my youth in small town Texas; the leaving, and the coming back to start a family, all with an outlaw country back beat, dressed up with fiddle, organ, and electric guitar, and producer Jonathan Tyler singing harmonies. The hill country of the Lone Star State, and my hometown in particular, is a community that revolves around its rivers, lakes, and swimming holes, offering folks, and especially kids growing up there, an eternally timeless pastime. Even still, I have always been a bit of a free spirit, and as a young man I felt like the town wasn’t quite big enough for my taste. After getting in a little trouble, doing a lot of traveling, fast living, and soul searching, and finally meeting my wife and starting to settle down a little, in the end, I realized just what a beautiful area it was to live in after all, and the perfect place for us to raise a kid.” – Dallas Burrow
There is a crossroads of 1970s folk, blues, and nonconformity in Texas. Ask students of it about Rodney Crowell, and chances are, visions of a lean, baby-faced guitar picker belting out “Bluebird Wine” at Guy and Susanna Clark’s kitchen table flood their brains. It’s a scene from Heartworn Highways that is both wild and tender, captured when Crowell was just 25 years old. Today, that Houston kid is 72. He’s won Grammys, topped charts, pushed the musical and literary boundaries of songwriting, and continued to write and record, as friends and mentors passed away.
Produced by Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy, Crowell’s new album The Chicago Sessions is the latest evidence that Crowell isn’t just continuing: He keeps getting better. The 10-track collection was recorded live in Tweedy’s warehouse studio, perched atop a northwest Chicago building. Crowell had always wanted to record in Chicago. “That would be Chuck Berry, Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, John Prine, and Steve Goodman who have a lot to do with that,” Crowell says. “The Rolling Stones, as soon as they got to America, said, ‘Let me go to Chicago.’”
The ghosts and recordings that drew Crowell to Chicago did right by him. Surrounded by his own go-to players (guitarist Jedd Hughes, pianist Catherine Marx, and bassist Zachariah Hickman) plus two drummers of Tweedy’s choosing, Crowell sounds smooth, sly, and often downright happy. “It was liberating. I felt no pressure whatsoever,” he says. “If I’m producing myself, I’m wearing one too many hats. I’m helping everybody else and making sure I can make them get to where we’re all going, sometimes to my own detriment. But with a producer like Jeff Tweedy or Joe Henry, hey, I’m freed up. I’ll just play and sing.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m really good when I just play and sing.”
Gratitude and race, self-worth and religion, cynicism and hope: The songs on The Chicago Sessions cover ample ground without feeling disconnected.
A swampy shuffle, “Somebody Loves You” is a master class on cultural commentary and exposing shifty motivations. With subversive conviction on par with Tom Waits, Crowell implicitly questions people in power who shush the disenfranchised with assurances that somebody — in this case, Jesus — loves them.
There’s lead in the water, knees on your neck Son of your father, born to neglect Mind your own business, siren gone’ wail Make one false move brother wind up dead or in jail It’s been 400 years right down to the day Somebody loves you, least that’s what they say
“As a writer, I need the stakes to be high,” Crowell says. “I am hard on myself as a singer because I’ve heard Ray Charles, and I’ve heard Don Everly. I’ve heard Aretha Franklin. ‘Look, man,’ I say to myself: ‘You don’t have that voice. But you gotta deliver on what you got.’”
Crowell confesses that really, he didn’t care for his own voice much at all until he was about 50 years old. “I knew I was writing — I developed early as a songwriter,” he says. “But I wasn’t delivering at the level I wanted to deliver when I would record those songs. I stayed with it, and I outgrew it.”
But to the rest of us, Crowell’s voice is and always has been lovely: steady, expressive, and charged, like an electric orb capable of warm light or hot sparks. Another album standout, “Loving You Is the Only Way to Fly,” which Crowell co-wrote with Hughes and Sarah Buxton, is a pining love song, perfectly executed. The sweet keys and strings are timeless. Tweedy’s production throughout the record is exquisite. “Making Lovers Out of Friends,” another track off The Chicago Sessions, is a testament to the power of a great producer and a great song, reminiscent of Billy Sherrill’s work with Charlie Rich, both in sonic texture and achievement.
As a writer, Crowell doesn’t cut himself any slack as a protagonist. Over the years, he’s developed a habit of being hard on himself in lyrics — or perhaps, of seeing himself clearly and confessing self-perceived shortcomings. “Lucky,” a piano-driven song he wrote as a birthday gift for his wife Claudia, plays with a bit of exasperation: “Anyone with eyes could see, I’d had about enough of me.” The record’s sauntering blues track “Oh Miss Claudia” hits similar ideas.
But it’s not just songs written recently. The Chicago Sessions also includes Crowell’s self-penned “You’re Supposed to Be Feeling Good,” originally recorded by Emmylou Harris in 1977. Oscillating between stripped-down acoustic and groovy full-band swells, the song picks up the same self-deprecating themes: “You’re supposed to be in your prime / You’re not supposed to be wasting your time / Feeling like you’re down and out over someone like me.”
Crowell often credits friends or lovers with seeing the best in him or pulling him through tough times. “I know it seems like that, honestly,” Crowell says of being hard on himself, then laughs a little. “They deserve the credit.”
Crowell doles out credit when it comes to his craft, too. “Guy and Townes [Van Zandt] were right there at the beginning of my development,” he says. “Guy was a generous mentor, in a way — the way we talked about writing. Discussed it. Examined it. Townes was around intermittently because he was traveling a lot. When he was around, he was a bit jealous of my relationship with Guy. And rightfully so. He and Guy were tight friends before I ever came around.”
Then, Crowell sets the scene: “Did you ever see Don’t Look Back? Remember Bob Dylan and Donovan in the hotel room? Donovan plays this kind of sappy, folky, flowery song for Bob Dylan, and then Dylan picks up a guitar and sings, ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.’ He slaughters Donovan’s song with a masterful song. Well, I had that same experience with Townes, just in the privacy of the breakfast table at Guy’s house.”
Crowell pauses, then explains, “‘No Place to Fall’ is exactly what happened. I was sitting there, going on about something, and Townes said, ‘I’m going to play you a song.’ And it just crushed me.”
In a nod to his artistic education and one of the figures who delivered it, Crowell recorded “No Place to Fall” for The Chicago Sessions. “Listen, if Townes had not crushed me with ‘No Place to Fall,’ I wouldn’t have written ‘Till I Gain Control Again,’” Crowell says. “It was like, ‘Oh, that’s what it is. That’s what you aim for. If you don’t aim for that, you’re selling the whole deal short.’”
Crowell pondering where he’d be without Van Zandt’s lyrical gutting spurs a bigger question: Where would roots music be without Crowell? His sheer musicality, instincts, and determination to recognize greatness and then, instead of feeling defeated, aspiring to match it in his own way, has propelled an entire art form forward.
Widespread mainstream success — especially at the high levels Crowell has achieved — can lead to oversights of actual artistic achievement. While Crowell himself often describes his relationship to Van Zandt and Clark as one of student and teachers, over the last five decades, Crowell’s consistently brilliant output has proven he shouldn’t be framed solely as a disciple of songwriting giants, but as their peer.
Clark and Van Zandt were the sons of attorneys. Crowell was the son of a heavy drinking dive bar musician, born on the wrong side of the tracks. He comes from East Houston, historically an industrial sector, marked by factories and proximity to oil refineries. He’s never shied away from his past and people. “Houston, Wayside Drive — Avenue P, where my parents lived when I was born,” Crowell muses. “It always meant something to me.”
After a brief stint in college, Crowell sought knowledge on his own — perpetually. His lilting cadence and thoughtful care with language is like that of a professor, especially when he dissects music or history. His curiosity isn’t just intellectual, but spiritual, too. He explores and sings about acceptance and peace, especially when talking about friends, himself, or even people with whom he disagrees. The Chicago Sessions’ closer, “Ready to Move On,” is a meditation on balance, and Crowell’s pursuit of it.
“I’m sitting out here, listening to the wind go through the trees, thinking, ‘Wow, I live on top of this hill, surrounded by all this green. Man, how did I get here from East Houston?’” Crowell is talking about his home, just outside of Nashville. “The way I got here was, I fell in love with the sound of these songs, from my father singing them to me when I was a wee child. It makes me humble, in a way. God, I have gratitude for that. Whatever my sensibilities are that came through DNA from my parents that made me so attuned to the sounds that were coming at me, all the way through Merle Haggard, the Beatles, anything that moved me. It’s like, ‘Whoa, man. What a lucky break I got.’”
Artist:Jess Williamson Hometown: Austin, Texas; Los Angeles, California Song: “Chasing Spirits” Album:Time Ain’t Accidental Release Date: June 9, 2023 Label: Mexican Summer
In Their Words: “‘Chasing Spirits’ opens with a question: are my love songs lies now that the love is gone? You can write a deeply devotional love song about a partner and then one day break up. In that same vein, the title of this song has multiple interpretations. Chasing spirits can be a way of trying to connect with supernatural entities or one’s own higher self, and also, you order spirits at the bar or pick them up at the liquor store, maybe with a chaser.” — Jess Williamson
“‘Chasing Spirits’ was shot in Marfa, Texas, where Jess lives half the year, and the video features a lot of her real-life friends. The party in the Marfa Bus was real, shot in the trailer park where it currently sits. The video plays with some true-to-life elements, but in a hyper-stylized manner that feels fitting for a town like Marfa that has been so culturally mythologized, where real life and legend start to blur.” — Rocco & Giles, video directors
Artist:Charley Crockett Hometown: San Benito, Texas Song: “I’m Just a Clown (Billy Horton Sessions)” Album:The Man From Waco Redux Release Date: May 26, 2023 Label: Son of Davy/Thirty Tigers
In Their Words: “Listening back to Waco, I’d had an idea to do a part two in the style of Marty Robbins’ Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs or Johnny Cash Sings the Ballads of the True West. I guess I’ve always been turning in these Western folk ballads from the very start. I’ve always been a folk songwriter, and if your tune really holds up you oughta be able to present it with any kind of band or arrangement and have the story show through. On ‘I’m Just a Clown,’ it started out as a three-chord barroom honky-tonk number and then I went soul on it. Here we went and flipped it all around again using the same darker chords but in more of a late-‘60s folk color.” — Charley Crockett
Artist:Jake Ybarra Hometown: born in Harlingen, Texas; raised in Greenville, South Carolina; living in Nashville Song: “BloodFire” Album:Something in the Water Release Date: April 7, 2023 Label: Charlotte Avenue Entertainment
In Their Words: “I’m really happy with how the video for ‘BloodFire’ turned out. We tried a couple of different things but the big bonfire in tandem with the moonlight that evening just really brought the video together. We wanted the video to match the intensity of the song and I think we accomplished that goal. ‘BloodFire’ was really an exercise in writing to the music. I had a riff that I really liked and I heard it in my head as a driving rock and roll song. However I didn’t want to sacrifice storytelling in order to make the song work. I wanted to still tell a story but I wanted it to match the intensity of the music. So I ended up writing about this intense person who has maybe been hurt in the past and just isn’t going to take crap anymore. It was a fun song to write and a really fun one to play live.” — Jake Ybarra
Rattled by the 2016 election and its aftermath, singer-songwriter Iris DeMent did what folk singers are supposed to do: She picked up her pen. But it took until February 2023 for Workin’ on a World, her seventh album, to reach listeners — and it might not have happened at all if her stepdaughter Pieta Brown hadn’t intervened. Brown (whose father is DeMent’s husband, Greg Brown), had cowritten “I Won’t Ask You Why” and “The Sacred Now” with DeMent and knew several tracks had been recorded before the project hit a pandemic-induced pause. When Brown inquired about the album’s status, DeMent confessed she’d stalled out and given up.
Brown asked to hear what DeMent and co-producers Richard Bennett and Jim Rooney had recorded, then declared an album did, indeed, exist, and helped shepherd it to completion. Then she joined DeMent on tour, opening a series of dates that included a March stop in Austin at which DeMent introduced her new work to a sold-out audience — who were particularly amused when she sang “Goin’ Down to Sing in Texas,” an oh-so-sharp skewering of open-carry laws, male privilege, one-percenters, racism and “war criminals who get to walk around free/like that president who lied about WMD.” (The Chicks, who famously called out that president, earn her thanks).
DeMent boldly speaks her mind throughout Workin’ on a World, mixing indictments of oppression, greed and the cult of personality with praise for righteous “Warriors of Love.” She also ruminates on love and loss, and addresses God frequently — not surprising for the youngest of a 14-child family raised in the Pentecostal church. But instead of drearily lamenting a world in turmoil or patly claiming prayer is the answer, she strives to induce hope. When she sings “workin’ on a world I may never see,” she’s reminding activists to keep fighting for future generations.
Back home in Iowa several days after her performance, DeMent discussed the facets of a career that took flight 31 years ago with her debut album, Infamous Angel. Two Grammy nominations, one Americana Music Association Trailblazer Award and dozens of collaborations later, she still likes to let the mystery be, so to speak, when it comes to certain aspects of her songwriting process. But when it comes to inspirations and emotions, she spoke just as she does in her songs — with honesty and openness.
BGS: You’ve said this album came about because you wanted to cut yourself a path through the wilderness of despair. Was there any other sense of mission involved?
DeMent: Initially, it was just a level of despair that was not sustainable, and I had to apply myself to something constructive. Beyond that, it was like, I want to fix things. I care about people here; I care about my children, I care about your children, I care about the world. So I want to see it be improved. And I can’t think of a more useful way to spend my time. The best way I know how to do it is to write songs. Because I know from my own experience, songs can energize me and give me hope and confidence to go do my job. I feel like the best thing I can do is contribute to other people — whatever their job is, some inspiring music can help ’em get it done, as we know.
I went through a phase; I did a lot of political, local things — which is incredibly important, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t do both; I noticed that. They’re two different sides of the brain. And I was either doing the phone banks and all that business, or I was gonna be a writer/singer. At some point, that became clear to me. A few people helped me figure that out: “Iris, that’s your gift, stop underrating it and go.” So I just went back into the songs, and as a result, there’s this record. It would not have happened otherwise. I decided to go back to believing in the value of singing some songs.
Did you originally have a target date for an album, or were you just kind of hoping to do something and then Pieta said, “Here it is”?
I think when I was a lot younger and just coming out of the chute, I probably had targets then, because there’s kind of that thing when you’re young; you’ve got to get your ball rolling. I certainly felt that. I had a really intense sense of momentum and urgency, and I don’t think you’ve got to be a songwriter to have that; it’s a time in life thing, in my opinion. And I’m glad to have had that. It was its own, exciting, awesome, wonderful time. But that started shifting, and rather than fight with that, I accepted it. And I’m really glad I did, because I feel like my music’s gotten better; my singing has gotten better.
I feel like allowing myself to relax a little bit, to trust that the songs will evolve as they need to as long as I keep showing up often enough, in my opinion, has worked. A lot of people who talk to me are really focused on these gap periods and all, which to me are not gap periods. It’s the time it took, plain and simple. There’s a lot of records out there; there’s a lot of music. I’m not interested in taking up somebody’s heart and mind space unless I really feel like I have something to say that warrants that.
If I were thinking in terms of a career, I’d have put out a lot more records. Because I’ll build up an audience, then I won’t put out a record for six years. A handful of people stay with me and a lot of others drift off somewhere else. That’s how that works. If I’d even put out a mediocre record here and there, I think I would have kept a lot of folks. People, if they don’t hear from you, they forget about you, by and large. But I’ve been really fortunate that I’ve had enough people who haven’t that I can still go out and play.
I posted a picture from your show on social media, and so many people responded, it was an obvious indicator that they have not forgotten you. Your sold-out show was another. That must be heartening.
Oh, sure. When you feel like you’ve got something to say that you believe somebody needs to hear, it’s a wonderful feeling when that actually happens. I’ll admit it’d be discouraging if I went out there and the rooms were half full. That said, that has never stopped me before, and never will. I’ve always thought that way. I used to get this vision when I started out; I’d conjure up a desperate person, and I have a model in my mind of who this desperate person is, which I won’t get into. But I conjure a picture of them. They walk in, they sit on the back seat, and I’m singing to that person. Nobody knows them. Nobody knows their name. They’re gonna wander out that door, but they’re gonna take something from that room that they needed, and it’s my job to give it to ’em. Yeah, my feelings and my ego and all that stuff come into play, but I’ve gotten really good at overriding all that and thinking of the mission that I’m on and the job that I have to do that isn’t about numbers. It’s about hearts; individuals. I gotta go there with ’em and let the rest go. That rest of it is just not my business.
The list of albums and tracks you’ve contributed to is really astonishing, but you’re probably best known for your duets with John Prine. How did those tend to come about?
John wrote liner notes on my first record. I became acquainted with him through Jim Rooney, who was friends with John, long before I met John. And then when my first record came out, John asked me to go out and open for him, which, of course, I gladly did. Right up till the end, I would always do a couple of shows a year with him, at least. Did quite a lot of shows throughout the years prior to that. And one thing led to another. We got to record those duets together. I just loved John like crazy, and I think he loved me. Singing with him was its own unique thing that’ll never happen again, and I’ll miss that forever.
You cite quite a list of heroes on this album. Did you have to leave many out?
Always. There’s always people. “Warriors of Love,” I could have made it 10 verses long.
How did you choose?
Oh, I couldn’t even begin to explain that. It’s just, you’re sitting there trying to get somewhere and your gut says, “I think this is the direction to go.” Obviously, the people I chose are more universally known. And that helps because you don’t have to write, “here’s the history of this person,” so you can bring people up to speed. Most people are far less familiar with (pro-Palestinian activist) Rachel Corrie than (U.S. Sen.) John Lewis or Dr. King, so that was a little bit of a stretch. But I think I gave enough details to make that picture fairly clear. And there’s lots of information out there if people want to gather it.
With “The Cherry Orchard,” you’re continuing the Russian literature connection you made on your last album (2015’s The Trackless Woods, on which she set poet Anna Akhmatova’s translated words to music; the song is inspired by Anton Chekhov’s play). You’ve got a Russian-born daughter, and you seem relatively steeped in that culture. What drew you to it?
Our daughter was 5½ when we adopted her from Siberia. She’s almost 24 now. So we had a little Russian speaker in our house. There was a lot of mystery there; she had a lot of qualities that were clearly unique to her culture. I can still see them today. So I wanted to understand as much as I could, which is still very minimal; I’m not going to pretend. But I wanted to find a way into that world to the degree that I could. So that’s what I did. I did those Anna Akhmatova poems and took a couple of Russian literature classes. And I found that I love the Russian writers. I must have some sort of natural affinity for the world that made my daughter.
Have you ever seen Chekhov’s plays performed?
I saw Uncle Vanya in Chicago. I cried through the whole damned thing. My husband and my daughter were by my side; they were just looking at me, like, “Is Mom having a breakdown?” I had the same reaction to The Cherry Orchard. I was in my class, this university class with, like, 12 people; I could hardly sit in my chair. There’s just something about the merging of intense elements in so much of Russian life and literature that something in me relates to. I actually had a lot of that in my own family history. Intense drama, poverty, violence, you name it, the whole male-female dynamic, the hierarchies. There’s something in it that is very familiar to me. I’ve just connected with a lot of that literature. Like, just in my body, I mean.
At your show, Pieta said the songs on this album feel really important, and she’s right. They do. You tackle some big topics, and you’re not afraid to name names and focus on divisive issues. I loved hearing you sing “Goin’ Down to Sing in Texas” in Texas, but putting a song like that out in today’s world, do you worry about blowback?
No, I worry about what would happen if I stay quiet. I worry about what will happen if I don’t speak up about these things. I’ve crossed over to that. When I was younger and wrote about the Vietnam War on “Wasteland of the Free,” I wasn’t worried. But then I became the target of a fair amount of hatefulness, to put it mildly, and that was surprising to me. But I’ve got my eyes pretty wide open about what’s going on here now.
No, I don’t feel worried about that. I feel worried about the people who will be hurt if I stay silent. My takeaway from my upbringing and the teachings of Jesus … you’re supposed to care about something bigger than you and invest yourself in it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say, “Oh, I don’t have fear.” Of course I do. But I do feel like that’s what we’re called to do. There’s a power and a confidence and a peace that can come with that as well. I feel that.
A small, enthusiastic audience of first arrivals chat in excited, hushed tones as they listen to Hubby Jenkins soundcheck into a pair of Ear Trumpet Labs microphones in the ballroom at Fort Worth, Texas’s Southside Preservation Hall. It’s an unseasonably cool Saturday afternoon in March, with crystal blue skies and wispy clouds backgrounding the historic Fairmount-Southside district. Over the next nine hours, ten musical acts will grace the stage. Many of them are already in the room, contributing to the light buzz and chatter; this already feels like a generative space.
In its third year, the Fort Worth African American Roots Music Festival (known lovingly as FWAAMFest) has a very specific vision within the Americana/folk/old-time/bluegrass festival space: to highlight the depth and breadth of contemporary African American roots music and, by doing so, underscore the seminal, vital contributions of Black folks to every single roots genre in this country. Presented by Fort Worth-based non-profit Decolonizing the Music Room (who BGS has collaborated with on multiple occasions), the event carries forward the organization’s mission, explained artfully and succinctly by DTMR founder Brandi Waller-Pace as she kicks off the day introducing Hubby Jenkins: “To center Black, brown, Indigenous, and Asian voices in music and related fields.”
“There are so many eyes and ears on culture and the arts in Fort Worth,” she continues. “And I want Fort Worth to be at the forefront of the conversation…”
Hubby Jenkins began the day’s many conversations with a couple of banjo tunes, because, he admitted, “I’m a little nervous and [banjo tunes] make me feel cozy.” It was indeed a lovely, cozy easing into the day’s marathon lineup of music and presentations. During his set Jenkins picked guitar, banjo, bottleneck slide guitar, and played bones. And, he plays the festival’s first of many gospel numbers, “Jonah in the Wilderness,” inviting the audience to sing along, grounding his performance in the history of the Southside Preservation Hall space and these rootsy genres’ origins.
Kicking off the day with a gospel-filled set in a historic former church made so much sense, calling each of us as listeners to be active participants in the day’s festivities and also in its mission: to recenter these community-based musics on the folks who gave rise to each of them, reminding us we each have a role to play in telling a fuller, more just history of these musics.
Next up on the lineup is Justin Golden, who jokes that he and Hubby run into each other on gigs constantly and have the same repertoire, but from the outset his similar-seeming act couldn’t have felt more different. Working within the same vernacular and with such broad overlap, Golden and Jenkins are each still so distinct and unique – and illustrate the wide variety intrinsic to Black and African American roots musics, even within one form. Golden’s first number is an original, “I Hate When She Calls.”
He peppers older, classic Texas blues numbers – though he admits this is his first time in Texas – throughout heartfelt, poetic, and direct originals. His music’s foundation is fingerstyle blues, but with modern crispness, timeless touches, and a crystalline, focused singing voice.
Festival-runner and founder Brandi Waller-Pace stepped back on stage, this time as performer, for the next set of the day with songwriter, composer, and banjoist Kaïa Kater as the debut performance of their duo, Sable Sisters. They swap out banjos and guitars and a bass, singing folks songs and originals with nearly familial harmonies. A double clawhammer banjo cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Happier Than the Morning Sun” is their set’s highlight, with the legendary Justin Robinson’s guest appearance to play a set of old-time tunes ranking an honorable mention. Other festivals would be wise to consider booking Sable Sisters; if duo supergroups were a thing, this is one. Superduo? You get my meaning.
Between each set of music, as the stage was changed over, representatives from partner organizations, sponsors, and community leaders spoke to the audience, which slowly grew from a couple dozen into a small-but-mighty one to two hundred attendees. Tables in the lobby featured literature, information, and calls to action for DTMR, FWAAMFest, and these partner orgs – and from the back of the ballroom wafted the tantalizing aromas of Lil Boy Blue BBQ. (If only all music festival barbeque offerings were this legit.)
After Sable Sisters’ set concluded, the next event was a live podcast taping featuring a collaboration between Rissi Palmer, of Color Me Country Radio on Apple Music, and Garrett McQueen of Trilloquy Podcast. The conversation was titled “Redefining ‘Classic’” and featured Palmer, McQueen, and their FWAAMFest lineup-mates Jake Blount, Demeanor, Hubby Jenkins, and Dr. Angela Wellman. Palmer and McQueen took turns prompting their panelists to consider ideas around canon, genre lines, what terms like “classical” really mean, and so much more.
A theme that emerged throughout the taping was how often there aren’t hard, fast, concrete answers to these big, zoomed out questions about justice, representation, art, creation, space/placemaking, and community building. The panelists and hosts encouraged and challenged each other and themselves, reminding all of us that engaging in these kinds of conversations is part of the process and having the space – like FWAAMFest – to engage, build, and hold community like this is so important.
It’s not lost on myself or perhaps anyone else in attendance just how much gratitude each of these participants have at being enabled to be in this FWAAMFest space. Each of the performers and speakers, in their own way and in their own words, effortlessly carried the event’s mission with them as they brought themselves to the space, wholly and vulnerably and powerfully.
The podcast recording gear struck, rapper and banjo player Demeanor took the stage for his first ever full-band set – and it was revolutionary. During the Trilloquy x Color Me Country conversation Demeanor (given name Justin Harrington) stated so eloquently that “Rap is folk music, because hip-hop is an indigenous Black American art form… From the porch to the stoop.”
He and his band immediately and indelibly illustrated his point with an energized, powerful set based on sometimes spitfire, other times free flowing rap lyrics with poppy, sung verses and choruses. It’s lyrical, content rich, witty and sharp. Demeanor’s writing and production style are full of forward motion, punctuated by arena rock guitar and Wooten-like bass lines. While often centered on banjo, the five-string is not the only way roots music oozes from these songs. Their lyrics and hooks are sharp and the vocals are strong – his singing isn’t an afterthought or simply in service of a hook. Several songs were from an upcoming unreleased album, including one stand-out track said to feature Rhiannon Giddens (his aunt) and Charly Lowry.
The delight of Demeanor gave way to the delight of dance and musical dialogue, as longtime friends and jaw-dropping collaborators Jake Blount and Nic Gareiss took the stage. Blount began the set solo, accompanied starkly by low, droning synth sounds gently, languidly warbling through half tones as he sang, dirge-like, above the sound bed, commanding silence. Blount brings us back to gospel, again looking backward to look forward, and in just a couple numbers the droning synth gives way to droning fiddle.
Gareiss and his singular approach to percussive dance and traditional step-dancing injects energy and joy into the crowd, who’ve been listening and engaging for almost six hours now. Audience members are on their feet, often with phones out, disbelieving the stunning musicality of Blount and Gareiss together, sixteenth notes perfectly, bafflingly in sync.
Nic dancing to Jake’s fiddle recalls the interconnectedness of Irish step dance and Black percussive dance traditions. Where cultures, practices, and folkways overlapped at the lowest of classes in America’s urban centers, dance flourished and Irish step dance cross pollinated with Black movement traditions and Appalachian and southern steps. Over the past century and more, movement and roots music have often been compartmentalized, privatized, and sequestered from each other. Bringing them back together in this intentional way is not just a radical act given the identities represented – in this duo and in this day of programming – but simply by existing together, with intention, Blount’s and Gareiss’s talents underline what these musics were initially created to do, say, and be.
The vibe in the Southside Preservation Hall ballroom at this point was reaching “full blown party,” and when the first of the festival’s headliners, Tray Wellington Band, took the stage the energetic momentum was raised further still. For all intents and purposes a straight-ahead bluegrass band, Tray Wellington’s four-piece group demonstrated this IBMA Award winner has found his voice. His critically-acclaimed album Black Banjo certainly feels mature and fully-realized, but this was the first this writer had caught Wellington’s band since long before that record was released. The growth they’ve sustained, musically and as a unit, in the interim is remarkable. They execute chamber music level virtuosity, but with bluegrass bones. With Katelynn Bohn (bass), Josiah Nelson (mandolin), and Nick Fallon Weitzenfeld (guitar), Tray references Dawg, Béla, New Grass Revival and many more, but with an underpinning that feels as bluegrass as Appalachia – say Johnson City, TN, where he’s from.
They play a Kid Cudi cover, which is promised to be on an upcoming release, and the audience descends into mayhem as the melodic hook is slowly recognized in ripples throughout the crowd. Whether covering hip-hop or playing an old-time tune, these pickers demonstrate amazing soloing: modern, in-the-moment musical ideas without ego or self-absorption. And with Tray’s right hand anchoring all of the above, it reminds of Earl Scruggs in his Revue days – solidly bluegrass, but intimating musical ideas that come from so far afield, way beyond what we consider bluegrass territory.
Chambergrass, or whatever you want to call it, is seen as more “high-brow” or “intellectual” given its adjacency to conservatories and storied music schools, but this style of virtuosic playing is so well placed within the musical vocabularies of people from the region that birthed string band traditions. And in this context it can be executed with equal ease, aplomb, and athleticism, and with a much more grounded approach.
A quiet, slightly exhausted euphoria tingles through the stalwarts of the crowd who remain for Jackie Venson’s no-holds-barred FWAAMFest finale. Waller-Pace returns to the stage one final time to introduce the night’s last headliner, with her daughter Sparrow (who waits patiently to get her Jackie t-shirt signed at the end of the night.)
Venson is accompanied only by drummer Rodney Hydner – and her signature DJ sampler that allows her to play along with tracks, sound beds, background vocals, and play solos over loops. Even with just a two-person act, her trademark joy immediately washes over the entire room and re-energizes the crowd. Venson’s songs are soaring, anthemic, and huge, matched only by her broad grin as she smirks and laughs at herself and her own playing like it’s an inside joke.
Perhaps the best guitarist of her generation, certainly the best rock-blues guitarist of the past thirty years, the internet is in a four to six week feedback loop of discovering and rediscovering Venson’s playing at the moment, with her Tweets and TikToks seemingly going wildly viral about once a month. She’s been retweeted and signal boosted by a who’s who of Twitter personalities and musicians, and it’s all because hers is a singular voice, perspective, and skill.
Watching her improvise over each song recalls Nic Gareiss’s dancing from earlier in the evening. When you’re watching something so visceral and in the moment, you can’t help but inhabit that moment with them. And many of us do inhabit these moments with Venson by moving, standing, dancing, reveling in the ever-present joy of her music.
Venson’s brand of modern blues is unconcerned with divorcing itself from the blues of the past (and of the present) that some feel is stoic, stuffy or dusty, and out of step with modernity. Her brand of blues, no matter how distant it has traveled from its roots, still honors the sounds of old-time and ragtime and down home blues, because it knows where it came from and to what it’s connected. Venson’s connections to Texas and Austin further reinforce this point – and help place Venson and her style of playing squarely within “guitar culture,” too.
At one point during her performance Venson marveled at how the FWAAMFest gathering was, in her words, “Pretty legendary!! You’re going to be talking about this in 10 years, telling people you saw everybody on this lineup here today.”
It was a feeling that began creeping up much earlier in the festival, that what we were present for wasn’t just a community music festival, it was so much more.
Black, Brown, Indigenous, Asian, and Disabled folks – artists and creators and movers and musicians – continue to offer and model ways to hold the past within ourselves while looking ahead to the future, a duality that modernity and westernism struggles to acknowledge or inhabit. What’s striking about this conglomeration of creators and musicmakers on this lineup at this festival is that they make it look easy. It seems effortless to understand, uplift, and uphold a mission like FWAAMFest’s. Partly because the participants all are stakeholders in that mission to begin with! With their music, their insights, and their storytelling these musicians and thinkers demonstrate the past is the future and the future is the past. Roots music – the kinds that center the experiences, stories, and seminal contributions of Black, Brown, and Indigenous folks – can spotlight and move through this dichotomy better than so many art forms, while remaining grounded firmly in the present.
FWAAMFest’s success wasn’t simply because it’s a festival with a novel, substantive mission. It was a soaring, generative, forward-looking success because it focuses on what “the mainstream” perceives as a niche within a niche within a niche – African American roots music – and shows all of the possibilities, all of the many universes of artistic expression endemic to such a niche. The specificity here is not prohibitive or exclusive, it’s unfailingly, infinitely expansive. In sound, genre, content, tradition, and beyond.
As Jackie Venson said, we all will still be talking about 2023’s Fort Worth African American Roots Music Festival for many years into the future.
Editor’s note: Follow Decolonizing the Music Room on social media to catch footage from FWAAMFest 2023 as it’s released and make sure to DONATE to support their mission and future FWAAMFests!
Artist:Matthew Logan Vasquez (of Delta Spirit) Hometown: Austin, Texas Song: “Odysseus” Album:As All Get Out Release Date: April 7, 2023 Label: Nine Mile Records
In Their Words: “I wrote ‘Odysseus’ while I was stranded in Vermont, unable to get to my son’s birthday party. I used the story of Odysseus to parallel that sense of longing. When we made the video, things got a bit deeper for me personally. I’m depicted drinking in a bar while my son is fantasizing about me being there with him — I had lived that scenario out far too many times, I was completely helpless. I’ve been sober now from drugs and alcohol for four years. With the help of my higher power, my wife, and the 12 steps, I chose life with my family. Becoming a dad has been the most purposeful thing I’ve done or will do in my life. I don’t want to miss any more amazing moments. I’m so grateful to be here.” — Matthew Logan Vasquez
Even with more than a dozen releases that have accumulated over 400 million streams, The Band of Heathens are adamant that their best work still lies ahead, and with their latest album Simple Things it’s easy to see why.
Split between Austin, Texas, and Asheville, North Carolina, band members Ed Jurdi and Gordy Quist turned the pitfalls of a crippling pandemic into ten of their most hopeful and inspiring songs yet for Simple Things, released on their own BOH Records. They sing about everything from not letting the bad times beat you down (“Don’t Let the Darkness”) to an appreciation for the little things in life (“Simple Things”), hanging on when nothing seems to be going in your favor (“Heartless Year”) and the importance of family (“All That Remains”), all the while helping to chart a better path forward for themselves and society as a whole as we navigate a new normal.
The group’s sustained success for nearly 20 years is even more significant considering the Band of Heathens have operated independent of a record label the entire time. Without anyone pulling the strings and dictating what they do behind the scenes, the group has been able to focus on creating the music they want on their own terms, ultimately thriving in the process.
Speaking on Zoom from Austin, Jurdi and Quist spoke with BGS about the band’s recipe for success, the inspiration behind the new songs, and how bluegrass influences their music.
BGS: Tell me about how your “Remote Transmissions” live streams and ensuing “Good Time Supper Club” Patreon community have helped to grow your fans and spark your own creativity?
Quist: The Patreon is an extension of what we did during the pandemic when we began a weekly livestream over Facebook. We were all spread out in different cities at the time and couldn’t play music together so we made what we could out of the situation. We did everything from individually trading songs to trading verses on the same song, reading Shakespeare and even fitting in Grateful Dead segments. It became this strange variety show that we did every Tuesday night for 52 weeks. Through it we discovered an amazing community online who looked forward to the show every week, so when touring began to pick back up we moved the show to Patreon where we continue to host weekly chats, live streams, give early access to new songs — including many on the new record — and other behind-the-scenes looks from our creative lives.
Jurdi: The pandemic really forced us to improvise in a way we never had before. The irony with the online variety show we were doing was that it’s the closest thing we’ve done in a while to the origins of the band when we had a weekly residency in Austin. Those shows were almost entirely improvised, so returning to that was a very cathartic and full circle experience.
Given the community and successful careers you’ve built up over the past two decades, what advice would you give other independent artists trying to make it in the age of streaming and social media?
Quist: We started out right as labels were beginning to lose their grip on the power structure and being gatekeepers of distribution, but we were never a part of that system. That made being independent out of necessity to begin with. We ended up being offered a record deal on our second album but were wary of becoming indentured servants to some corporation for potentially our entire careers. We turned it down and used the opportunity to instead double down on ourselves, always looking out for new technology and investing in things that further allowed for us to make music on our own terms. We weren’t afraid of streaming and we weren’t afraid of downloads, we embraced it all.
Jurdi: The idea is to be creative making music and to build a community that you can always come back to which, in a strange way, is more accessible than it ever has been due to the technology now at our disposal. At the same time I think more work goes into it than ever before, not just in making music but promotion and all the other aspects of operating a business.
One of my favorite songs on the new record is “Stormy Weather,” which I saw [Ed] play solo during the day party for Warren Haynes’ Christmas Jam last December in Asheville, as well as with the full band on CBS This Morning. Can you tell me a bit about the song and how it came to be?
Jurdi: That’s a song we’d worked out a while back for another record that didn’t end up making the cut. There’s always a million reasons why that happens, but the song itself was always one that I really liked due to its imagery and overall theme. In a weird way it’s almost like the band’s theme song. It really represents our spirit, our struggles, being able to overcome the obstacles put in our path and, in some capacity, triumphing over them. Whenever we got to work on this new record, that song crept back into my head. We ended up taking the bones of it and putting a new arrangement on it that helped to change the feel and give the song a new look. Within five minutes of reworking it we knew we were onto something.
Are there any other songs on Simple Things that you reworked or had in your back pocket for a while?
Quist: Nope, “Stormy Weather” was the only older tune. Even it’s so far from where it once was that it’s practically new, too. Everything else was freshly written for this record.
As for the rest of the songs, this is very much a pandemic record. Can you describe the band’s emotions when getting back into the studio to work on these songs after being away from each other for so long?
Quist: It was joyful to be back playing rock ‘n’ roll together again. The inspiration for the songs largely came from that feeling when something gets taken from you how it makes you appreciate it a whole lot more. Throughout the record you can definitely feel the excitement in the room. There was very little analysis and thinking going on and a whole lot more inspiration and playing.
Jurdi: For us art has always been cathartic. Gordy and I are both optimists, always looking toward the future, but at the same time there’s no concept of the future without first being very present in the moment you are experiencing now. For example, the first verse of “Don’t Let the Darkness” talks about all this stuff that’s gone on in the past that you can’t do anything about other than putting your best foot forward, showing up and being available now. The most magical moments that have ever happened to me have come when I’ve been open and available to that.
In terms of your music, how would you say that bluegrass impacts your creative perspective, if at all?
Jurdi: The foundation of The Band of Heathens explores the roots of American music while aiming to carve out our own voice within it, and bluegrass certainly plays a part in that. You can hear it on “Single in the Same Summer,” which is a very acoustically driven song with a string band-like melody. How it sounds on the record doesn’t have a huge bluegrass feel to it, but the melody and roots of it absolutely do. It’s reminiscent of the mountain music of Appalachia. Living in Asheville the past ten years or so it’s seeped its way into everything. It’s the indigenous music of the region.
Quist: The improvisational nature of the band when we play live has been informed by bluegrass along with blues, jazz and country. That spirit is definitely something that is part of our live approach to playing in terms of taking solos and trying to say something on your instrument as well as within a song.
What kind of challenges or opportunities have come from a decade of being split between Austin and Asheville, two very music-forward cities in different corners of the country?
Jurdi: In a weird way I think the distance has actually helped in terms of appreciating the time we do have together to the best of our ability. Sometimes things that might be perceived as a weakness or a disadvantage can be turned into a strength. In our case we’ve found a really good way to make it work and have grown closer because of it.
Artist:Summer Dean Hometown: Fort Worth, Texas Song: “The Biggest Life Worth Living Is The Small” Album:The Biggest Life (produced by Bruce Robison) Release Date: June 16, 2023 Label: The Next Waltz
In Their Words: “This little song was inspired by the advice that Gus tells Lori in McMurtry’s masterpiece, Lonesome Dove. I mean, we’d all be just a little bit happier sometimes if we’d just stop to smell the biscuits. I really liked this song when I wrote it. Then Bruce and the gang got ahold of it in the studio and now it’s one of my favorites. I’m very proud of myself and this record. It’s the most real and vulnerable I’ve ever been with my writing.” — Summer Dean
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