Artist:Noeline Hofmann Hometown: Bow Island, Alberta, Canada Latest Album:Purple Gas EP
What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?
It’s nearly impossible to narrow down, but one of my favorite memories from the stage happened this October while on tour with Colter Wall. For the better part of the tour, Corb Lund – a fellow Western Canadian (like Colter and I) – was also on the road with us. I grew up listening to Corb on the radio back home and later discovered Colter as a teenager. Their songwriting resonated with and influenced me deeply as a young writer and continues to today.
Colter kindly invited us to join him in singing “Summer Wages” by Albertan cowboy legend, Ian Tyson, for his encore during tour. The first night that Corb joined us on stage, he took me by the arm for a two-step during the instrumental – much to mine and the crowd’s surprise. (Sorry about scuffing up your boots with my two left feet, Corb.) It was such a wonderful, full circle moment to be on stage beside two artists from home who had such a huge impact on me and singing a song together by a late legend from home who has impacted all of us.
Further, Patrick Lyons, the producer of my EP, Purple Gas, plays guitar in Colter’s band. Another reason that made these memories of singing “Summer Wages” special was it being the first time(s) I was lucky enough to share a stage with Pat as well as all of the other boys in the band, who I’ve come to know and love not only as musicians, but as friends.
Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?
I love to spend time out on the prairie. It has an understated beauty that with every passing year becomes more and more striking to me. It is unforgiving. Seemingly never-ending. In tune and knowing. It’s seen my own blood, sweat, and tears and that of generations of people that I love, alike. I’ve never felt closer to God than I have out there, all alone. Being raised in a prairie town, around prairie people, the landscape and all that results due in part to it, has defined my life experience thus far in an immeasurable way – and consequently, impacted my work just as deeply.
What’s the most difficult creative transformation you’ve ever undertaken?
While I’ve been feeling incredibly inspired to write in the wake of releasing my first recording project, I think I am simultaneously in the midst of one of the most difficult creative transformations I’ve faced so far.
All of the songs on my debut EP were written during a very different time in my life; before I’d ever been on tour, or set foot in a studio, or before the music industry began revealing itself to me behind the thick veil of mystery that once clouded it from my gaze. I was working blue- and pink-collar jobs such as bartending and doing farm labor before eventually putting all of my cards on the table and giving a career in music an all-or-nothing go, starting with the regional music scene in Alberta. Those years, age 18 to 20, were raw and electric, reckless, trial by fire. I was full of piss and vinegar, stubbornly tuning out the expectations others had of me and striking out into the world for the very first times to try forging a path towards something more for myself in life. I confronted some shocking losses and also experienced those first great formative loves you do at that age. Environments and emotions that are natural recipes for songs.
My day-to-day life has pulled a complete 180 since those songs were written. I have a lot of writing to do from my new pair of boots. I haven’t been able to take them for many test drives behind the pencil while on tour this spring and summer and am waiting with bated breath for the winter, when I’ll get to sit down and really dig into writing and processing the last year. It’s in my nature to always want to step above the bar I last set for myself – it’s as nerve-wracking as it is exciting to be starting to write for the next project. Especially now that most of the surroundings and life circumstances that inspired the songs on my first project are no longer part of my daily life on the road and there is now a recorded precedent set that didn’t exist at the time I wrote the songs on my first body of work.
What is a genre, album, artist, musician, or song that you adore that would surprise people?
“Good Luck, Babe!” by Chappell Roan (of course!)
If you didn’t work in music, what would you do instead?
I would probably be a ranch hand. Ranching is humbling, creative, and requires your all – mind, body, and soul. You have to live and breathe it. I can’t do anything halfway. For two jobs that, on the outside, look as though they couldn’t be any more different from each other, I’ve found a surprising number of parallels between my experiences working on a ranch to working as an artist.
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In the catalog lore of Gillian Welch & David Rawlings, it’s April 14 that’s known as “Ruination Day”— the historically resonant date marking the “Black Sunday” of the Dust Bowl, the Titanic’s sinking, and the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Themes of hard times and disaster have long floated throughout the duo’s music, but they found themselves facing catastrophe with new urgency on March 2, 2020, when a tornado laid waste to their Woodland Studios in their home city of Nashville.
That studio, which the duo took over in 2001, has the unusual distinction of being hit by three separate tornadoes over the years: it’s an unassuming icon of ruination and revival that’s withstood decades of change in personnel, technology, and weather. It became foundation and the namesake for August’s Woodland, a collection of new, original material from Welch and Rawlings after two deliciously deep archival releases and a set of covers titled All the Good Times (Are Past & Gone).
Having rescued their tapes, guitars, and other equipment from calamity, throughout 2020 Rawlings and Welch set about rebuilding Woodland around its original mid-century imprint. The creation of the record and the reconstruction of the studio became two spiritually intertwined processes, the rooms rechristened with songs that excavate the nature of change; Rawlings wrote violin, cello, and viola parts that friends laid to tape in the room he’d restored to its 1960s-era use for recording strings.
Even with the substantial building project, the extended pandemic circumstances offered ample time for writing new material together and the duo amassed dozens more tunes than they could ever release as one record. They ruminated on making a double album for a while. “We had so many songs kicking around because we didn’t want anyone to feel shortchanged if we were both singing,” Welch says.
A single-album concept instead snapped into place around “Empty Trainload of Sky,” which opens Woodland with Welch’s reflections on an unsettling optical illusion. The two tussle with loss and weariness across the record, gesturing at questions of how to keep moving through life’s seasons without hammering into any hard answers. Woodland feels like a statement of renewal and endurance from Welch and Rawlings, the sort of subtle roll forward that’s set them apart from other songwriters for so many years. The musicians spoke with BGS about their new material, old ideas, and what they still feel like they have left to do.
Prior to Woodland, the two of you had spent a lot of time working with your archival material for the Boots releases in 2020. What was the relationship you had between spending so much time working with this older material and then focusing your attention on a new record?
Gillian Welch: Not to put the Lost Songs stuff down, because I’m really happy that we, one, saved it from the tornado, and two, at that point, decided, “Why did we save this? Do we think it has value?” We decided yes, so we put it out. We haven’t given people a lot of opportunities to connect the dots between our albums. Years tend to go by, and I don’t know if they think we’re just on vacation or what, but we’re always writing. I’m happy that stuff’s in the world now.
I still stand behind our decision to not make an album out of that stuff. We’re really album-oriented artists,and if we can’t find a narrative that at least we understand, then it’s not an album. Sometimes people will put out a record and four or five years later, maybe they’re playing one song off it, maybe two. Traditionally, if we put it out, we’ll keep playing it, so we really have to like the song a lot.
So, did that archival material influence this record? Honestly? No. It just reinforced our yardstick, the filter we have in place, like, are we making a record? And the answer for all those lost songs was, “No, we’re not making a record.”
David Rawlings: We were working on some of the songs in late 2020, early 2021, but in general, they are not close in my mind. A lot of the stuff either took more final shape afterwards, or a few of the songs were kind of in shape before. But boy, working on those 50 songs was an awful lot and didn’t leave a lot of space for other things around it. It was really important, because that was one of the first things I was able to do here at the studio as I started to bring it back to life, post-tornado.
You’ve talked about having enough material to make a double album, how did you narrow everything down to the 10 songs that made the cut? What did you feel held these together?
GW: They seemed, in a way, to address the present moment. They were the most clearly about now and because of that, they seem to all fit together. Even though there’s plenty of contradiction within the album, there are these crazy undercurrents of loss, destruction, resurrection and perseverance; sadness, joy, emptiness, and fullness. It’s ripe with contrast. That’s just how we were feeling.
DR: There were different ideas, but I didn’t realize there was that large of a group, that there was the collection of 10 songs that felt like they amplified each other. I think all of the records that we’ve made that feel the best to me, one song sort of affects the way you think of the next and the whole album has a feeling that you’re not going to get if you just listen to your three favorites. I think that that feeling is heavier, or better. That, to me, is the benchmark of what you’re aiming for when you’re trying to make a record. One hopes that these other songs – one that you love for this reason, or that reason – that they eventually fall into some group like that. Or maybe we just start putting out singles.
Gillian, to what extent did everything you went through with the tornado recovery change your relationship with the natural world?
GW: I’m not sure that it did. I’ve always been really comfortable with the fact that there are things larger than us that are out of our control. It’s always sort of been a great relief to me, because I try so hard to navigate and control the things I can. Dave and I are such perfectionists. I don’t know how else to put it, except that it’s a great relief to just give it up for the things that are completely beyond your control. So I don’t worry about it really. The weather is going to be what it’s going to be. Woodland’s been hit by three tornadoes. Every tornado that’s come through Nashville has hit Woodland, but it’s still there. So I think I’m just not going to worry about it.
How do you feel like you both still challenge each other?
DR: Well, I think it’s the same as it ever was. If there’s something that doesn’t hit one of us right about something we’ve written or played, we will eventually come into agreement about that. I think we have a kind of way of taking what the other does, seeing what’s good about it and what isn’t. And that kind of ping ponging back and forth with thoughts, ideas, structures, and everything is what leads us to the stuff that we end up liking the best, and, more importantly, that other people respond to the most.
GW: I think we’re both still completely committed to trying to write better songs. It’s really interesting, because decades go by –we’ve played so many shows, and your voice changes. It just happens with the miles and it doesn’t have to be for the worst. There are things we can do now that we couldn’t do when we were kids, and certainly there are things that we can’t do now that we did in our early 20s. But I’m just so glad that there’s still a lot to explore. Musically, topically – I definitely don’t feel stale or tired of this. I feel like we both have a crazy sense of adventure.
What are some of those things that you feel like you can do now that you couldn’t do when you were younger artists?
GW: I feel like I’m able to listen while we play now, in a more elevated way. I can both listen to the smallest nuances of what I’m playing and singing and I can listen to what Dave’s playing and singing. I can make all these micro-adjustments to our four instruments, but at the same time, I can hear the sum of what we’re doing. I can also just listen to the whole sound and adjust for the whole thing. I’m not sure I used to be able to do that, or it didn’t occur to me to do it.
It sounds like a mixing board of the mind.
GW: Yeah, it’s like that! There are things that I admire so much in other musicians and sometimes I can see little echoes of that stuff that I like in our music, that we’re now able to do.
Whatever happens, at the end of the day, Dave and I are always pretty confident in, “Well, we did our best.” We really don’t slack off. If we missed the mark, whatever. You’ve just got to say, “We really tried.” It’s very exciting to feel like we’re getting closer to the music that inspired us to do this in the first place. We have a couple songs that I know came from my deep love of Jerry Garcia’s music and the Grateful Dead.
Sometimes, when we’re sitting playing in the living room, we’ll hit a passage and I’ll think, “Oh boy, Jerry really would have liked that.” That’s a good feeling, and that’s always been a great motivator – to try to do stuff that you think your idols would approve of. “Barroom Girls” got written because I thought Townes [Van Zandt] would like it. He was showing up at our gigs and stuff, and so I wanted to write a song that I thought Townes would like.
David, when Nashville Obsolete came out, you talked about this idea of keeping a place for old ways of doing things when the rest of the world has kind of pushed them aside. The last few years have had so much change, so fast – how has that idea developed for you?
DR: All of this equipment [in Woodland], almost none of it is new. It’s all the same stuff. It’s taking it a step further and maybe optimizing it for our own purposes. We’re still cutting on two-inch tape, mixing to quarter inch tape, and going through all analog equipment. The final step of going digital is the very last thing that happens. It’s not a museum, in the sense that I use a computer system – we’ve designed a bunch of DTMF code and different relays and stuff to run a lot of the equipment that we’re using. I will use modern technology in any way that I can that doesn’t touch the audio, in order to have things reset to where they are, or to have the lacquers cut with a particular precision. I will design whatever I need to in that department.
So, the goal is never for it to be a museum. The goal is always, how can you make the best sounding art? How can you do any of the stuff as well as you can? It feels the same with songwriting and music. There are modern songs that I admire so much, that you look and go, “How is that put together?” There’s stuff that goes back to the dawn of recorded music, from the late ’20s and ’30s that I think the same thing of. You just look around and cast your net at what moves you and what touches you, and then try to use those things as a jumping off place to contribute yourself.
At this point in your career, what do you still want to do that you haven’t gotten to do yet?
GW: I could say something quippy, like I still want to write a song as good as “Me and Bobby McGee” or “Like a Rolling Stone” or “Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain.” I still want to write a song that people will be singing for a long time. I still keep trying to do good work. Each song that we write is something that hasn’t existed before. So each time we start a song, I want to fulfill that inspiration.
So, you know, it’s like breadcrumbs— “Oh, I haven’t done that,” and you take another little step forward. Where will it ultimately lead? I have no idea. I’m sort of inching forward. Dave and I have never really had a grand plan. We just keep wanting to make music, so that’s what we do.
DR: I just always think that I want to get good at this. I really love the process of writing and performing in front of people, and have since the very first time I was able to get up on stage and play guitar. That was winning the lottery. When we started writing our own material and having people respond to it, there’s nothing really better. It’s a question of longevity, how long can we keep doing things and keep thinking of things that people feel are meaningful in their lives? How long can we stay relevant?
I don’t think that I’ll ever have a feeling of arrival. It’s all pushing forward. How can I play guitar better? How can we write better songs? How can I sing better? How can we record things better? It’s the learning that’s fun, it’s not even necessarily about getting better. It’s about wanting to explore and the pleasure in that process and the doing of it. I’m not real goal-oriented, there’s never been a statue I wanted to win. We’ve gotten some lifetime achievement awards over the past few years, and I’m like, “Are you kidding? We’re just starting to do this! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” It’s not memoir time, and it never will be.
Forget the information age, we live in the age of hyper-stimulation. There seems to be less space to think – or to feel – than at any other point in human history, and music is not immune to that more-of-everything-all-at-once trap. But Andrew Combs’ sixth album Dream Pictures is your chance to take a break.
An acclaimed singer-songwriter with over a decade of work bridging country, folk, and pop songcraft, Combs is all too familiar with life on the run. He spent years trading his health and sanity for the precarious life of a traveling musician, but lately he’s been on a different program.
Born from quiet evenings of creative refuge, secluded in his garage after the kids went to bed, Dream Pictures finds Combs getting off the artistic treadmill and focusing on a sustainable life – one that includes a family and creative outlets not tied to a marketing calendar.
The result is a calming, relaxed fusion of roots pop and electronic folk, full of confessional character sketches and golden-hour contemplations that may require some slowing down to appreciate – but are well worth the effort. Basically, it’s the opposite of TikTok, and Combs spent one peaceful morning chatting with BGS about where it all came from.
It’s been about a dozen years since your debut album – how are you feeling about creativity as a job these days?
Andrew Combs: I feel more at ease and more creative and productive than I really ever have and I think that probably has a lot to do with just my schedule and having kids. I have no time to just sit around, so I don’t get caught in these periods of writer’s block or anything. I just don’t have time to do that.
Ok, that sounds pretty good!
Yeah, and I feel good. But I mean, the music industry is so fucked – especially for an artist at a lower level like myself. It’s just really hard. I’ve given up in a lot of ways trying to make a full money-making career out of it. I work a part-time job and I paint as well and I’ve decided that I want to do stuff that I want to do. That’s kept me going, and I’m actually happier than ever not being on the road all the time. I’m just doing things when they make sense and not looking at it as I have to go out on the road to make money.
That’s interesting. A lot of artists say that they do their best songwriting in periods of turmoil, but Dream Pictures feels very peaceful.
Yeah, I’d say the overall thesis statement about what the record is about is being content. And not to sound too “woo woo,” but just live in the moment and appreciate what is there around you. A year or two ago, I could easily fall into looking at Instagram and thinking “I should be doing that.” But for this record, I wrote all these songs in the evening after the kids went to bed in that sort of wind-down [stage]. … I kind of liken it to the golden hour of a summer night, just that quiet and calm time when my wife and I can interact as humans and adults and I can go to the garage and do my thing.
It is peaceful, but also patient. I was thinking like, “This is the opposite of TikTok,” and I mean that in a good way.
[Laughs] I actually chose this record to sign up on TikTok and try and put stuff on there and I’m just so lost. It’s so overwhelming when you open the thing, just like, “Bam!”
Likewise, back when you first started putting out records, Americana seemed like it was really exploding and growing, with a lot of new artists coming out. I’m just wondering, do you feel like the roots music scene has evolved in the last decade or so?
I don’t know if it’s evolved or de-volved. It seems like it’s just sort of an all-encompassing net for stuff that doesn’t work other places – which is great, and the cream of the crop is still amazing, but I do feel like there’s a lot of “genericana” going on. It’s just like I got a little bored with it and my origin into making music was electronic music, and then I drifted towards songwriting and Guy Clark, Joni Mitchell, Jackson Browne, and Townes Van Zandt, that kind of stuff. I still really think songs are important and words are important, but I’m also more interested in exploring different melodic things and the sonic quality of recording. I guess for a selfish reason, it’s just to keep me interested.
I can hear that mix of electronica and songwriting on Dream Pictures. You recorded everything with your friend Dom [Billett], what do you like most about how it came out?
We didn’t know we were starting a record. Dom – who has played with me live a lot and done a lot of recording with me, but never produced something with me – over COVID he built out his studio and got a tape machine, and he was like, “I’m just trying to figure this thing out. Do you have any songs that we can try?” The first song that I brought was “Your Eyes and Me,” and that ends up being one of my favorites. You can really hear the progression of him learning the tape machine … because by the end, it just sounds like a good recording. So I like that. I also feel like Dom’s friendship shows, at least to me. We also had our friend Spencer Cullum record some pedal steel, and it’s just us three. I like collaborating – but I really like collaborating when it’s a core group.
I read that “Eventide” was dedicated to your wife. Are you writing a lot of songs about family these days? What are you feeling inspired by?
Mostly right now, it’s about that contentment and mindfulness. I think it’s important for me to get out as well as I think it’s a worthwhile message to be spreading. There are also songs on the new record that another journalist I talked to – and he meant it in a really a nice way – he said they’re “low-stakes songwriting.” Songs that are about love, or heartbreak. Those kind of songs I’ve been writing for a long time. And I’m still able to harken back to my 20s and go through those feelings. I can still feel them like they were yesterday. But it probably helps to not be in despair and look back with a clear head.
Tell me a little bit about “Mary Gold.” It has a nice, delightful little bounce to it, and I love that lo-fi pop feel. What’s that one about?
That’s just a love song, kind of a “low-stakes songwriting” song. Just a feeling of this girl who doesn’t know how special she is, but in the eyes of the beholder is special. Lyrically, I think there’s some good stuff in there, but I was really focusing on that bounce you’re talking about. That ’70s pop feel, I felt like the record could use something like that. A lot of the songs are really subtle and soft and serious.
I dig the premise of “I’m Fine” – and the falsetto hook. Is that about trying to convince yourself you’re fine? Or is that more of that feeling when somebody asks “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
I mean, I think it’s the latter. That’s the only song I co-wrote on this record and I’ve had it for a long time. The guy I wrote it with, Burton Collins is his name, we wrote again around when I was making the record and that song was good, but it just didn’t quite fit. So I just went back through stuff we had done in the past and was like, “Let me fiddle around with that one for a bit.” It ended up being fun.
What do you like about Dream Pictures as a title? Is that a central theme for the record, or just a cool title?
Well, I originally wanted to call it Eventide, but there’s a guitar-pedal company called Eventide and all my friends were like, “Oh, the pedal?” And I was like, “No, the time of evening.” [Laughs] They were like, “I didn’t know that’s what that meant.” So then Dream Pictures stood out, and the idea of that golden hour, in-between time of chaos and peace, which can also be associated with sleep. I feel like a lot of my song ideas and painting ideas come from that time period of just falling asleep or just waking up.
Big picture, what do you hope folks take away from this one? What are you looking for in the next 10 years?
Well, I hope people find a bit of peace and quiet with the record, and I hope it’s enjoyable. It’s sort of selfish, but I’m just happy to put it out there and get a piece of me out there. I don’t know what the future holds. I could say I’m going to make a synth pop record right now, but it could turn out to be something totally different, so I really don’t know. I’m just going to keep writing and being creative and enjoying my time here on earth.
I consider myself to be amongst the luckiest of music lovers. Growing up, I saw some of the most incredible roots artists from backstage while holding my Jack Russell terrier and playing with my cousins. When I was 8 years old, my grandfather Warren started a free bluegrass festival in San Francisco called Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. These artists shaped me since they were the first ones I watched perform, but the connection went on to become even deeper. When my grandfather passed away in 2011 I started performing music, and the larger community of Hardly Strictly was where I found my encouragers and mentors.
This is a compilation of the artists who I heard from and listened to as a child, and those whose songs I learned when I first became a musician. –ISMAY (AKA Avery Hellman)
“Dark Turn of Mind” – Gillian Welch
Just after high school I spent time working on some small homesteads with a farm labor trade for room and board. This was the same time that The Harrow & the Harvest by Gillian Welch came out – a literary masterpiece. Every time I listen to this record it reminds me of those homesteads and my borrowed car with a faulty battery. It brings me back to the day I arrived late to a new farm in West Virginia while my roommate was still sleeping and how odd it felt to be in a house with a stranger. I got up in the morning to make sourdough toast with an egg wondering what that person who was asleep in the loft of that ’80s wood cabin would think of me.
“Concrete And Barbed Wire” – Lucinda Williams
In the ’90s I was fortunate that my mom had great music taste. She took us around in a magenta suburban car and played Lucinda Williams. She said us kids used to sing along with silly accents to the words “concrete and barbed wire.” It took me another 20 years to fully appreciate Lucinda Williams and the masterful lyricist she is. Over the last four years, I’ve been working on a documentary about her, and it’s been so rewarding, because Lucinda’s music is the kind that gets better the more you know it.
“Dallas” – The Flatlanders
My grandfather was not a professional musician for most of his life, but in the final years he played in a bluegrass band with his friend Jimmie Dale Gilmore. What a kind man Jimmie is, with a voice that reminds me of a dove fluttering away. Because of this relationship he had with my grandfather, I heard about this record Jimmie made with his band The Flatlanders that was lost for 40 years. It was raw and made me feel like I was under a tin roof in Texas. It’s said that this tape helped mark the birth of alt-country.
“The Times They Are A-Changin'” – Odetta
A few years ago I was asked to perform at an event that compared and contrasted Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. I’m more of a Cohen person, so I had more trouble finding a Dylan song that felt like it would fit my feel. That was when I came upon this remarkable Odetta cover and I was inspired. She changed the whole feel of the song to make it her own. In 2008, she performed at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass just two months before she passed away, it was one of the final times she ever performed.
“St. James Hospital” – Doc Watson
I know that most people know Doc for his flatpicking, but I’ve always been much more drawn to the fingerpicking style of guitar in general. “St. James Hospital” feels like a fascinating departure from the more well known Doc Watson performances, and I love hearing him playing in a less linear fashion. This shows he can do it all. In the music that I’ve recorded I sometimes feel a bit out-of-the-norm and nowhere-to-belong, but this song feels similar to one I recorded called “A Song in Praise of Sonoma Mountain.” Hearing “St. James Hospital” makes me feel less out-on-a-limb in roots music.
“Permanent” – Kenneth Pattengale & Joey Ryan (The Milk Carton Kids)
As I started playing music I found this record by The Milk Carton Kids before they had that name, and played under Kenneth Pattengale & Joey Ryan. Listening to this song now, it is still unreal that it was all recorded live at a concert. It was deeply inspiring to see artists like Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings generating a new live sound that was somehow very modern and yet felt like a continuation of original folk music. As if the ’80s and ’90s had never happened! What a gift. Then, seeing The Milk Carton Kids take that torch and carry it on was so exciting for me as a 19 year old.
“Boulder to Birmingham” – Emmylou Harris
I listen to Emmylou every year on Sunday night at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. Her silver hair and steadiness feel beyond time. I can’t believe she is still here, with that same strong presence since I was just 8 years old. As a performer she has a strong sense of worthiness to the audience, a sense of mutual respect for the relationship between listener and performer. I hope that I can hold just a bit of her steadiness within myself.
“Restless” – Alison Krauss & Union Station
I was in 6th grade and didn’t much enjoy recess out on the playground. I brought my CDs over to an empty classroom, and sat in the back listening to Alison Krauss & Union Station. Sometimes I’d show these CDs to my friends. This was before I figured out that it was cooler to be listening to rock music. But I loved that music, and the songs were amongst the first I tried to learn in singing lessons.
“The Silver Dagger” – Old Crow Medicine Show
Old Crow Medicine Show was playing at Hardly Strictly as they rose up in mainstream culture. I appreciate the edge that this recording preserves. There’s even a moment where it sounds like someone might have dropped something or hit their instrument on another (01:35). I wish more recordings kept imperfections preserved within them.
“Pretty Bird” – Hazel Dickens
Part of the reason that my grandfather started Hardly Strictly Bluegrass was because of his love of Hazel Dickens. They were from very different backgrounds, but they became friends and saw the common humanity in one another through music. She played every year until she died. This is my favorite song of hers. What is beautiful to me about Hazel’s take on bluegrass is the imperfections and raw emotion. She brought her whole self to the song.
“Harlem River Blues” – Justin Townes Earle
I can still picture Justin on the stage with his impeccably curated suits. Back around 2018, I opened a show for him in Santa Cruz, California. He drove up to the venue in a red convertible, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. Just a guy and his ride. He was very kind to me and I wish I had more chances to see him play again. May his music never fade away.
“Tiniest Lights” – Angel Olsen
When I was 20, I went into a record shop in Ohio. The guy there said they only really carry more obscure records. No problem, I thought, I was here for Captain Beefheart and PJ Harvey. But when I asked, he said those artists were too well known. He pointed me towards Angel Olsen and I heard something in songwriting I had never heard before. My world opened up, and I knew there was so much more that was possible after listening to “Tiniest Lights.” She performed at Hardly Strictly in 2015 and her voice was as real and penetrating as the recordings.
“If I Needed You” – Lyle Lovett
What’s better than Lyle Lovett playing a Townes Van Zandt song?? We listened to Lyle a bunch when I was a kid. No, I’m not from Texas, but I do love those Texas songwriters.
“Long Ride Home” – Patty Griffin
The first time I performed at Hardly Strictly (although somewhat tangentially) was at an artist after party. I chose this song, because it had a fun fancy guitar line I could play with my beginner fingers. Someone who was performing came up and said they thought I was talented. I think that might have changed my life right there. It was the first time anyone had come up to me and said I was good enough to do this as a job, not to mention amongst professional musicians.
“Are You Sure” – Willie Nelson
Willie played Hardly Strictly in 2003 and I remember that big black bus sitting behind the main stage. I can’t even imagine the thrill of the audience members, his fans are as dedicated as they come. I heard this song at a recently released film that is fantastic called To Leslie.
“Little Bird of Heaven” – Reeltime Travellers
This band was part of that wave of old-time style artists that came at the same time as Hardly Strictly. The vocals are so unexpected, but real and honest. One of their band members became a mentor of mine and helped me get my start in the music business and I am forever grateful.
“Essay Man” and “The Golden Palomino” – ISMAY
These are two songs from my latest release, Desert Pavement, that would never have happened if it weren’t for Hardly Strictly. I am trying to find my way with my own version of folk, and can’t help but be inspired at what a rich trove of artists I have to draw from.
There’s something special that occurs when music is rooted in friendship and a shared mission. Perhaps no one exemplifies this better than Sam Grisman Project, founded by the youngest son of “Dawg music” pioneer David Grisman. Seeking to honor the likes of his father, Jerry Garcia & the Grateful Dead, and other musical heroes, SGP maintains a singular style and groove.
With its core iteration featuring seasoned multi-instrumentalists and songwriters Ric Robertson, Chris “Hollywood” English, and Aaron Lipp – and often featuring a host of other guests who run the musical gamut – SGP is bringing fresh authenticity, originality, and passion to the roots music and jam band scenes.
BGS spoke with Sam Grisman in early February 2024 about the origins of, inspirations, and plans for this remarkable and rising group.
What are the origins of Sam Grisman Project?
Sam Grisman: Ever since rekindling my musical friendship with the great Ric Robertson, who I’ve known since I was 14, I’ve been wanting to start a band that showcases the impact that the legacy of my dad and Jerry’s music has had on me. Ric and I started scheming on ways to make some music together and what that might look like. I figured we might have a good opportunity to play out in the live touring landscape if we paid tribute to the catalog of music that my dad and Jerry recorded together; that it could create the space for us to really do whatever we might want musically. We’re not limiting ourselves to the catalog of music that my dad and Jerry played together or individually, but we are honoring the spirit of what they did together, which was to dive into great songs that they had a shared love of.
I’ve always had a talented group of friends, going back to the time that I spent growing up at bluegrass festivals, fiddle camps, and the Mandolin Symposium. We have chemistry, and that is irreplaceable. Ric started playing music with Aaron Lipp around the time we turned 20 and he has been a part of my musical reality since then. He and Ric have developed strong chemistry, where they’ve been finishing each other’s musical sentences for years now. Aaron is from Naples, New York, about an hour away from Rochester, New York, which is where the great Chris English hails from. When Ric started making some music with Chris and telling me about what an amazing drummer and human being he is, I knew he would fit into the core of this band perfectly.
Who are you honoring with this project and why?
We’re honoring the musical heroes who influenced us the most. For me, because they provided the soundtrack to most of my earliest musical memories, that’s my dad and a lot of his friends who came through our house in Mill Valley to record. The friend who came around the most was Jerry [Garcia], but also John Hartford, Mike Seeger, Doc Watson, Tony Rice, Del McCoury and Ralph Stanley.
We honor our heroes, not just my dad and Jerry. We play lots of John Hartford music and Townes Van Zandt songs. Lots of Bob Dylan’s music, some Alan Toussaint, Dr. John, John Prine, Warren Zevon, Randy Newman, and Peter Rowan.
Can you describe what Dawg music is and what you’ve learned from your father?
Dawg music is a highly evolved form of acoustic music that is a synthesis of many different genres including old-time, bluegrass, hot club swing, jazz, and funk, with elements of classical music. It’s really a sort of genre-less genre pioneered by my father. It showcases – but is not limited to showcasing – the sound of the mandolin. The instrumentation in his quintet has traditionally been one or two mandolins, guitar, upright bass, and violin, but that’s expanded over the years to include percussion and drums.
That instrumentation of percussion, mandolin, guitar and bass is what I modeled the core of this band after. I’ve learned so much from my father about music and the music business – how to treat your friends and how to honor your elders. I am profoundly grateful to have been born to my particular set of parents and I’m grateful that there are other folks who have a deep appreciation for my dad’s impact on the musical landscape. I’d like for people to also appreciate how wonderful a human he is, so this is a small way that I get to share my dad with other people. He loves everybody, he’s grateful for the support, and he can feel it.
Who are some of the musical guests that have performed with SGP, and what does that mean to SGP?
It means a lot. It’s a representation of the community that we’re a part of. We’ve brought in some of our heroes as guests including dear family friends like Lowell Levenger “Banana” from the Youngbloods, Maria Muldaur, Eric Thompson, and Peter Rowan. We’ve had my dad sit in three times, which has been an absolute honor, and we’ve had a whole slew of our guests who bring different insights and a similar passion to the project: Dominick Leslie, Alex Hargreaves, Roy Williams, Bennett Sullivan, Nathaniel Smith, Phoebe Hunt, Lindsay Lou, my dear friend Tod Patrick Livingston, Mike Witcher, Chad Manning, Wyatt Ellis, Matt Eakle (the great flute alumnus from my dad’s quintet), and more. Eddie Barbash came and played a set with us in New York. Max Flansburg, who has a similar passion for this material and highlights a different corner of the Garcia/Hunter catalog than we do, played two of our New Year’s shows with us. We also had our old-time banjo hero, Richie Stearns, on all of those gigs that weekend. We’re going to have Logan Ledger on some shows coming up, and we’ll have Victor Furtado and Nathaniel Smith in the band.
When did SGP start touring in its current iteration, and how is the experience of touring with your best friends?
We had our first run as a band in January 2023. This conversation with you comes at the end of our longest break as a band, where we’ve had the entire month of January off. We’re starting back up on February 4th in Tucson, at a festival called Gem and Jam. It’s an absolute treat to travel the country with the people I care the most about, and to make great music and memories and friends everywhere we go. It’s important to anchor ourselves and ground ourselves in the music, because there’s a lot of work that goes into being out on the road that can make you lose perspective on how special it is to be doing something that you love for a living and to be able to do it for people who love what you’re doing.
SGP is obviously celebrating and continuing a particular musical legacy, but doing so with your own flavor. What makes SGP unique?
Our branding is our individuality and our honesty. I grew up in the house where my dad and Jerry recorded all of this music and I really do enjoy playing that music with my best friends. It gives me a sense of purpose to be able to play some of that music for folks who are passionate about it. There’s definitely room in the live music space for bands who take a preservationist approach to carrying on the musical traditions and catalogs of artists that came before them. A lot of musicians try to sound like their musical heroes, but that’s not our approach. I hired my friends to participate because I love their individuality and how they play, sing, and write music. I wouldn’t want to steer them towards sounding more like Jerry Garcia or my father.
We have been influenced by listening to tons of great music our entire lives, but we try to stay true to ourselves when we’re playing, so nobody is reaching for a sound that isn’t theirs. We all enjoy injecting our individuality into this music and having the flexibility to take the material in different directions depending on how we’re feeling. It’s amazing to have such versatile friends to work with.
How does original material fit into the broader vibe of SGP?
All three of the core guys – Ric Robertson, Aaron Lipp, and Chris English – are amazing songwriters. All the time I’ve known Ric, since we were teenagers, he’s been writing great songs. He was always a great singer, but he’s become one of my absolute favorite singers on the planet. There’s a lot of his music that lends itself incredibly well to looser, more long-form arrangements, which is something that SGP has become comfortable with.
Aaron Lipp is also an amazing songwriter who writes incredibly poignant music and aphoristic lyrics. Chris English writes amazing, feel-good music – not always overtly happy, but always with a strong message. His tunes add a lot of depth to our sets and take us to a more groove or bassline-oriented place, which is really refreshing for us and our audiences. I think there’s always going to be room for original music in SGP. As much as these guys are inspired to play their own tunes, I want to play them.
You released a great EP in 2023. Is there anything else currently in the works?
We’re gonna make a full length album at some point in 2024. Over the course of the last hundred or so gigs we’ve developed a pretty good repertoire and a strong rapport with each other. I don’t think it would take very long to put some of these tunes down in the studio, but we also multitrack most of our shows and we have an archive of live music to sort through. We’re going to be putting some shows up on Nugs.net pretty soon. We have a pro-taping policy to encourage folks to come and tape the show. I share Jerry [Garcia]’s philosophy that if you bought a ticket to the show, the performance is really yours as long as you’re not charging anybody else for it. Some of those shows have made it to archive.org, which is a free internet resource where folks can listen to live music. At some point we’ll probably put together some compilations of live material and put them up on the streaming services. I think our live show is always going to be the emphasis of what we do, so it’s important to have some recorded examples out there for people to check out.
What’s in store for SGP in 2024, and what does pursuing that mean to you?
We’ve got another solid year shaping up. We played about a hundred gigs in 2023 and we’ll probably make it pretty close to that in 2024. I’m going to expand the cast of characters a little bit in 2024 and bring some other friends into the fold. I’m looking forward to introducing my new friends and audiences to my dear musical compatriots who care about this music as much as I do. I’m grateful and humbled to get to do it. It means a lot to get to honor my father every night by playing his music. We take out the mandola that he gave me for my 21st birthday, the mandola he recorded “Opus 38” on. We get to play “Opus 38” on that very same mandola for people who appreciate what’s happening, and I feel like he and Uncle Jerry are with us every night. It’s a big blessing all around.
Artist:Elise Leavy Hometown: from Monterey, California; currently living in Lafayette, Louisiana Latest Album:A Little Longer Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): Doodle
Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?
Of course it’s somewhere between incredibly difficult and impossible to choose one person who has influenced me the most. I grew up listening to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Bob Dylan, Norah Jones, Simon & Garfunkel, Lucinda Williams, Crosby, Stills, & Nash, Neil Young, some strange and hauntingly beautiful Indian classical music that my mother loved, and countless other things that, if I didn’t stop myself, would flow from me in the passion of remembering things you hold tenderly, because you loved them as a child.
As an adult, I discovered Joni Mitchell – who became an angel that watched over me in my songwriting hours – Townes Van Zandt, and Tom Waits as well as the whole of country music and jazz that I never heard from the stereos of my parents. It all seeps in a little at a time, and I find I can hear it in my songs; they grow up and learn things just as I do. But I think the most magical thing is to occasionally hear something in my songs of the things I listened to as a child and loved with all my heart – now, after all these years, it’s all still there under the blanket of time.
What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc. — inform your music?
All of the above! I have always been an avid reader of romance novels and watcher of romantic comedies. I am sure I can’t have escaped their influence in the way I pursue my dreams in my life and career, and surely my songs reflect the dreams I pursue as much as they do the feelings I process.
As to painting … my mother is a painter and I was very used to having beautiful oil paintings watching over me as child; small boys on giant birds, tigers and strange monsters, women lounging in the nude, a man playing the fiddle. I can’t imagine growing up without these friends that hung on the walls and were propped up in the corners, accompanying me through childhood.
And now, I live in Louisiana, where music is almost entirely for dance, and I can’t say how it will change me over the years, but I am sure it will.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
I wrote my first song when I was 7 years old with the help of my step-dad, who is a musician. I remember I was (ironically) trying to learn “Fur Elise” on the piano, and instead of playing it correctly, I came up with something new and ended up writing a song about a rainy day called, “Yesterday It Was So Rainy.” I played this song at the talent show in 3rd or 4th grade, and I was so scared to be on stage by myself, I hired two little girls to stand behind me with umbrellas so I would have company on stage. Hard to say if I knew I wanted to be a musician at this point, but I suppose it sparked something, because I continued to play my songs at talent shows until I quit going to public school after 8th grade to pursue music. What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?
“Listen to your gut.” I don’t trust anyone in the music business that tries to dissuade me from this advice! The complete confidence in my own feelings and needs being most important in the pursuit a career in music has been essential in order to effectively follow my dreams. It also doesn’t always mean I get the biggest record deals or most impressive streaming numbers, which is really hard to accept, especially with social media and the whole of the music industry barking at me all the time to appear more impressive. But it means I am continually pursuing my own happiness and continuing to have pride in and love for the music I am putting into the world – and retaining the rights to it, at least so far. The only hard thing about this particular piece of advice is knowing when it’s my gut talking and when it’s something else!
How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?
Never, strangely! I wonder how other people answer this question? I am so honest about my feelings, I can’t imagine hiding anything in a character, or a story, or anything else. I’ve always been in awe of people who write songs from someone else’s point of view or story songs. The only thing you might say I hide behind is poetry. Metaphors are great magical beings and I am at the mercy of their magic. But really, I write songs because I have to. If I didn’t, I don’t know how I would get through all of the emotions of existence. It’s like going to therapy. I write my song, I cry (probably a lot), or sometimes I feel elated, and then I listen to it on repeat until the feeling ebbs enough to write a new one, or listen to someone else’s songs again. Maybe this is really weird. But I guess I always knew I was a weirdo.
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.’”
Throughout Rodney Crowell’s best work, there’s a rhythm — one could say a heartbeat — in the way he sings and writes about love and mistakes. You can feel the pulse inside of his poetry, an undeniable energy that marks this Texas native as one of the most intriguing and important country and Americana songwriters of his generation. He can be sentimental but rarely sappy, always ready to reassess a situation through a song without making you feel like you’ve heard it before. His albums reveal themselves further over time, rather than chasing a trend.
Longtime fans of Crowell’s work are likely to keep his new album, The Chicago Sessions, in rotation alongside classics like Diamonds & Dirt or The Houston Kid. (Even the album’s cover image is a throwback to his 1978 debut.) Compelling new songs like “Making Lovers Out of Friends” are delivered in a voice that’s weathered but not weak, yet he also offers salutes the late great Townes Van Zandt with a poignant rendition of “No Place to Fall,” composed decades ago by Van Zandt from the perspective of a sad wanderer who’s looking for someone to count on.
For The Chicago Sessions, Crowell counted on producer Jeff Tweedy and recording engineer Tom Schick to frame the collection in a manner that feels eloquent as well as immediate. Crowell and Tweedy also team up to sing the album’s lead single, “Everything at Once,” and the mutual admiration is evident.
Upon its release, Crowell noted, “It occurred to me that Jeff and I are both songwriters, and we ought to write something together for this album. We could have harmonized on it and gone down an Everly Brothers route, but ultimately we decided to just sing in unison and throw it out there like an all-skate. I love that we didn’t get too precious about it.”
Tweedy added, “The way that Rodney writes is deeply connected to a classic era of country songwriters that I’ve always loved. In my estimation, it’s as close as I can get to working with Townes Van Zandt or Felice and Boudleaux Bryant — people who crafted songs with a very specific sensibility. And I like being near that.”
Same here. For that reason and many more, we’re proud to reveal Rodney Crowell as our BGS Artist of the Month. In a few weeks, we’ll share our exclusive interview about his new work, plus we’re diving into our archives for our favorite tracks and videos from his admirable career – like his 2017 Sitch Session performance of “East Houston Blues.” Meanwhile, enjoy our BGS Essentials playlist for Rodney Crowell.
With brutally honest songs soaked in blues, booze and emotional bruising, Channing Wilson is extending the tradition of raw country music with his debut album, Dead Man. Trading in pickup trucks and cut-off jeans for battles with depression, anxiety and addiction, he’s emerging with a style that echoes tormented tunesmiths like Guy Clark and Billy Joe Shaver, among others. But while his Dave Cobb-produced debut marks the first real batch of original tunes, this Georgia native is no newcomer.
Wilson’s been a working songwriter for almost two decades now, even scoring a No. 1 country single with Luke Combs’ “She Got the Best of Me” in 2018. He’s also a writer on Combs’ current chart climber, “Growin’ Up and Gettin’ Old,” and both tunes share an element of hard-truth reflection that’s rare in the country mainstream. But Channing’s own tunes go much further.
With Dead Man alive and kicking, Channing spoke with The Bluegrass Situation about his craft – discovering his songwriting heroes, bringing the blues back to country, and how a “bullshit” song sent him down a new path.
BGS: Can you tell me how you got into this gritty style of country music? It’s not exactly easy to find if you’re not looking for it.
Wilson: Yeah, I grew up in Georgia, and if it wasn’t on the radio, I didn’t know about it, you know? There were no clubs to go see new music or anything, so it took a while for me. I was into my 20s really. But I did have a friend who was one of those music-snob guys, and he’d heard that I was trying to write songs. He made me a mixtape that had Billy Joe Shaver and Guy Clark and Steve Earle and Ray Wylie Hubbard, mixed in with, like, Tom Waits, and it was just full of the best songwriters there were. So, it was literally like, “Where’s this shit been my whole life?”
I bet. That’s funny. You had already been writing by then though, huh?
Yeah. Well, I was trying. My dad was a huge Hank Williams Jr. fan, and I grew up listening to Waylon and Willie – just the stuff that was big, you know? But then the same guy that made me the mixtape, what really kick-started it for me was two particular shows he took me. One was Billy Joe Shaver, in a room with about 40 people with Eddy Shaver on guitar. And then the next week Hank Williams III was in town, and he took me to that show. And right after that, I just quit my job.
You came to Nashville for good around 2009, right? What was it like getting yourself established in the songwriting community?
I mean, I got a publishing deal pretty quick, I ain’t gonna lie. It was within a month or two of being there, I signed a songwriting deal over at EMI Publishing. But honestly, I didn’t even know what a publishing deal was at the time. I had to look it up, and I seen they had Guy Clark on the roster, and I said, “Well, shit. If he’s over here writing songs, then it has to be pretty cool.” I literally based my business decision on the fact that Guy Clark was a songwriter there.
I’ve heard worse ideas … So how did you end up with this raw writing style? You are not afraid to dig into the rougher side of life at all. Does that come from personal struggle?
What changed me was listening to stuff by Guy Clark for the first time, or Townes Van Zandt, and knowing that it was OK to write a song like that. I think when I got turned onto their music, it showed me that there really are no rules to it. And once I had that license to do literally whatever I wanted, what you’re hearing now is what happened.
You’ve talked about things like depression and anxiety, and how in music, that used to be called “the blues.” Do you feel like we need a blues-music revival for this current era?
One hundred percent, man. I mean, when people think about blues music, you think of Mississippi John Hurt, you think of Lightnin’ Hopkins, Howlin’ Wolf. You think of the Mississippi Delta, but the truth of it is, all of what they sang about is still around.
Where did “Drink That Strong” come from? It really sets the stage for what you do.
It actually come from one of these crazy Music Row songwriting sessions I used to do. Mine were always different because I never really cared about writing for country radio, but when you’re in a publishing deal, you know, they want you out writing songs as much as you can. I was with a buddy of mine named Houston Phillips … and in my head, I just I heard the hook, “The weed gets me high / And the cocaine don’t last long / And they don’t make a drink that strong.” It was supposed to be a song about quitting drinking, but it just makes me wanna drink every time I hear it. [laughs]
That’s a really cool line. But yeah, that probably won’t make it on the radio anytime soon.
Yeah. I’m definitely not mad about that either.
What about “Gettin’ Outta My Mind”? It’s in a similar vein, and I love this idea that you’re “done walking the line.” Is that something that you’ve said to yourself before?
Pretty much every day! [laughs] I’ve always been the guy that just wants to have a little more fun, and when you get me and Kendell Marvel both in the same room together, stuff like that happens. We wanted to rock a song just for us. You know, for that honky-tonk kinda thing.
Tell me about “Dead Man Walking.” This one’s got a ton of gospel in it.
I grew up singing in the church, so I’ve definitely got that in me. But it really come from listening to Howlin’ Wolf. It started off as a blues song, but Dave took it and really opened it up.
Maybe people don’t realize how closely related gospel and the blues are?
That’s the thing. Just like the thin line between love and hate, there’s a thin line between church and the bars, you know?
The last song on the record is so telling. It’s called “Trying to Write a Song,” and I love the hook. “I’ve been trying to write a song / Something bold, something real / But there’s a shit pile of denial / In the way of how I feel.” How do you overcome the shit pile?
Writing that song, that saved my life that day, brother. I ain’t gonna lie. … This was 2015 or ‘16, and my phone wasn’t ringing, man. Nobody in Nashville really gave a shit. I knew I could go to any bar for the rest of my life and play music. That’s not a problem. But I wanted to make an impact on country music, something I really, really love, and that’s given me a life. But I was at my wits’ end in this town.
To be honest with you, I had this write coming up with a bigger country artist that had radio hits and stuff, and getting to write with somebody that’s on the radio could change a lot for you. Especially if a song actually makes it to the radio, you know? I was trying to come up with some ideas and [laughs] dude, everything I was saying was bullshit, you know? I had a couple ideas going, and I just tore up and threw the pages away.
So I’m sitting there by myself at my kitchen table, and I just said, like, “What’s the truth right now?” And the truth, I just wrote it down – “I’m trying to write a song.” I sat there and just had a breakthrough moment in my mind, and it was really the moment that changed directions for me and got me back on track, and reminded me why I was doing this to begin with. When it come time to round the album off, I played that song and Dave just stopped me a minute into it, and he just said, “This is it. Let’s record it.”
How did the write with the country singer go?
I canceled it. I couldn’t do it after that. I was just like, “I can’t do this shit.” I knew I’d find a different way.
Artist:Alex Williams Hometown: Pendleton, Indiana New Album:Waging Peace (October 21, 2022)
Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?
It’s hard to pin one artist down that has influenced me more than another, but I would say Todd Snider was the first songwriter I was exposed to as a kid. My parents used to play his Step Right Up in the car constantly. I’ve been a huge fan of all of his records since and he inspires me to this day.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
The moment I wanted to become a musician was after my dad persuaded me to take the first song I had written to my high school winter talent show and play it. I knew I was destined to write songs and play them for people on the road after that night, so I immediately dove headfirst into playing anywhere I could get a gig.
What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?
My favorite memory from being on stage is probably when I got to play the mighty Ryman Auditorium with my friend/musician Whitey Morgan a few years ago. Lot of magic in that place, and the sound is just absolutely incredible.
What has been the best advice you’ve received in your career so far?
I’ve received a lot of advice from friends in this business and fellow friends/musicians, but the one thing that’s remained consistent and stuck with me is to always be unapologetic, to be as honest as you can be, and to understand that life as a musician is a lifelong journey in every regard and there are no guarantees. That within itself over the years has made me appreciate every moment a hell of a lot more as I get older, whether it’s writing songs or playing out on the road.
Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?
I’d probably say a Buffalo chicken sandwich with Jim Croce if he was still with us. I would love to pick his brain about his writing process and how he came up with all of those great chord changes and melodies. He’s a huge inspiration for me and was gone way too soon. The sheer body of work that he left behind in such a short amount of time is amazing and a prime example of why he is one of the greatest songwriters that has ever lived.
Photo Courtesy of Lightning Rod Records
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