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On “Without Making A Sound,” the final track on Bella White’s so-far career best and 2026 best album A Sign In The Weather, White describes feeling that a relationship is over as like a change in the weather. It’s not exactly something she’s choosing, but something palpable and in need of a reaction. 

“I feel like I wrote this as I was ending a chapter in my life. It’s having that perspective and recognition that something isn’t working. It feels like a weather system coming down. It’s everywhere. I can’t pretend it isn’t because it’s in the air,” said White. “I have to stop faking it. Because I’ve been faking it, and that’s not going well. I’m now feeling this coldness. I’m feeling it in a way that’s unsustainable.”

Though “Without Making A Sound” was the first song White wrote for the album, she chose to place it last. It makes sense in a way; there’s a certain finality to her language on the track. The magic of A Sign In The Weather is that White chose to go both backward and inward when building a story around her first piece of writing. It’s also in the way she chose to assume a slightly naive disposition, describing the events in her life and her emotions with a bit of astonishment and as though she had the power to reject them. When she experiences heartbreak, that slightly bewildered approach makes it feel like she’s explaining heartbreak for the first time in human history. It’s refreshing and deeply cutting. “There is just no space for the bad times again/we place our sadness down, so can it come to and end?” she sings on “Better.” Her plea to the universe is so completely doe-eyed and unrealistic that it hurts to hear. It’s an absolutely brilliant device.

There’s no particular change in White’s life that covers all the fractured relationships covered on A Sign In The Weather, though a breakup is clearly part of it. Depression is, too. Again, White describes it as though she isn’t quite grasping what’s happening in her mind, isn’t quite in control of the narrative. Lyrics from “Little Things” include “There’s a difference between what I’ve done today/and what I’ve said I’d do” and “I’ve hardly even cried/though it’s boiling up inside me.” Her lyrics suggest that she thinks she can set a narrative and overcome overwhelming feelings, though on another level, it’s clear she knows she can’t. She blames it all on “little things inside me singing ‘I don’t want to.’”

It’s the ever present feeling of yearning, of wondering what could be, what’s around the corner, not necessarily feeling right with yourself all the time,” White said of those little things. “Even if you are, I’m often feeling like I’m missing something.” 

What White is describing here isn’t exactly unheard of. She mentions being 24 at the time she wrote the album and seems to feel a disconnect with peers who are maturing at different rates. Meanwhile, her own emotions are becoming easier to identify, but aren’t responding well to being repressed instead of given space to breathe. Just about everyone who was once a young adult should be able to relate. It’s that disconnect between being able to name and being able to truly manage painful feelings and situations that White uses to generate unease and sadness on A Sign In The Weather. 

“Lying is easier than accepting reality. Not even lying to someone in particular, but lying to yourself,” said White. “There’s this tension in feeling like you have to mask or hide something because it’s easier than facing the music.”

During our conversation, White indicated both that she’s made some progress but hasn’t completely found her footing for her next phase of life. In one situation, she remembered realising “I have to submit to this feeling in order to move through it,” and described doing so as something that was positive, but didn’t feel positive. Talking things out has helped her. 

“I try to centre myself if I can, which can look like writing in my journal, writing a song, calling a friend, talking it through. Or it can look like doomscrolling on my phone,” said a refreshingly candid White. “It can take on a lot of different appearances depending on what it is that I’m feeling. But when I’m in my best version, whatever that means, it would look like some kind of verbal processing.”

White, who sometimes speaks in a rather singsongy voice, said she feels time in chapters. When she sings “I heard the song end/and I lost a friend,” she compared it to getting a cue at the end of an event that it’s time to leave because the music has turned off. A portion of the thought is taking place in her unconscious mind, but White is recognising the patterns and acting on them. That doesn’t make it any easier.

“Whether or not it’s a romantic relationship or a friendship, when it’s the end of the chapter, you’re often holding up a mirror, seeing yourself through a different lens, because something that’s been really stable in your life is not there anymore,” said White. “You’re having to become independent again or figure out how to stay grounded or stay yourself without a sounding board or someone to depend on.”

When White describes herself quite literally standing in front of a mirror in “Doing Well,” it takes on several meanings. On the one hand, looking at herself presenting well in a mirror is natural, as she’s trying to fake it until she makes it, she explained. On another, it really does feel good to see yourself standing up a little taller. 

“Sometimes I don’t really know how I am until I’m faced with it,” said White. “Sometimes it does take seeing it back to see that you’re feeling good.”

“I thought that I’d be worse off that I am/and I have not been,” she sings on the track. Yet, she implies the situation is still quite delicate. “I’ve been doing well for the first time since you called,” she sings, indicating that the next struggle is likely a call away.

In this way, the most positive emotions expressed on the album are not necessarily positive. On “Dream Song,” White sings about feeling loved and protected. The title indicates that it’s only a wish, though at least it’s a clear thing to look for in future connections.

“Pink Living Room,” though certainly one of White’s more openly self aware songs, does an amazing job at demonstrating what her crumbling relationships were doing to her. She first mentions having to apologise for things she shouldn’t have to in a prior relationship before revealing that “now I’m here with another man/he’s got a pink living room and a warm hand/and he’d say to me that he’s sorry when he shouldn’t have to.” White described the experience as past emotions “trickling into your present moment in a way that’s hard to navigate.” It ends with her fielding a difficult phone call, perhaps the one implied in “Doing Well.”

That almost brings us back around to the first track White wrote and the last on the album. “Two Times” describes a betrayal and the ramifications and allows a little anger to seep in to an otherwise inwardly focused narrative. Then it’s time for White to leave.

“I watched from afar/as I broke my own heart/‘cause I don’t seem to want you around,” sings White on “Without Making A Sound,” artfully expressing her disconnect with and great respect for her emotions. Trying to tip toe away in the night may not have literally been White’s strategy, but it’s certainly something she wishes she could have done..

“It’s to avoid hurt. Hurting anyone. It’s a non-confrontational conflict-adverse fear, but probably actually damaging in reality,” said White. “I don’t think I’ve ever successfully left without making a sound, but I’ve wanted to. I wish I could, but in reality I can’t.”

In that way, the album closes with both finality and a realisation that more pain is to come. By keeping the character in her songs just a bit less mature than the songwriting, White has managed to take a breakup story and turn it into something beautifully layered, aching, and always about to fall apart.

“It’s my first album where I feel like this is my voice,” said White of what I described of her improved songwriting.

A Sign In The Weather doesn’t just benefit from one voice, however. White somehow manages to sing with two voices, one calm and aware and one scared and reactive, both bringing out the heartache in what the other is feeling. Despite making quite a few mistakes along the way, they seem to be guiding each other to where they need to be.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Bella White and the songs we discussed, starting with Little Things, which sees Bella struggling to keep up with some negative emotions. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://bellawhitemusic.com for more.

“I always knew it was coming, I just really didn’t see it coming at 33,” said Joshua Ray Walker of his cancer diagnosis.

Seven of Walker’s eight grandparents had at the very least suffered from the disease, and his father died from it. His was stage three colon cancer, diagnosed in 2024.

“If I hadn’t had appendicitis, it probably would’ve taken me a little longer to find I had a mass in my colon,” said Walker. “Silver lining, I guess.”

There was still frustration, most clearly expressed on “Blue Genes:” “I got unlucky in my veins/so I’ll be the last to carry my name.” Elsewhere on the album, Walker mentions “wondering how I’d pay for all the bad hospital food”

“I do have terrible eyesight, I have terrible teeth, there’s lots of disease in my family, mental and physical. As far as the gene pool goes, I feel like I got the short end of the stick,” said Walker. “And that’s not something very nice to put into words when you still have family members who are living. But it’s how I was feeling in that moment.”

Needing to stay home in Texas was one of those silver linings.

“It was the first time in my adult life that I wasn’t travelling. I put a lot of that energy I would’ve had on the road into writing and producing records,” said Walker. “It was a trying time for sure, but a big change for me having so much time at home to see family and friends.”

After two surgeries and a first round of treatment, doctors found a mass on a scan of Walker’s lung. An 80 percent chance of recovery dropped to 14.

“There was a 50-50 chance whether I’d live for two years,” said Walker. “As someone who’s had multiple family members go through hospice for cancer, if they tell you that you have two years, maybe you have one good year. One of the things I did was make a one year timeline to finish all the creative projects I had in the works.” 

Ain’t Dead Yet is the final creative project from that list. It’s Walker’s most frank and personal release to date, one that touches on mental health, difficult conversations, and harsh realities. He looks back on his life, sometimes with tremendous gratitude. Though the cover looks like a scene from his funeral, Walker is still doing well two years later. Doctors discovered the mass on his lung was benign and he’s now in remission. He’ll tell you he’s better off than before he had cancer.

“I’ve dealt with mental illness, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, pretty heavy stuff throughout my life. Whenever I got sick, I feel like I really showed up for myself unquestionably,” said Walker. “I was going to fight to be here, and that was kind of a revelation for me as someone who thought about checking out early. I had my perfect opportunity to just let it happen. Whenever the decision is taken out of your hands, it puts it into perspective.

The title track captures the joy of that revelation, “I think I’m ready to try again,” Walker sings, looking back on mistakes and feeling confident in a new path forward. Walker came up with a traditional country sound, sometimes telling tragic stories of sex workers and sometimes cracking jokes. He revealed a slightly weird side on a covers album, making country songs out of thoroughly unexpected tracks like Lizzo’s “Cuz I Love You” Yet this was the first time a Joshua Ray Walker album seemed to lean into an easy feeling and a softer sound. The harrowing journey is still documented on some tracks, but leading with that deep exhale completely changes the way harder moments hit. There’s still emotional investment, but not a sense of dread.

In a world where Walker didn’t recover, “Chasing Sunsets” would have been his most memorable and haunting track. “Memory lane is a freeway now,” he sings, describing his life flashing before his eyes. The high notes and regrets give a sense of his unease with his situation, but his decision to end the refrain on a line that doesn’t rhyme with anything is the most power: “When it’s my time I hope that I won’t feel alone.” In choosing to present that feeling that way, Walker highlighted it as uniquely real and painful. This is a man whose job it is to package complex emotions in neat couplets absolutely refusing to make this one thought more digestible. “Shoot Me Straight” is similarly blunt, asking people to say their goodbyes to him instead of dancing around the subject. Both those songs are clearly written from the perspective as someone about to pass, but later in the album, Walker is even upfront about the fact that the diagnosis that changed his outlook on life was not all positive: “Some people say all’s well that ends well/some people must have never been through hell.”

The most powerful decision Walker made was choosing to end the album, that last piece of art that would have served as a farewell, on a slightly older single in “Thank You For Listening.” It’s a quite genuine expression of gratitude to his audience, and in a way to his journey. After finding out he’d get better, Walker decided to stick to his original one year plan. It paid off more than artistically. A line from the album seems to have rung true: “If this were my final curtain call/I’d have no regrets at all”

“I got engaged, took care of my mom, got a lot of art made,” said Walker. “If that had been the last good year, I feel like I did a pretty great job.”

Despite being a critically acclaimed songwriter and possessing a powerful voice, Walker still seems in awe that people keep showing up to support him.

“I really appreciate the people who have given me the opportunity to do what I got to do. I think ‘thank you’ is a pretty good way to end anything,” said Walker. “I’m shocked I get to do any of this. I played on the street for years so I could get gigs playing to no one in dive bars. I’m going to sell out a show in the arctic circle on this tour. Just a kid that grew up playing on the streets in Dallas. The fact that anyone listens just blows my mind.”

If discovering that he truly wanted to live was Walker’s most important revelation, the whole experience of making a short term plan was a clear second. He described a life of making goals for at least ten years down the line, touring 250-300 days a year in order to build his dream career.

“That was the first time I took an inventory of my life where the goals were short,” said Walker. “I realised the life I wanted was really obtainable, it was similar to the life I had. I just needed to do more things I love with the people I love and less time doing things I don’t like doing with people I don’t like doing them with. That seems like such a simple realisation, but getting told there wasn’t a lot of time left really put that into perspective. My threshold for things I don’t want to do was so high because we’re all working toward this payoff.”

There will be some permanent changes in Walker’s life. Though he’s on a ‘victory lap’ tour at the moment, including a date in London I’ll be attending, Walker indicated that he’d like to maybe only spend 150 days a year on the road. On the title track, he bemoans that he “worked myself half to death.” Though he said he and his fiancé navigated long distance fairly well, it’s not the way he wants to live forever. Walker’s even revisited his declared intent from “Blue Genes” to never have children.

“Circumstances have changed since the song was written. Neither of us are in a rush, but it’s not off the table. It didn’t change my mind as much as I could be persuaded,” he said. “If I’m gonna do it, I want to make sure that I’m present. At this point in my career, that would be impossible. I know plenty of great musicians who are great parents and are gone a lot, so they seem to pull it off. I just can’t imagine how I would at this point.”

With the last of his three cancer tapes complete, Walker is about to embark on a creative chapter that didn’t factor into his previous plan. His intention to tour less for a healthy work-life balance never seemed to enter his thinking before the cancer. Which is to say, things he couldn’t previously imagine are well within his reach.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Joshua Ray Walker and the songs we discussed, starting with “Ain’t Dead Yet,” which generates its happiness from the fact things almost wound up so sad. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.joshuaraywalker.com for more.

Andy Hedges is careful to say that he’s not a cowboy, though to assume he is one is an understandable mistake. Hedges has an encyclopedic knowledge of ranching and cowboy culture and a love for everything Western. His voice is deep, measured, and has the sort of drawl that all together is worthy of a role in an old radio drama. He runs a podcast and spoke to me over zoom, but most of his cultural references come from a time before modern technology. He was home schooled in Tokyo, Texas by a father who was a bull riding pastor. He listened to old music on cassettes and grew up around cows and horses.

“This would be in the 1980s, but it was almost like I was growing up in the 1950s,” said Hedges. “It had a tremendous influence on me. When I was a kid, I thought all I wanted to do was go work on a ranch and be a cowboy.”

It turns out that Hedges would discover a different niche in the Western world. While watching an episode of Austin City Limits, he was first exposed to cowboy poetry in the form of Michael Martin Murphy.

“I was just hooked. I had found what I was interested in as a kid,” said Hedges. “I was obsessed with cowboy poetry, cowboy music, and I’ve been immersing myself in it ever since. I’ve always gone out of my way to say that I’m not a cowboy. I’ve never earned my living ranching. I have a tremendous amount of respect for the men and women who have those skills and who made those sacrifices. But I have spent a lifetime living in the rural west, really pursuing these stories. By the time I was 15, 16, I was travelling on my own to perform at cowboy poetry events and ranch rodeos. That’s really the tribe of people I feel like I belong to as a close observer. I’ve sometimes been called an amateur folklorist. I feel like it’s a culture you could spend a lifetime pursuing as an artist.”

It’s not just Hedges’ aura that feels frozen in time. The values expressed in The Westerner are what America was built on. With cynicism and nativism squaring off in public debate, it’s easy to forget the beautiful ideals America, and specifically the West once held dear. Hedges put the title poem, written in 1915, to music. The idea of a fresh start and a values based meritocracy is a gorgeous one, and the phrasing makes it all the more enticing: “My name is mine for the praise or scorn/and the world began when I was born” and “Class and rank are a worn out law/for all clean men are as good as I.”

“Out West, we don’t care where you’re from or what colour skin you have. We care about your character, whether you treat people fairly or are an honest person,” said Hedges. “If you’re not, things are not gonna go well for you out here. I think that’s a Western value, and it’s cool to see it reflected in writing from that many years ago. I think there’s still relevance for these old songs, these old poems. Some of the beauty of this old music is that it’s tradition that’s being passed on and people find them to be relevant, but I don’t get too wrapped up in how it’s going to strike people in 2026.”

By focusing on the history and old texts, Hedges is indeed acting as a sort of historian. He presents the ideas for us to judge, but he presents them well. The songs he set to music himself are especially good, taking advantage of his low register and strength when he’s half speaking. There’s a wistful quality to his voice, quite perfect for the Western mindset he described.

“When you look at the old poems, from the very beginning of the American Cowboy, there was this lament for the passing of the West,” said Hedges. “The first people settling this area, I think they knew they were seeing things that would never be seen again. I think they knew civilisation would be encroaching on the West. There was always that sense of loss, even in the earliest cowboy songs.” 

Hedges says his deep respect for those working the land comes from their commitment to tradition and willingness to do what it takes to live the way they want to.

“The way of life has continued on. The working cowboy is alive today, but you see a lot of family ranches not able to survive,” said Hedges. “A lot of things have changed. A lot of places would be horseback more than they are now because now there’s pickups and trailers. They still value those skills. They try to improve on that all the time. There are probably better horsemen and people more knowledgeable about working with livestock than there were in the old days, so some of it’s even improved.”

His guest vocalists in Dom Flemons and Ramblin’ Jack Elliot are well chosen. They’re both former guests on his podcast and both full of cowboy knowledge and stories themselves. Hedges’ podcast, Cowboy Crossroads, includes a wide range of guests including cowboys, poets, musicians, photographers, and other folklorists. The fact that Hedges converted interviews into guest spots shows how amiable and knowledgeable he is. He’s also a fantastic listener. 

“What often happens is that through that time you spend together, you kind of get to know a person. By the time we finished that interview and it came out on the podcast a bit and corresponded about it, you get to be friends,” said Hedges. “You never know when you interview somebody what kind of stories may come out, and that’s a real privilege to get to collect and share those stories and be a guardian of these people’s lives.” 

During our interview, Hedges even recited the first poem he learned as a teen. The subject is a rotting cow in a stream, and the speaker goes into detail: “She was… oozing and slipping her hair/her eye sockets were alive with maggots that thrive on dead flesh.”

As a teen, Hedges was asked by a restaurant owner to recite one of his poems to a group of older diners. 

“It didn’t occur to me that my favourite poem might not be appropriate for the setting,” said Hedges of the poem, which eventually reveals the character made the mistake of drinking from the stream. He must have been talented even then, because he got a gig delivering poems at the restaurant. Hedges is one of the few guests I’ve had over the years who mostly works with material written by others. It’s his role in the process of preservation and education about a little-known art form that makes him a unique performer.

“I’ve written a few things over the years, but I’ve always been more drawn to the form of a recitation. Cowboy poetry in its earliest forms was an oral tradition, rather than passed through the page,” said Hedges, who went on to carve out his own style. “I was really blessed. I came under the influence of a whole group of people who participated in this, so I heard all kinds of styles and voices. People used their own personalities to bring poetry to the stage.”

You get the sense that there’s no cynicism in Hedges’ admiration for Western life. He’s not naive, and his album lists struggles legal, emotional, financial, and physical. But he values he espouses — hard work, strong character, acceptance, and respect for elders who show such traits — are rock solid. Hedges manages to avoid passing too much judgement a few thornier issues, including some serious womanising on “Eight Bucks and Change,” in which a the main character possibly earns redemption by working hard to tame horses. “Names” also explores the idea that a difficult to tame horse and a similarly tough man could make a special connection. Redemption, through action and emotional progress, always seems in reach. Long before social media and social security followed you everywhere, people used to go out West for a fresh start. That spirit is still present in the poems Hedges curated.

No character comes out looking better on the album than Tom Blasingame, a man legendary for keeping a strong work ethic into his nineties and his noble death. Sensing he was not long for the world, he dismounted his horse gently to avoid spooking him and laid down to rest. It’s described with stunning beauty. Blasingame’s virtues aren’t the least bit flashy: consistency, consideration, fidelity. To hear them celebrated with such tenderness is genuinely enough to soften a hardened heart. 

‘He’s really living his life for something other than the financial rewards of the job,” said Hedges. “Valuing freedom and spending your time doing the things you want to do and living out of doors. I admire people who choose to live that way. There’s a closeness to your creator in that lifestyle.”

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Andy Hedges and the songs we discussed, starting with The Westerner, which sets out some fairly progressive values to be enforced in a rather conservative way. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://andyhedges.com for more. Andy also has a podcast, interviewing poets, musicians, and other figures associated with cowboy life. Check that out at https://andyhedges.com/cowboy-crossroads.

With You is not the first album I’ve ever listened to gushing about the magic of becoming a parent.“Tracing my finger on the soft of your ear/your breath relaxing into mine/you arrived, now I sing, a broken harmony/how slow, how fast do these days go by?” Courtney Hartman sings about her daughter Temple on “Honey, Honey.” The deep imprint such a simple action left on her is clear and well put.

I’m not trying to downplay the impact of such themes; just because many women (and some men) have expressed them to music before doesn’t make them any less heartwarming or worthy. But what makes With You so interesting and relatable is the quality and quantity of the questions Hartman has about the whole process, and the insecurities she’s unafraid to address. She is somehow able to acknowledge that there are things she knows, things she can’t know, and that sometimes they can be the same thing at the same time. “I’ll know you then like I know you now/it’s all a mystery still to me/we’re growing,” she sings on “Growing,” a song set when Temple was still in her womb. In harbouring and then nurturing a child, there’s an innate familiarity. Yet as time goes on, both mother and child change, child especially. She will grow, learn to walk, talk, make friends, start absorbing ideas from the outside world. The change and mystery will be constant, just as the knowing will.  

Hartman’s focus on the unknown proves compelling throughout. “To Carry You,” toward the end of the album, is a breathtaking expression of insecurity on the same subject. Hartman repeatedly asks if she’ll ever know what it truly means to be a mother.

“It’s not really a question you can ask, so you wonder. That song more than any other has made me cry while singing it, just because that question can sometimes feel challenging and th love feels really deep,” said Hartman. “More often than not, I don’t really feel adequate. That’s a thin place in me.”

It was a sentence that I simultaneously completely understood and yet made me want to jump in and defend Hartman, even though she’s the one who said it.

Hartman is an intelligent person with the strength and tenderness to put her heart on display for anyone who listens and the tenacity to tour multiple continents playing music. Of course she can raise a child. And yet, parenthood seems so daunting. A child is a piece of your heart that’s walking around outside you, my parents explained to me growing up, and that can be stressful. You can’t possibly be there to protect them from everything. It’s also a tremendous expenditure of energy both before and after pregnancy. First your body transforms, then your life.

“We’re often told we can take it all on, but the reality is that we’re humans which means that we’re limited,” said Hartman. “But what I’ve sensed is a clarity of what is important and what I can shed.” 

A career of touring is one of those things being shed, at least for the foreseeable future. Hartman, a guitar player regularly named as one of the most accomplished in bluegrass when she came on the scene, is now focused on local functions. She’s raising her daughter and has another child on the way. Still, she certainly has things she’d like to achieve.

“I feel really good when I’m doing things and checking lists off. So there are a lot of things about me personally that grates up against the presence and pace of a small child,” said Hartman. “Even now watching my daughter, who is almost three, try to put her shoes on, my instinct is to rush it along. But the practice of continuing to do that work of staying present and slow down, it’s a struggle for me. But it’s an important thing for me to struggle with, I think.”

Not being on the road is a challenge for a musician, but she’s still managing to write and create.

“I think the music industry wants us to think that the only way we can continue creating is if we’re on the road all the time. So I’ve had some reckoning to do with my own desires,” said Hartman. “It’s actually impossible with the way that social media works in our minds to not compare our lives to other people. Learning contentment is a superpower, not one I’ve fully tapped into.”

Hartman repeatedly put her insecurities and perceived weaknesses out there. When discussing performing on piano and fiddle in her community, she said she was nervous. 

“The tiniest new thing and all of a sudden I have my own little freak outs,” said Hartman. “But it’s good. Then you do it and you feel good and it’s important.”

Hartman noted and appreciated her growth throughout our discussion, so I asked if she had come any closer to knowing what it means to be a mother. 

“Slightly,” she said. “But the question grows. It balloons and changing. Because we’re always changing.”

Elsewhere on the album, Hartman notably takes the time to thank the women in her life who assisted her in the months described.

Didn’t you give the soothing of a mother?/How did you know just what to say?, Hartman sings of her midwife in “Companion.” “No one needs mothering/like a woman in the summer days of mothering,” she sings in “Like A Woman,” referencing her own mother as a special source of advice. It’s an aspect of new parenthood that’s rarely explored on these concept albums, let alone on multiple tracks.

“Motherhood is an experience of womanhood, but it’s only one facet of womanhood. I wanted this song to speak even more broadly to how we as a sisterhood support one another and show up for one another,” said Hartman. “I was almost startled for the desire that I had for mothering as I became a mother. That feeling is familiar. Maybe it happens to both parents, that sense of ‘golly I need guidance.’ But I think there is an innate need for that extra care.”

She expressed gratitude and awe at her own mother.

“My mom’s pretty amazing. I have nine siblings and so she’s experienced birth and all that comes with it ten times, which totally blows my mind,” said Hartman. “There’s a lot that I can talk to my own mom about, which is such a gift. I don’t take that lightly.”

Our discussion was interrupted, quite appropriately given the subject matter, by Temple walking in asking to watch Mr. Rogers. She’s an imaginative child who wanted to pretend to ski. And she’s certainly Hartman’s child, taking interest in the mandolin at a music event.

“Ultimately I want her to love what she is curious about and nurture her in that direction,” said Hartman, who is admittedly helping to foster Temple’s interest in music. “Mostly I’ll sing to her. Some of them are little songs I’ve written or songs my mom used to sing to us. Music is good. I want this to be part of her life.”

It was that desire that helped Hartman grow past an insecurity I never would’ve guessed the Grammy nominee felt. 

“My husband and I didn’t used to play music around each other. There was this little insecurity and ego thing,” said Hartman “I didn’t just sing around the house. When Temple was born, it hit me: Am I going to let my own pride and insecurities keep me from sharing music from her in just an every day way?”

Before our conversation ended, I could hear Temple playing some kind of small piano in the background. It would seem as though the strategy is working.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Courtney Hartman and the songs we discussed, starting with “Like A Woman,” which gives special thanks to the sisterhood supporting new mothers. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.courtneyhartman.com for more.

“My attitude towards healing is that it’s never done. There’s no such thing as healed,” said Laura Burhenn, lead singer and songwriter for the Mynabirds in one of the most emotional Country Pocket interviews I’ve recorded over more than a decade on air.

There’s a very crucial distinction between Burhenn saying that healing can’t be finished and that healing isn’t possible. It’s Okay To Go Back If You Keep Moving Forward is a testament to her belief in the possibility of healing, even at the cost of wading back through the darkness and pain. It’s actually so important and so constantly ongoing that she has no choice but to. Given what Burhenn has to say on this masterpiece of grief and evolution, it seems insane to ever ‘go back’ to the sources of her pain. And yet, it’s in the exploration of those terrible feelings that she’s able to land somewhere much closer to happy by the end of this saga. 

Moving forward with deep trauma is like trying to move against a ferocious gravity pulling you back toward the worst moments of your life. In a move straight out of a NASA mission, Burhenn uses this gravity as a slingshot. It’s a high risk manoeuvre that only propels her to where she’s trying to go by circling the rim of a black hole. It’s bleak, but successful. This is not an album for the faint of heart, but it’s absolutely for anyone who’s been shattered. 

“I’m as fragile as fragile can be/I’ve been torn at the seams,” Burhenn sings on Velveteen. She describes her state well on the first two tracks, though the specificity of feeling doesn’t do much in the way of revealing what happened to her. “Ramona, Patron Saint of Silence,” will immediately answer that question for anyone who’s ever been a victim of a predator. “Did you worry about the worlds you’d incinerate with the things that you’d say?” Burhenn sings on that track. Now we’re getting somewhere.

“In survival mode, we have the four Fs: flight, fight, freeze, or fawn. Silence is a sort of freezing that we do and it keeps us safe,” said Burhenn. “In that space, I think I realised I stopped writing because I had encountered a big trauma in my life and I needed to stay frozen for a while to be able to survive. Ultimately, the song is a thank you letter to whatever force protects us while we heal. Also, it’s a letter of gratitude to the power of our voice and the worlds we could destroy when we are ready to speak out.”

Speak out Burhenn does. She doesn’t name the source of her pain, but she paints him as successful in the music industry with a perverse appetite. “Tell me how does she taste?/I know how you like your meat/Fresh as a daisy,” she sings on “Drinking Song,” one of the darkest, most stomach turning tracks I’ve ever empathised with. Burhenn was already taking risks describing assault in such raw terms. But the anger, jealousy, and initial lack of empathy she displays toward what is clearly a fellow victim pushes this track into heart-stopping territory. “Can you do her a solid?/One thing I wish you’d done for me/Please make it bleed,” Burhenn sings, letting all those emotions out at the same time as wishing her own scars would be more visible and easily understood. There’s a reason Burhenn sat on this song for as long as she did. These are hard words to think and impossible to unspeak.

“I wrote it during the Me Too era. I like many people became very aware of abuse and trauma that I had suffered and witnessed. There was a real reconning,” said Burhenn. “I wrote that song and I didn’t know what to do with it. I was so disgusted by that song, I was so disgusted by the feelings that were coming up inside of me. It was something I was witnessing across the music industry. A younger and younger person keeps getting ushered in and I know what that exchange looks like. I know personally that it wasn’t great. Often times, it wasn’t consensual. I sang that song out of so much anger that I didn’t know what to do with it.”

That’s the ‘going back’ part of the album title. Dancing on the edge of that black hole, teardrops being sucked in, barely believing there’s a way out. That’s the years of silence being broken with the most blood curdling scream. 

“There’s just this energy in this world of people taking and extracting whatever they want,” said Burhenn “I can’t abide this anymore.” 

It’s okay if you barely made it this far. Burhenn created powerful medicine with this release, but not all medicine cures all wounds. The good news is that the rest is moving forward. Crucially, “Drinking Song” puts that on display before it ends. The last refrain tries desperately to take those words back. 

“Maybe if this happens to someone else, I’ll feel less alone and we can commiserate over it,” Burhenn started, describing it as a horrible thought. 

“I don’t want anyone to experience this hell,” she finished.

“Allowing both that original thought and that more evolved, more healed thought to exist together in that song was important. It’s not neat, it’s not tidy what people experience when they’re dealing with abuse, when they’re healing,” said Burhenn. “I think part of the healing process is allowing the darkest thoughts to bubble up and get free. I think if I can say it out loud, hopefully anyone who hears it will feel less alone.” 

Once the darkest thoughts came free, lighter ones followed. Burhenn is a Buddhist and early on in our conversation mentioned the core belief of “be the change you want to see.”

“I think that we are all operating from some place of trauma, and the more we can look that in the eye and work to heal that within ourselves, I think we heal the whole world,” said Burhenn. She described wanting to write this album from a collective voice. She cited Maya Angelou, another victim of abuse who chose to remain silent for years before putting extraordinary words to the page.

“I think there’s this lineage of voice throughout human history and I feel like that’s part of what I’m singing about,” said Burhenn. “What does it sound like when people who have been oppressed and repressed finally recognise their own worth and speak up for themselves?” 

Two strains have emerged in Burhenn’s thinking. The first is best described in “Ramona, Patron Saint of Silence,” when she embodies a volcano: “there’s wisdom in the fire/and some things need to burn.”

“I struggle with what it means to be a force of peace and love in the world and the truth of the matter is that some things need to be destroyed,” said Burhenn. “Destroying the old world to make way for the new one is also an act of love.”

Burhenn sees this happening even today, in the partial release of the Epstein files and the slow movement toward justice for at least some of the abusers. She also sees a lot more systems that need to burn. Yet Burhenn doesn’t want to see people destroyed, even the bad ones. Being the change she wants to see means loving. Loving means showing kindness to people who may not deserve it at the time – or possibly ever. 

“I also wish for all the abusers to heal,” said Burhenn. “The best thing you can do when faced with an abuser is stop their abuse. Not only are they hurting other people, they’re hurting themselves too. If you come from a place from deep love and forgiveness, that’s what you want.” 

That extends to participants some systems creating a lot of trauma at the very moment. Burhenn describes her philosophy as being focused on comforting those who are hurting, as opposed to just finding a way to get through pain.

“When your outrage is rooted in love, you cannot fail,” said Burhenn. “Be they an ICE agent or a racist asshole, I fully believe that their position comes from fear and ignorance. When I come face to face with that energy, I have to be courageous and full of love.”

“We won’t surrender a thing/by disarming,” Burhenn sings on “Disarm,” a track toward the end of the album.

“It’s not that we don’t choose to fight, it’s that we choose to do it differently,” said Burhenn. “I’m here for peace, I’m not going to roll over. I’m going to take the gun out of the person’s hand so they can’t hurt anybody else.”

It’s Okay To Go Back If You Keep Moving Forward ends on a very hopeful note. “LA Rain” describes a loving embrace, a person who has become a safe place to hide. Burhenn seems to genuinely have found peace in her personal life and is convinced we might yet find it on a larger scale as well.

“Hope has clawed through some heavy shit to get to the other side,” said Burhenn, quoting something she saw online. “I think that same thing about love. Love protects the people we care about and the vulnerable.”

Systemic abuse truly animates Burhenn. She’s active on social media, posting her thoughts about healing and her opposition to what the current administration, led by an individual who has been found liable in a court of law for the type of abuse described in “Drinking Song.” Having already faced it up close, Burhenn doesn’t seem daunted by the moment.

“We’re in the thick of it,” she admitted. “But we are going to get those assholes out of power. This moment is terrible and temporary.” 

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Laura Burhenn of The Mynabirds and the songs we discussed, starting with Ramona, Patron Saint of Silence, which covers Burhenn’s absence from the songwriting world. The interview, easily the most tearful I’ve ever conducted, begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.themynabirds.org for more.

During our conversation, Sarah Morris referred to herself as a “feelings-helper-haver.” It’s a job description far too informally worded to align with therapist, but it’s not an entirely separate field. Morris is a songwriter, one who hones in on specifics and thoroughly explores emotions and patterns of thinking in great detail even if she doesn’t focus as much on the events behind them. As perhaps the world’s first self appointed feelings-helper-haver, Morris believes in capturing her precise experiences in order to reach others.

“If it’s coming up for me as a person, chances are it’s coming up for someone else and I’ll be able to more accurately serve them as a songwriter,” said Morris of her bursts of catharsis. “I want to be able to point that out to others who I love and sometimes I need that pointed out to me.”

Say Yes is an odyssey that encourages embracing love. It digs into anxieties and bitter breakups while simultaneously chasing the high of something special and defending the idea that it’s all worth it. Morris achieves that feat with exceptional lyrics and an album that feels dreamy, drifting on her high register and steadfast tendency to return to optimism. This isn’t the album to listen to in order to close a difficult chapter, but it would have to be among my top picks to have on while beginning to write a new one. 

The journey more or less begins with Morris seeing someone “Glow.” “There’s something about you lately/everybody’s saying there’s an easy peaceful way you move now/just like sun on water,” she sings, in awe of someone who is in the right place for themself. It’s heartening to hear a song that celebrates someone else’s happiness. In the context of the album, “Glow” starts Morris on a journey of healing, wanting what her friend has but without a hint of bitterness. 

“That song has a bit of envy in it but it’s also celebration. I wrote it around my birthday and I was not feeling particularly glowy myself, but it sure makes me happy to look over and see someone else killing it,” said Morris.“When someone’s really rooted in their awesomeness, they’re not even showing it off because they don’t have to. They can’t help but glow. If you surround yourself with people who are in that state it’s kind of contagious. So go by some glowy folk and celebrate them.”

As a spark for change, “Glow” is a warm but small one. Morris admits more probably needs to happen to shake someone out of a rut. 

“It really takes us a lot to finally make that move out of a situation,” she said. “As humans we are pretty willing to stay in things that don’t serve us well because it’s a lot of work to leave.”

Say Yes does not shy away from the fact that love can turn into something that doesn’t serve us. “The next thing I did was let out a howl/a full on scream leaving my mouth/you could say, you could say/a lot about a woman in her coming apart,” Morris sings on “Hard on a Heart.” The moment comes after a divorce. There’s neither celebration nor defeat here, just release.

“I thought about how it would feel to have a full catharthis of a moment, but in the back of your mind know this isn’t necessarily going to last,” said Morris. “There will be more complex follow up, but the fun of singing “Hard on a Heart” and tapping into that character is that for just a minute, she’s going with the purity of getting out of it. We’re supposed to feel our feelings.”

When it comes time to regain her glow, Morris arrives back at love. It doesn’t seem to be for lack of trying to find a safer place to rest her head. “I’ve scanned the wisdom of the ages/I have searched the stars above/and mostly found some variation of yes/the good stuff, the good stuff, love,” she sings on “Love.” 

“The One I Choose” is the standout of a very strong album for both its unusual concept and perfect plot twist. Morris essentially starts this song looking for the most ethical way to leave someone. She wants to slip out the back door, perhaps say it face to face, but anything to make a selfish act as painless as possible. “That’s the one I choose,” she sings of this hypothetical mercy. Perhaps it’s already obvious at this point, but there’s an awful lot of care in this relationship. So when Morris ultimately decides choosing to stay, it’s both hard won and fully rationalised. The fantasy fades into an even more satisfying reality. 

“I’m a mom. I had young kids at the time,” Morris explained. “Even if I would never ever, ever, ever leave, it’s still pretty normal to have those daydreams to mentally escape. But the truth is you’re never going to.”

Her thought experiment might end with stasis, but it’s still transformative. A listener will hear what it’s like to almost accidentally take stock of everything and come to appreciate it more. They’ll get a fuller sense of Morris’ anxieties and values. And perhaps they’ll start thinking a little bit about their own reasons for not escaping, even if there is a part of them that wants to.

“Two things could be true, and ultimately I think this person lands on the truest,” said Morris.

Oddly enough, I feel inclined to explain Morris’ most powerful idea with a quote from Winston Churchill: “Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.” Being single and explorations of freedom may have provided that moment of catharsis throughout the album, but none of it beats that simple and elegant concept people keep making their way toward. 

“The stars are back/and I for one refuse to take them for granted” Morris sings later on in the album. Love is “light cutting through the deep black,” even if it seems to be the very thing capable of stranding someone out there in the first place. 

Though the album contains 10 tracks, I would have stopped at 8. “Some Of That Is True” feels like the natural conclusion for this story. “The details they don’t matter now/so I paint them however I choose,” Morris sings. This time, she’s driving off into the sunset with a loved one. That fantasy escape is “somewhere only we know” rather than a life alone. The dreamer we heard earlier on exploring a way out is using that same imagination to make a good situation better. She’s softened but hasn’t lost what defines her. I can certainly feel her settling into an easy glow. 

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Sarah Morris and the songs we discussed, starting with Hard on a Heart, which opens in the middle of a breakdown. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://sarahmorrismusic.com for more.

It is not easy to come to terms with deep wounds. On “Tango,” Jo Fuller describes a difficult relationship where she felt doubted. 

“This person just made me feel lesser than,” said Fuller. “It was complex in that they tried to disguise that view of me, or maybe they didn’t want to have that view of me but they did. But I could just feel it.”

Not surprisingly, Fuller was never able to get an apology. That often isn’t something that easily springs forth from people who have disappointed us in the first place. But if that result isn’t particularly remarkable, Fuller’s success in achieving closure is. She realized that instead of confronting someone else, she needed to look inward and confront her emotions and her role in the situation. If that sounds like someone beating themself up, it’s not. “Own your hand and I’ll own mine,” she sings, stating “it takes two to tango.”

It’s the nuance in Fuller’s exploration of emotion that makes Wood of the Grain such an impressive and mature debut. 

“I needed to see how I was participating in letting them have such a big impact on my emotional world” said Fuller. “That’s enough for me. Realizing my role because it takes two to tango. That was all the closure I wound up needing.”

Fuller approaches herself and her emotions in many ways on the album. Sometimes, like on “Paper Tiger,” a direct confrontation of a thought pattern is needed. It’s the anthem of a woman who is beyond being weighed down by negative

“Can I stalk the streets of my mind? Can I begin to make conversation with the parts of myself that I’m scared of?” asked Fuller, referring to her lyrics. “Maybe these are parts of myself or recurring thoughts and feelings that I can come to know.” 

It’s that idea that proved to be the most powerful on her album. Fuller said she struggles with anxiety but I had enough experience with the subject that I didn’t need much of an explanation on how that feels. Admitting that our world is a bit on fire right now, Fuller didn’t set out to eradicate the feeling. Instead she practiced setting boundaries within herself.

“You can give yourself permission that it’s right and it’s rational and you can feel it,” said Fuller. “And you can also give yourself permission that if it feels debilitating, that there are also steps to take that might alleviate the amount to which you’re feeling that.” 

“Welcome to the Guest House, It’s the Best House” is a fresh application of a centuries old idea, one featured in a Rumi poem. “Come sit with me dear,” Fuller sings, inviting her emotions in for something between a heartfelt conversation and a negotiation. She describes the process as having made her emotions seem whole and tangible for the first time. “I’m sorry darling/I didn’t know it was okay to feel this way,” she sings. 

“There’s a lot of sadness for the way I have historically related to these feelings so I apologize,” said Fuller, meaning she apologized to her feelings. “I don’t want to feel anxiety. I don’t want to feel fear. I don’t want to feel loneliness. Contrary to that initial impulse to push away, it’s an invitation.” 

Wood of the Grain is an album about “development in context,” Fuller says, a recognition of pain and a path forward outlined by “the wisdom of bygone thinkers.” 

“The things that we consider broken and non ideal about ourselves. They’re not just random flaws, they are things that developed in response to something in our context. They’re actually worthing of our understanding or curiosity. They’re adaptations,” said Fuller. “How pervasive that ‘I’m broken, I’m fundamentally flawed’ feeling is in our culture is a product of how quickly we pathologize something instead of getting curious about something, honoring it. It doesn’t mean we have to believe it. It doesn’t have to rule our lives. It sure as hell is not brokenness.” 

The album ends on a satisfying and beautiful note, a love letter to those who supported her through the struggle.

“It’s provided me with the soil, the fertile ground of being able to get through some really hard things,” Fuller said of the feeling of community around her. “A lot of this album is aspirational but it’s becoming reality for me. I struggle with anxiety but I’m doing it. It’s pretty exciting what it’s making space for in my life, including exploring my relationship to God and a higher power.” 

Pixar has proven that with bright colors and a smart script, personifying emotions can be extremely effective. I’m not optimistic we get anything close to this mature and impactful for “Inside Out 3.” For those wishing for a version of the franchise aimed at adults, Wood of the Grain will more than do. 

If you’re seeing this before Friday, only our partial episode with Jo Fuller is available as some of her music remains unreleased. For now, enjoy one song and Jo’s music choice along with her interview. Later we will add two more songs. Check out our guest at https://www.jo-fuller.com/ and my radio station at https://www.wusb.fm/

As Donald Trump transforms America with overwhelming backing from the Evangelical population, a new more tolerant voice in Christianity is gaining strength. Pope Leo is the most visible example, regularly preaching kindness toward immigrants and respect for democratic norms. As churches have been stormed by ICE, clergy are trying to preserve their sanctuaries. Reverends David Black and Jorge Bautista were shot in the face with chemical irritants while protesting ICE but continue to speak out. James Talrico, a minister himself, is running for Senate in Texas on a platform of biblical love. It’s not quite the majority of Christians in America, but their voices are growing louder and the progressive teachings of Jesus are seeing more press coverage than at any time in recent history. 

My latest guest, John Francis O’Mara, is both a musician and Episcopal priest. He’s been spreading that progressive message through rural Virginia to congregations that at times walk out on his homilies. His album features an image of a brown Mary on the cover. The “Forbidden Hymns” he writes are spiritual battle cries with a political edge.

“The zeitgeist and the horror and the xenophobia and the brutality and the cruelty largely is coming from a MAGA Christian white nationalist agenda,” said O’Mara. “What it’s doing for me is putting in stark terms as never before that my role as a Christian and a priest is to embody and do the things that demonstrate that there’s another kind of expression of Christian faith and justice. There’s another world full of people who are deeply troubled by what’s going on and moved to action. I’m one of those kind.”

“Walking in Babylon” captures the surreal feeling of being a Christian in a nation that justifies killing and persecution in the name of the Lord. Meanwhile, he’s focusing on building community and supporting the marginalized. “In the shadow where the empire spreads/Me and my brothers are breaking bread/It’s blue and white, but I’m seeing red/Democracy’, is that what you said?” O’Mara sings. 

“It’s making my job as a person who believes in justice and empathy and the dignity of every human person, the thing that Jesus and spiritual people have been proponents of, it makes my job easier in that I’m called to not cower,” said O’Mara. 

Is O’Mara a bit radical for a priest? Perhaps. Jesus was very much a radical in his time. O’Mara’s alarm at the situation in America and his desire to fight it is building. “There’s a holy fire inside of me/Hotter than the barrel of your gun,” sings O’Mara on “Mighty Power.” He sounds like a man ready to flip some tables.

“I’m called to be bold,” said O’Mara. “This is a time when people like myself who have a claim of believing the red letters, this novel idea that maybe he meant what he said, this is a time for us to be courageous.”

He’s not at all surprised that the administration is taking aim at protesters and creatives. 

“They have always feared the artists, especially the artists who have convictions and are willing to die for them,” said O’Mara. “More and more, I’m not pulling any punches. I believe that a better world is possible.” 

The album is much more than a collection of protest songs. O’Mara prays and converses with holy figures including the Blessed Mary. He laments the state of things and tries to draw strength from their spiritual relationship.

“I was born on the feast day of St. Juan Diego. He’s the Aztec peasant farmer who received the vision of Our Lady of Guadalupe, so I have a deep affinity for her,” said O’Mara. “Mary is an archetype of the divine feminine. Protector, nurturer, life giver, the womb of creativity. That feminine presence in our spirituality, our narratives, in our hierarchy, it’s still so unbalanced.”

O’Mara is trying hard to rebalance. He doesn’t have a set parish and often visits other churches that don’t have full time priests. He offers his congregants stern words and stands up for his principles. When a church invited him to lead a service that featured military fight songs, he told them to change the program or find someone else to preach it. 

“Celebrating the machines and mechanism of war is different than honoring soldiers, especially wounded soldiers or families of soldiers who died,” said O’Mara “I want to live in a world someday, and I believe it’s possible, that we won’t need those fight songs and we won’t have to go to funerals of dead soldiers because war will be no more. I firmly believe that’s possible. I have to. That’s the promise of the gospel: to let it be on Earth as it is in heaven.” 

O’Mara finds himself in a difficult position trying to share a different interpretation of the gospel than most American protestants are familiar with. At a time when many evangelical faith leaders openly support and even lay hands on Trump, O’Mara is trying to draw attention back to basics like ‘do unto others.’ 

“The heart of the gospel is love. It’s a universal and unconditional love,” said O’Mara. “And that includes the people in the pews. It requires of everyone to extend that same unconditional love, especially to those that are other than them.”

There are calls to action on forbidden hymns, at times quite explicit.

“Do you have the courage to share what you’ve been given?” sings O’Mara on “No One Gets Out Of Here Alive.”

“It’s an invitation to people listening to my record to take this shit personally,” said O’Mara. “It’s the beginning of the end of any society when the pain of others doesn’t register with the whole.”

Perhaps my presence in Europe inspired O’Mara to speak on the topic of emigrating, but he brought it up unprompted.

“I thought about leaving. My family got here two generations ago from Ireland. Sometimes when I have that imaginary or not so imaginary conversation with my ancestors, I imagine them assuring me that it’s okay to come home,” said O’Mara. “But at the same time, the disenfranchised and disinherited people of America, those are my allies, those are my kin. My intention is to make choices about who I spend my time with and my money for.” 

An idealist, O’Mara believes in bringing messages of anti-racism into even parishes that might be hostile to it. He’s perfectly content to preach through walkouts or groans and questions whether some congregants understand that coming to church is about more than spiritual affirmation and checking an attendance box. 

“I’m glad you’re in the building, but that’s not why you’re here,” said O’Mara, recounting the scenario. “We’re here to make a better world a reality.”

Still, O’Mara is at his most powerful when he’s earnestly praying for a better tomorrow on “Let It Be So.” It’s not as pointed a song, but it gets to the heart of his beliefs: “Yes, another world will come/another world, I swear/Where the wars we’ve been wagin’ for ages and ages/Will finally refrain to an end,” he sings. 

It’s this kind of faith, whether in God or the constitution, that is required to stand up in times when the price for speaking out is so heavy. O’Mara seems like he’ll be particularly difficult to silence. Beyond being determined to be bold, O’Mara seems ready for the new role of progressive spiritual warrior.

“I want to have eloquent anger,” said O’Mara. “I want to have decisive outrage and an impatience with injustice.” 

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with John Francis O’Mara and the songs we discussed, starting with “Walking In Babylon,” which finds our society in a state of biblical disrepair. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://johnfrancisomara.com for more.

“Where Do You Come From” is the simple question posed by the title of Glen Peters’ latest album. As it’s posed in the song itself, the question is loaded. It’s an act of exclusion from British society. Peters delivers a far more complex answer to the query, arguing that he comes from India, his birthplace; Britain, his adopted home; the human race; and most poignantly, the sum of his experiences. “Home is my echo/my last refrain,” he sings on an earnest track.

“Most people regard home as something physical. At any point in time, it probably is,” said Peters. “But for me, home is a journey and it’s the trail that we’ve left, the memories. In a way, those things are more important to me. A lot of wonderful things come to mind.”

Peters has been embracing the UK folk music tradition for half a century now and sees in it a bit of the harmonies of the Northern Indian Roma people. In a world that increasingly wants to categorize and exclude people based on skin color or birthplace, Peters presents a powerful argument that identity is a multifaceted thing based on ancestry, experience, and the others around him. Both India and Britain are important to him.

“One is a physical place and the other is a spiritual place. I think the two move in and out of each other,” said Peters. “I was born in India, I went to school in India, and a lot of my early vivid memories are in India. People, family, music, and my early childhood.” 

Of course growing up doesn’t stop there. On “When You’re Sixteen,” Peters recalls the experience of becoming more independent and exploring a new homeland for the first time. London “set me free,” he sings on the autobiographical track.

“Going from one environment to another, also within myself going from a teenager to an adult, was a very exciting time to be,” said Peters. “The conflation of those two made quite an exciting time for me.” 

Peters does more than sing about his complex identity on the album. He also plays with it, switching from singing in a fairly standard British accent to emphasizing his Indian roots on songs more deeply rooted in the traditions of his homeland. In “Oh To Be An Aries,” he explores concept of astrology, extremely popular in India, through the lens of what would have happened if moving to a different time zone would have changed his sign. 

Peters’ discussion about having to conform like a Pisces rather than be outgoing like an Aries mirrors the idea of moving countries quite neatly. A big fish (or tiger, so to speak) in newly independent India may seem less impressive in a big pond like London. Peters admitted he had to take actions to conform in his new home.

“There’s a certain level of excitement in which I would have been brought up to speak. I felt I had to moderate some of that,” said Peters. “So yes, I did change the way I interacted with people.”

As a recent transplant to Britain myself, I couldn’t help but knowingly laugh at some of his confusion back in the 70s.

“In Britain it was quite common for someone to ask you to do something. ‘Would you like to move box A to room B?’” said Peters. “The ‘like’ wasn’t an expression in terms of giving you an option, it was asking you to do that. Initially I found that quite confusing. ‘No, I wouldn’t like to do that.’”

Today Peters is very much a roaring Aries in Wales. He owns a solar plant build in an estate that also hosts artistic events, including the debut of this album.

“Music, very broadly speaking, is an important part of my life in terms of entertainment, having fun, making friends, reaching out to people,” said Peters. “But it’s also very therapeutic. It wasn’t the main focus of my life. It wasn’t something I dreamt about all day long. But it was woven into the texture of being me.” 

Musician and businessman. Immigrant and successful Briton. Peters comes from there, but also here.

“I will use [the] two parts of me when I feel I need to,” said Peters. “You can only make good use of these things instead of trying to be one person.”

Also woven into the album are episodes of British history that somehow involve people from the crown jewel of the old empire. In “Sepoy’s Lament,” he reflects on decisions to defend the imposed social order in India. Far more inspirational is “Kahn Of The Wire,” which tells the story of Noor Inayat Kahn, a brave young British woman who shared a skin tone with Peters. He marveled at Kahn’s ability to confront the teachings of her faith when presented with a threat as serious as the Nazis.

“Sufi is a Muslim sect that’s very mystical and strongly pacifist in their beliefs. The war started, she became aware of some of the nastier sides of war, and decided to put aside her pacifist tendencies and became a radio operator,” said Kahn. “She was a spy. She was airlifted into France and was the first woman to be a spy in Nazi occupied Paris and she passed vital troop movements in the days before the D-Day landing.”

She was captured, escaped, captured again, tortured, and killed without giving up any information. Peters learned about Kahn when Prince Charles dedicated a statue to her and has since pondered about her deeply, even wondering how that pacifist faith might have helped her during her darkest hours. 

“Every time I sing it I’m quite moved,” he said of the song he wrote for her.

Peters believes that current Britons don’t necessarily learn about the role subjects of the empire played in shaping the strong nation the UK is today.

“I think there is a lack of understanding,” said Peters. “Even I wasn’t aware that there were 1.5 million people from the Commonwealth who played a huge contribution in both WWI and WWII. But that’s changing right now.”

Identity is a complicated thing, especially in a country that once laid claim to one quarter of humanity. Candidates standing for election in Britain today have gone so far as to say that even some people who were born in Britain may not actually be British. Others in territories still controlled by the UK can argue their families became British simply because a ship landed on the shore and the men inside declared themselves in charge.

Peters’ concept of identity on this album feels more fair as it takes into consideration the experiences and opinions of an individual as they identify themselves. He sings on this album about being the “wrong shade of brown” in an accent you might not associate with someone his shade of brown. It stands out as a wonderful example of how judging someone by their birthplace and appearance may not give you anywhere close to enough information to understand their story, values, and experiences.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Glen Peters and the songs we discussed, starting with “Home Is,” which goes on for a few minutes because the answer is not so simple. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every other Wednesday at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check this site to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://rhosygilwen.co.uk for more. Peters doesn’t have much of an online presence as a musician, so I included his arts centre instead.

Heather Aubrey Lloyd has learned to write her own hymns. Panic Room With A View is very much an artifact of the pandemic, but the focus on hope, resilience, and faith is just as relevant in 2026 as political issues loom large instead of a virus. Lloyd’s cries for hope are sometimes gritty and bleak. Sometimes they come out like a whisper. They are among the most believable tracks of their kind as a result. The inspirations are strange and specific, but the messages apply to just about anyone listening. 

Looking at a music festival’s FAQ page, Lloyd stumbled across the fairly literal question ‘are you lost?’ Sitting in the very found location of her home, Lloyd was still floored by the question. Yes. In a way, she did feel lost.

“Every song I’ve ever written that sounded resilient or optimistic was the prayer I only half believed. I was writing my own hymns long before I expected anyone else to buy it,” said Lloyd. She has mixed feelings about the fact her pandemic song hits hard today. “I long to be made irrelevant, but I guess I’m on some level I’m grateful the lessons and maybe the hope transfers.” 

Lloyd has tried her hand at journalism and teaching. A chat with her about songwriting and the deep thought she puts into the ethics and deeper truths of each song makes me realize she’s in the right business now. Lloyd sees other benefits.

“I get down,” said Lloyd. “Thankfully I’m a folk singer so no one expects me to be happy.”

Both teaching and having step children did lead to a serious change for Lloyd. Her personal doubts had to take a back seat to the needs of the young people around her. “I found the way and I made it through/to pass it down to you/And you will too,” she sings. Eventually, that changed Lloyd’s outlook. 

“Whether you have opt to your own or not, time spent in the education or uplifting of children in your community not only forces you to care or have investment in the future, it will also heal up things in you,” said Lloyd. “I made vows to my step kids. First, I would never lie to them. Second, I would never ask them to do anything I wasn’t first willing to do myself.”

Her time as a journalist in Baltimore also deeply shaped how she treated songs for a time. The experience also reminded her that people are more alike and resilient than she imagined.

“I was going into parts of the city where people said you should be afraid,” said Lloyd. “People are people and for the most part they’re just trying to not die in some stupid way. I went into a neighborhood where they had given up hope that they were going to control the drug dealers in the area, so they had gone to public works just to ask for speed bumps so they’d at least slow down and stop hitting their kids.”

She soon was approaching songs with the fact checking attitude of a newswoman. Sometimes, like when she learned details about the settings of one of her songs, the instincts served her well. Other times, she had to remember that songs are meant to reflect a slightly more complex version of the truth. 

“Where journalism and folk songs have an interesting intersection is that when I first started writing song, I was very uncomfortable not writing the absolute truth,” said Lloyd. “Songwriting says if you can find all these truths and bind them and unify them, that’s the greater truth born of the stitching of stories.”

Her new outlook allowed her to tell the story of graffiti in Aleppo, Syria without researching the people behind it. The graffiti read: “To the girl who shared the siege with me, I love you.”

“The journalist in me had to look certain stuff up because I don’t live there. Your brain says that’s a desert people, they haven’t seen the snow, and thank God I did look up the weather because they do get snow. That’s a thing journalism and folk singing both demand: I need to alter my assumption,” said Lloyd of the song. As for its deeper truth?  “When we are facing oblivion, and there may be nothing else we can do, what else is there but turning to the person next to you?”

Lloyd eventually discovered that her song had a happy ending: the author of that graffiti survived, and he’s still with that girl. The raw emotions of fear and human connection remain in Lloyd’s song. It doesn’t have a clear happy ending because its greater truth was to remind listeners that it’s human to root for love and safety. “Though we would have never been so bold/between the bombs she slipped her hand in mine,” she sings. 

“The songs are the way I tell myself I’m engaging in those conversations in a sneaky way. The Girl Who Shared The Siege With Me is the definition of show don’t tell,” said Lloyd. “The fear of siege for no reason other than other people’s conflicts is a universal thing. Folk songs look to tap into the universal thing to jar people who think that their problem or feeling or hatred or bias is somehow unique.”

Being an activist and a musician is a tricky line to toe. Lloyd doesn’t want to overestimate or underestimate her power. 

“I don’t want to walk around like a song can change the world, but every once in a while, a song has changed me,” said Lloyd. “People are stubborn. You can talk and talk and talk, but deeply held beliefs are not easily dispelled even by logic. Music attacks the feeling. If you can get into somebody via a pathway that seems neutral enough, [they] might have to address other things within [themselves].”

The most fascinating song on her album, The Stove, is based on a dark fairy tale. In it, a girl with a secret she cannot tell is encouraged to unburden herself in a stove. A benevolent king listens through the pipes and starts working on a way to help her. For Lloyd, this bizarre setup was akin to religion or therapy.

“Years after I stopped going, I held the room in my mind this invented place I could access. I pretended sometimes that he wasn’t even real and he was always a figment of my imagination,” Lloyd said. “The unburdening of yourself is desperately important, especially in these times. I find rage eats me now. I never knew I had so much rage. I had sadness, I had anxiety, the rage is new. The stove is meant to be this place of peace, this place of lack of judgement. A place where you’re allowed to be selfish and express all of these things.” 

In asking if the stove is like God, or if God even exists, Lloyd decided to explore some profound questions about the nature of religion and its utility even if it’s not true. Rather than answer questions about what she believes is out there, she focuses on how faith in something is an important salve. “I know mercy is uncertain here/but how the world it burns us,” she sings. 

“If more people were vulnerable with their God, we would probably do a lot less evil in this world,” said Lloyd.

The second half of her album is more optimistic, focused on love, and is more ordinary than her skilled spelunking into the darkness of the first half. Still, one great message comes across. In her song “Hum,” Lloyd argues that sometimes it’s wise to do a little less in order to stay strong in the long run. It certainly fits nicely with some of the tougher ideas on her album. Some days we can think about the lovers under siege and scream into the stove. Others, humming along is what we can handle so we can care for ourselves and loved ones. Just as with her songs about profound pain, the relatively sweet “Hum” is an important part of healing.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Heather Aubrey Lloyd and the songs we discussed, starting with “Are You Lost?,” which comes from a hilariously literal inspiration. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Monday at 4pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.heatheraubreylloyd.com for more.