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It’s not a coincidence that Kate Vargas uses the word ‘vintage’ in the first sentence of her glittering new album Golden Hour In The House Of Lugosi. There’s a punch and pizzaz to her sound that screams of yesteryear while her lyrics are modern, subversive and intelligent. Her emotional performances, each suited to the subject matter of the song, make each of these energetic character studies all the better. 

“Nothing Turns My Lock” exemplifies the bold energy of this album. The imagery is quite explicitly sexual, though that may be nothing new for jazz.

“There are some old jazz singers who go really far,” Vargas explained. “They just didn’t necessarily make the albums. Definitely will make you blush.”

The increasingly liberated character explores her identity and sets her boundaries. Her relationship is open, but it’s committed. It’s just that one person can’t quite satisfy every need she has. 

“We have this idea that our partner should be everything,” Vargas said. “I think it’s unrealistic and unfair.”

The lyrics throughout the album are significantly more modern than the sound. “Nothing Turns My Lock” was perhaps the most conscious application of that effect. Vargas described the song writing session as looking to push new bounds.

“We all grew up playing jazz music,” said Vargas. “We were talking about lyrical themes in those standards and how [they haven’t been] updated for current times. They tend to be romantic and heterosexual and monogamous. We felt like it needed an update.”

The best song on the album, and one of the best so far this year, is “I Once Was A Contender.” Vargas inhabits someone who thought she could’ve made something of her life. Instead she’s dealing with depression and madness. Much like the character feels she could’ve made it as a big screen actress, Vargas gives an Oscar worthy performance selling the mood. The questions of identity and expectations are the theme Vargas constructed the album around. Here, she feels sympathy for a character who doesn’t recognize her current worth.

“What I want for her is to realize that her value is great whether she’s on the big screen or whether she’s in small town New Mexico and never left,” said Vargas. 

“Serrated Knife” shows the extent to which Vargas can create a mood. The music changes tempos. Her vocals are blunt and frustrated when they need to be. In describing the difficulties of cohabiting, she figures out that her complaints might not be all that well founded. 

“Inevitably I’ll realize that I’m the problem,” Vargas said of her real life. “I will say I’m not an easy person to live with.”

The choice of weapon here is crucial. Serrated knives don’t exactly slice through cleanly.

“It is a very specific kind of knife,” said Vargas. “It’s really sharp in most parts, but over time it’s something you saw with.[In a relationship] you can have those beautiful moments of total elation and have these aspects grinding away.”

The choice of using legendary horror actor Bela Lugosi’s name in the title of the album feels random at first, but he winds up representing the sort of exploration of identity that each song represents.

“Talk about being put into a role,” Vargas said of the actor famous for playing Dracula and other early film icons. 

For her part, Vargas does not feel type cast. 

“I definitely have never felt restricted in my creative output by anyone outside of myself and I think that’s very important,” said Vargas. “For us to be able to express all aspects of ourselves is to be able to hold all parts of ourselves.”  

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Kate Vargas and the songs we discussed, starting with “I Once Was A Contender,” which is a dynamic portrait of someone who is quite stuck. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://katevargas.com for more.

Most people would have to agree that American society is going through a major upheaval at the moment. That started Lael Neale asking questions and she hasn’t stopped at recent history. “It’s just a little lonely/without the ground below me,” she sings on Tell Me How To Be Here, one of several tracks on the album that sound like a surreal lullaby and pack a tremendous lyrical punch.

“We are often born into sterile hospitals and taken from our moms and have things injected into us. It’s a crazy way to come into the world,” Neale said when we spoke. “I see society as insane now and completely unnatural.”

Los Angeles exemplified her disconnect from the modern world. The sights are emotional and the sounds cause sensory overload. When she lists features of modern society on “All Good Things Will Come To Pass,” she intentionally includes symbols of inequality and things we really don’t need. The music and pace intensify as she reveals the damage we’ve done to each other and the planet may be more lasting than the things we intentionally created.

“You’re always faced with some kind of sadness or pain or disturbance,” said Neale, describing “constant human activity that’s impinging on our mental space.”

Social media means fewer chances to escape from the suffering she observed on the city streets. Left wing feeds regularly display images of Gaza while those on the right focus on crimes committed in cities or by immigrants. In this particularly unpleasant moment it seems the whole spectrum is sharing conspiracy theories about Jeffrey Epstein. The pain is everywhere.

“Either people are in denial of that, or are hyper focusing on it and letting it rule and destroy their lives,” Neale said. “It’s a strange time to be navigating all of these things.”

The notion that we look to others for instructions is difficult for Neale to grasp. She’s a fierce individualist who sees schools as often crushing something vital in young people. At the same time, she asks Google for advice.

“I’m often looking to other people and outsourcing my own power because I don’t want to go through the trouble of knowing how to be in the world,” said Neale.

She’s fairly optimistic about the future of individualism, though not without acknowledging some worries.

“Arguably we’re the most free we’ve ever been now. There have been way more authoritarian times in human history. Maybe we’re heading more in the direction of individualism,” Neale said, hopeful that recent policy changes are not long lasting. “I think it’s a reaction to progress. You take a bunch of steps forward and the pendulum swings back.”

The conflict between the way things should be and the way things are is personified as a rebellious human teen wrecking the house while God isn’t watching.

“We are smarter. We have a better idea,” Neale said humans act like they believe. She disagrees. “We’ve completely gone off the rails. Are things going to line up or are we just going to go down that path of self destruction?” 

On “All Is Never Lost,” Neale argues that we still have a chance to get right with nature. “There’s still a light inside of us,” she sings, describing modern conveniences as having a cost, or “the weight of what we want.”

Neale credits producer and instrumentalist Guy Blakeslee with the discordant nature of many of her songs. She says his input has helped her overcome a major insecurity about sounding too sweet on songs about serious topics.

“He brings a counterbalance to something that could be more sweet and lulling,” said Neale. “I appreciate that, I feel like the songs need a riptide to pull it back in.”

Altogether Stranger ends with “There From Here,” a song set in an airport. Neale describes a surreal experience of duty free liquor and portals and security checks, but also a hope of moving on. Despite her lyrics, she revealed she’s a fan of most aspects of the airport.

“I like people watching and eavesdropping on people’s conversations. You’re always facing your own mortality when you get in a giant metal thing that’s flying through the sky. I sometimes think that makes people nicer to each other at the airport,” said Neale, adding that the scent of the perfume sales counter is a bit nightmarish. “It’s a perfect microcosm of our society. All the goodness in people and blatant capitalism and the authoritarianism of the airport attendees.” 

Neale’s own story of discomfort with the city ends with a trip to the airport. She left LA for her family’s farm in Virginia. 

“For me the most medicinal thing has been being in nature and being much more in control of what I’ve been taking in every day,” said Neale.

The airport is an unexpectedly profound symbol as well. It’s not always easy to change your location or your frame of mind. There are people acting as metaphorical security preventing you from moving forward and challenges at least as daunting as the shops with perfume.

“I’m constantly trying to move from one state of being to another and having this kind of angst propelling me,” Neale said. “But you can’t get a positive place from a state of mind of depression or anxiety. You have to step into the there that you want to go to before you get there.” 

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Lael Neale and the songs we discussed, starting with Tell Me How To Be Here, which sadly only partially mocks the notion of asking for advice on how to live from strangers on the internet. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.subpop.com/artists/lael_neale for more.

Photo by Seven Ruck

At only 17, Jack Barksdale is the youngest guest I’ve yet to have on my show. That does not seem to have stopped him from having an existential crisis.

“There’s a pie in the sky idea that someday we could advance enough to where we could move humans away from Earth. If we could actually move somewhere else, would it even be worth it?” said Barksdale when we spoke. 

After pressing him a bit, he relented that the concept of his song “The Cost” may be a bit harsh. 

“I’m using that as a way to point out that humanity is kind of messed up,” said Barksdale.

It’s concepts like this one that make Voices compelling and unique. Most professional teen musicians are either instrumental prodigies or singing about broken hearts. Barksdale is able to pinpoint the moment in the sun’s expansion that will render the Earth uninhabitable and use that knowledge as a springboard to ask a question as profound as whether humans as a species have earned the right to get a second chance on another world. He also has the wisdom and objectivity to know we probably wouldn’t do much better somewhere in space. Humans are “weaponized, glorified Homo Erectus” “just running from the grips of society and Father Time.” 

“Science is a lot more integral to philosophy than people think,” said Barksdale, noting that he’s constantly looking to learn from credible sources and differing views. His pandemic rabbit holes were healthier and more grounded than most, but no less life changing.

“Information is a powerful thing. It’s what the brain runs on,” said Barksdale.

“The End of Days,” which Barksdale described as being addressed to a more ‘common listener’ is blunt about things like the inevitability of death but much kinder about the situation. “We’ll have our fun/then we’ll make our day/to that sweet decay” he sings, softening the blow that not much matters.

There are truly different approaches to examining human existence. “A Funny Song” seems to take in the wonder of it all. On “Entropy,” Barksdale sings “we need to understand we’re not meant to be here and we’ll be leaving soon.” There is absolute despair in a song that ends in the words “I’m tired of rhyming.”

Another thread that runs through Voices is that of the oversized ego. “21st Century Savior” and “The Man, The Myth, The Legend,” both satirize those who see themselves as great. The latter takes aim at those who want to be great without deserving it. The former is absolutely sacrilegious in the most profound way: “Daddy put you here/and he can take you back,” Barksdale sings, seemingly as Jesus.

If there’s a song that gets at Barksdale’s personal emotions, it’s “A Song of the Artist.” The world is not ending in this one, but it shows the frustration with being a serious, passionate artist in this or any era.

“I think Van Gogh very well could go unrecognized today,” Barksdale said of an artist who also went unrecognized in his own time. “Especially with the serious songwriting, there’s not a ton of infrastructure for that to succeed. There’s never been a ton of infrastructure for it, but it has gone into the mainstream at times like in the 60s and 70s.”

He sees some hope in the internet reaching the right audience, but struggles with notions of what it takes to succeed even without industry middlemen. 

If you don’t fit what the algorithm wants, you’re going to have less opportunity and also there’s such volume of people that have the same platform, so it becomes saturated,” said Barksdale.

Still, the chants of “art defines me/art enshrines me” at the end of the song reveals a frustration with it all. Barksdale is right to suspect that algorithms won’t deliver his music on a large scale. Albums like Voices are for a very narrow audience, but the depth of thought and despair here along with some brilliant moments of provocation make it an extremely rewarding listen for those seeking a deeper cut.

At only 17, Jack Barksdale is the youngest guest I’ve yet to have on my show. That does not seem to have stopped him from having an existential crisis.

“There’s a pie in the sky idea that someday we could advance enough to where we could move humans away from Earth. If we could actually move somewhere else, would it even be worth it?” said Barksdale when we spoke. 

After pressing him a bit, he relented that the concept of his song “The Cost” may be a bit harsh. 

“I’m using that as a way to point out that humanity is kind of messed up,” said Barksdale.

It’s concepts like this one that make Voices compelling and unique. Most professional teen musicians are either instrumental prodigies or singing about broken hearts. Barksdale is able to pinpoint the moment in the sun’s expansion that will render the Earth uninhabitable and use that knowledge as a springboard to ask a question as profound as whether humans as a species have earned the right to get a second chance on another world. He also has the wisdom and objectivity to know we probably wouldn’t do much better somewhere in space. Humans are “weaponized, glorified Homo Erectus” “just running from the grips of society and Father Time.” 

“Science is a lot more integral to philosophy than people think,” said Barksdale, noting that he’s constantly looking to learn from credible sources and differing views. His pandemic rabbit holes were healthier and more grounded than most, but no less life changing.

“Information is a powerful thing. It’s what the brain runs on,” said Barksdale.

“The End of Days,” which Barksdale described as being addressed to a more ‘common listener’ is blunt about things like the inevitability of death but much kinder about the situation. “We’ll have our fun/then we’ll make our day/to that sweet decay” he sings, softening the blow that not much matters.

There are truly different approaches to examining human existence. “A Funny Song” seems to take in the wonder of it all. On “Entropy,” Barksdale sings “we need to understand we’re not meant to be here and we’ll be leaving soon.” There is absolute despair in a song that ends in the words “I’m tired of rhyming.”

Another thread that runs through Voices is that of the oversized ego. “21st Century Savior” and “The Man, The Myth, The Legend,” both satirize those who see themselves as great. The latter takes aim at those who want to be great without deserving it. The former is absolutely sacrilegious in the most profound way: “Daddy put you here/and he can take you back,” Barksdale sings, seemingly as Jesus.

If there’s a song that gets at Barksdale’s personal emotions, it’s “A Song of the Artist.” The world is not ending in this one, but it shows the frustration with being a serious, passionate artist in this or any era.

“I think Van Gogh very well could go unrecognized today,” Barksdale said of an artist who also went unrecognized in his own time. “Especially with the serious songwriting, there’s not a ton of infrastructure for that to succeed. There’s never been a ton of infrastructure for it, but it has gone into the mainstream at times like in the 60s and 70s.”

He sees some hope in the internet reaching the right audience, but struggles with notions of what it takes to succeed even without industry middlemen. 

If you don’t fit what the algorithm wants, you’re going to have less opportunity and also there’s such volume of people that have the same platform, so it becomes saturated,” said Barksdale.

Still, the chants of “art defines me/art enshrines me” at the end of the song reveals a frustration with it all. Barksdale is right to suspect that algorithms won’t deliver his music on a large scale. Albums like Voices are for a very narrow audience, but the depth of thought and despair here along with some brilliant moments of provocation make it an extremely rewarding listen for those seeking a deeper understanding.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Jack Barksdale and the songs we discussed, starting with The Cost, which puts on full display Barksdale’s connection between science and philosophy. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://jackbarksdale.com for more.

Old friends are, for the most part, a bittersweet memory. We keep very few of them for our entire lives and the connections we share with them later on are insignificant compared to what once was. 

For Stephen Kellogg, that complex form of nostalgia makes for two of his best tracks to date. Deep friendships are hard to come by in the music business. 

“I know a lot of people a little bit and I wonder how many people I know on a deeper level,” said Kellogg. “I feel like the system is flooded. I thought you would just amass friends as you got older instead of accepting that some would come and some would go.”

His cowrite with Lori McKenna takes the form of a letter to someone who is not much more than a stranger these days. “Remind me what’s your daughter’s name,” he sings, hinting at just how far they’ve since drifted. The reasons for losing touch often have to do with much more than distance. People grow at different rates and in different directions. 

“Sometimes you run into people who it’s evident haven’t experienced as much of a shift,” said Kellogg, remarking that he’s changed a lot in certain respects. “It’s not really meant to be a judgment of one or the other. It’s meant to be the reality of it.”

Kellogg compared old friends to a childhood bed.

“This was a great place to be at that time, but maybe it’s not where you belong anymore,” said Kellogg. “Nothing’s wrong; the bed’s still a good bed. It’s not just where I belong anymore. I feel that way about some people and some people feel that way about me.”

“Waitress” also looks back at an old connection, though this time through the lens of discovering she’s passed away. The strength of the writing is in the matter-of-fact presentation. There clearly wasn’t a super deep connection between the two; he knows she lived a hard life, but the loss is still shocking. No line is quite as good as “I heard she lost the baby and I always meant to call.” It’s a thorough damnation of the narrator and, sadly, all too common. 

“The least busy people I know will talk to me about how busy they are,” said Kellogg. “We all know what it’s like to put off a call that you’re dreading. A lot of calls don’t get made in the name of not knowing what to say.”

Kellogg was luckier than his daughter or folks like me. When he first lost a peer, he was a bit further into life than his teenage years. Still, it’s a strange experience.

“It’s one thing when you lose a grandparent, of course I felt their absence and the sadness, but it’s also the natural order of things,” said Kellogg. “When someone is your own age, suddenly the universe felt like it had a hole in it. I feel like a little piece of me and my legacy and my understanding of the world chipped off. Every person you come across will in whatever increment impact who you become.”

The fact that it’s so easy to keep in touch is a double-edged sword. 

“In the old days you could call somebody and assume that maybe they didn’t get your message,” said Kellogg. “These days, you can get a message to anyone and they choose not to interact with you.”

To You Old Friend isn’t the sort of concept album this site generally reviews. “Harbor” is a gorgeous song, but it talks about childhood promises being forever. The songs discussed earlier would certainly disagree with that. Plenty of old friends show up as guest artists, but the first two tracks don’t lead to a lasting theme.

Still, the songs are worth discussing. “Harbor” is the standout, a promise of lifelong support that sounds like it was dreamed up on a porch and performed like it would be a singalong at a live show. It’s a rosy view of old friendship that feels warm and beautiful even if other songs make it seem unlike lived experience.

“Ghosted” and “Old Guitars” discuss relationships that fell apart in ways that left Kellogg with questions and pain. “Buckets of Rain” is an uncomplicated love song; a promise of fidelity during dark times. “Kiss the Ring” is a highly specific tell off that somehow enough detail to determine exactly who is the target. It’s the one real misfire on the album.

“Almost Woke You Up” is a live version of a prior highlight from Kellogg’s songbook brought to amazing heights by the supporting cast. This was done on a Counting Crows tour and Adam Duritz and the band all play on it. Kellogg’s daughters also make an appearance as backup singers. Performed in front of a much larger crowd than Kellogg is used to, the track has incredible energy. It was Duritz who picked out the song and had the idea to bring Kellogg out during his set. 

“A lot of times big professional moments don’t live up to the hype because often it can feel too intense and you can’t take it in,” said Kellogg. “It’s one of my all time favorite bands, two of my all time favorite people, and I definitely wasn’t lost in this.”

Kellogg has a lot of respect for Counting Crows for staying true to their style even after achieving commercial success. He admitted that he’s modified his style to chase a hit before and lost out in two ways: it made him feel inauthentic and the hit never materialized. 

“A hit is a miracle, but when that happens and you’re not being an authentic version of yourself, you’re saddled with pretending to be something that you’re not,” Kellogg said, somewhat glad he didn’t score a hit by altering his style. 

Aside from commercial gains, Kellogg sees a hit as a “mandate” to keep playing with a band. In other words, a perfect excuse for old friends to stick around a while longer.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Stephen Kellogg and the songs we discussed, starting with “Old Friend,” which features cowriter Lori McKenna on guest vocals. It’s exactly the sort of song you’d expect from these two. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.stephenkellogg.com for more.

Addicts often have an unhealthy relationship with a particular substance and can’t quite get the high they need. “Love Addict,” therefore, is the perfect title for a Caitlin Cannon album that contains few happy endings and many a struggle. It’s sometimes provocative, sometimes classy and classic, and the song with the happiest ending might have the trickiest story behind it. 

The title track is one of the more explicit country songs that isn’t a novelty, but that’s okay. Listening to it feels like listening to a frustrated forty-something woman finally comfortable to go off on a delicate subject. “Why can’t a woman just get to fuck?/ One night together and I fall in love,” Cannon sings, frustrated with her biology and psychology.

“I just don’t want women to give in to this messaging that when you’re 40 you’re finished and no longer desirable,” said Cannon. “I did want the record to be sexy but I don’t want it to negate the depth.” 

The depth is there. Of the two studies mentioned earlier, the psychology dominates most of the album.

“Once the word is said/it’s the beginning of the end,” Cannon sings on “I Wouldn’t Say I Love You.” 

“And if you never gave a damn/help me let go of what I never had,” she adds of “Let it Hurt Some.” “Gravity promises pain,” she sings on “Impact.” When it comes to true love, Cannon does an incredible job talking herself out of it.

“I think it is harder for me to access a positive emotion and trust it,” said Cannon. “I want to keep it real so I don’t become made a fool of my own trust in a feeling in love that might be fleeting. I think that’s a defense mechanism that hasn’t really served me well.”

Her definition of real love, the kind that survives infatuation, is devastating.

“How long are you willing to do the dance of projecting your childhood trauma onto each other and healing each other,” she asked. “And how long are you willing to stay in that? That’s essentially real love. I don’t know if I have that to give.”

Real love does feature on the album twice, once in a complicated fantasy and once as a tragic almost-true story. 

“Waiting,” based on Cannon’s brother who is serving life without parole, shows up at the end of the album as a demo. It’s a particularly sad and well-written entry into the country prison song genre that imagines a high school sweetheart keeping in touch with her man on the inside. The song’s tragic ending is imagined, but that much is true. The reality may be even more tragic: despite being a juvenile, Cannon’s brother is never getting out.

“I told that story basically to express his love for her. They’re very much a part of each other’s lives,” said Cannon. “It’s devestating when your best friend and brother is in prison with life without parole and doesn’t have the opportunity to have a real relationship. It doesn’t make sense that someone who is going to spend the rest of their life in prison but becoming someone so worthy of that love. So I tried to create an afterlife scenario.”

She describes “Waiting,” of which a studio version was released on an EP last year, as the only true love song on the album. 

Of the new tracks, “Room 309” comes the closest to sounding like a true love song. After a one night stand with a star, a musician writes a song about it and gets big. Love blossoms from there. The true story is more complicated.

Cannon cowrote the song with Shawn Camp, but she also wrote the song about Camp. The couple in the song are performing duets and tucking their kids in at night. Camp declined to play on the track. Cannon hoped it could lead to a bigger role in the music industry for her, but so far, it’s only led to one song. 

“My message to every single girl chasing a carrot dangling in front of them: ‘Bless that carrot for getting you there but you’re going to have to work three times as hard as everyone else just like Reba did,” said Cannon. “None of those guys are coming to save you. You will never truly be able to barter in that currency in this business. You have to put everything into your art and at least you have that.” 

Not all feelings about the experience are bitter, however.

“I happen to love the verse we wrote,” Cannon added. “I think it’s better than I would’ve done on my own. Ironically, I think I needed him for that happy ending.”

“My Own Company” is the best new song on the album because it focuses on the relationship Cannon, someone who attends 12 step programs and is working on doing more good, is clearly focused on most. 

“I started writing that when Naomi Judd left us,” said Cannon. “It reminded me of the 2008 housing crisis when I was working in New York. People were jumping out of windows to their death because they were waking up to my net worth. You really have to have something you can cling to in yourself.”

Cannon added that she appreciated that the Judd family was so open with mental health. With “Love Addict” and this interview, Cannon adds to that legacy. Few albums have ever laid so bare a self-inflicted loneliness and tragic but realistic assessment of what “real love” is. It’s hard to listen to. And yet for me, it’s relatable in ways few other albums are. I, too, have some childhood trauma to project and a tendency to keep to myself. Yes, sometimes even harder days. Works like this are meant for those days. Art that meets you on those days is something to cling to.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Caitlin Cannon and the songs we discussed, starting with “I Wouldn’t Say I Love You,” which tries hard to avoid ending the beginning of a relationship. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.caitlincannonmusic.com for more.

Leslie Jordan never knew her grandfather. Her mother barely knew her father, for that matter. He left her and his wife and wandered the West, fancying himself as a beatnik writer. When he died, Leslie’s mother was given a chance to claim some of his possessions. She chose his writings.

“The Agonist” is inspired by those writings. Jordan was allowed to read them about a decade ago and saw some of herself in the fellow artist from whom she descended. 

“I never knew him. I didn’t even know much about him when I was a kid,” said Jordan. “We got to know this man through his writing.”

In one of those writings, Robert S. Gott calls himself “The Agonist,” which is the term for a chemical agent that initiates a reaction in other substances. The album begins with an introduction of Gott and his lonely ways.

“There’s this person who on his own was a bit ineffective,” Jordan said. “But I’m hoping this album maybe brings some effectiveness to the story of his life.”

Gott had an extraordinary life. He was a sentry in the Texas desert, a poet roaming the West coast, and a lover to his brother’s wife. Gott was a man who struggled in interpersonal relationships and Jordan suspects it has to do with the one topic absent from his writings.

“I think there’s a lot to his story that was kept private and there was trauma from being a young boy drafted into the military,” said Jordan. “He went to Japan during World War II. He doesn’t write about his experience there, but I would assume that marks a man.”

Jordan has both an incredible voice and does an incredible job capturing Gott’s voice. She thoroughly transforms some of his writings into more complete stories without losing elements of the original. Gott once wrote from the perspective of a mother who was struck by her teen son and then struck him back. The specificity of the account leads Jordan to believe it was an event in Gott’s life, but she has no confirmation. Still, she tells the story well in a tense song, repeating that in every sort of relationship, people must “find the limit.” 

“I’m not saying we’ve all had these moments with our kids, but I do think there are moments when feelings and emotions are heightened and we react in ways we don’t anticipate,” Jordan said of the characters. 

Gott was often vilified by her mother’s family. They kept in touch through occasional phone calls, but things were always quite strained. Jordan is more forgiving of the solitary man after understanding a bit of what he went through.  

“He was an addict. Even when he was married to my grandmother, he spent a lot of time in jail,” said Jordan. “Back in those days, I don’t know if rehab was a thing. He just needed more help than what he was given.”

“What I choose doesn’t always make sense,” Jordan sings at one point, describing Gott as a man repeatedly drawn back to a job in the remote Texas desert.

“He did a lot of it alone because I think he saw how much he hurt the people he loved in some of the darker moments of his life,” Jordan explained.

“Sometimes, Sylvia” is certainly evidence of that. Gott’s writings revealed he had an affair with his brother’s wife but eventually cut it off after reflecting on what they were doing. The song displays those complex feelings well.

Perhaps the most beautiful lines by Gott comes from “Requiem for Bobby.” 

“Oh, all things, all things, you’ve finally learned to love,” Gott wrote in what was effectively a eulogy for him self. Jordan made the line the center of her closing track and teamed with the Milk Carton Kids for the sorts of harmonies she purposely resisted including on songs about more lonesome eras of Gott’s life.

Jordan suspects Gott knew his life hadn’t amounted to much and asked, “what if acceptance is the one thing I can show for myself?”  

“He was always trying to make right,” she added. “I hope that toward the end of my life, I can come to terms with the messy parts of my story.”

All may not be healed between Gott and his estranged family, but there’s now connection and understanding on a scale unimaginable without that box of writings. 

“Whether he did it intentionally or not, it really has become one of the greatest gifts for our family,” Jordan said. “I do know one of his deepest longings was to be a published writer, and he is now. I think and I hope that he would feel honored by that.”

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Leslie Jordan and the songs we discussed, starting with The Fight, which you can compare to Gott’s original writing when Jordan shares it in the interview. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.lesliejordanmusic.com/ for more.

Sean McConnell is deconstructing and rebuilding on “Skin,” his latest thoughtful, spiritually influenced work. He is unlearning to learn, maturing by finding a child within, and becoming a better man by being better to himself. He explained that in addition to some habit changes like no longer drinking, the largest changes he’s made involve self talk. “The greatest lie the devil tells/is that he is someone else/and we die swinging at a ghost/instead of looking in ourselves,” McConnell sings on perhaps his best lines on the album.

“I had to look inside of myself,” said McConnell.  “I’m the narrator of a lot of these paradigms I need to break. The whole game, whatever this is, is about darkness and light and balance. I’m just trying to figure that out for myself. The more you go inward, the more it speaks to everything else as well.”

Heaven is covered in skin, McConnell theorizes. Much like the devil, peace and love can be found within. It’s that beautiful idea that forms the basis of the rest of an album of searching and reconstruction. 

The journey begins on “Demolition Day.” It’s a song about exorcizing demons and rising from the grave and breaking curses. Despite those phrases, the song is uplifting and a celebration of newfound freedom. 

“The West Is Never Won” starts to explain what exactly comes after. “Make God a good and a bad guy/just so they always wonder,” he sings, rebuking the way certain strains of religion asks you to fear the embodiment of love itself. Classical education corrupts natural instincts, McConnell feels, urging the listener to keep their heart wild.

“I started writing that song to my daughter, and I think of her every time I sing it, but almost equally I came to find out I was singing to my inner child,” said McConnell. “Our naked soul born into this world is the untamed west and people and systems and ideas and self talk will try to tame you and suppress you. But we can tap into that. Your soul tells you right and wrong. It’s beautiful and untarnished.”

Not all souls tend toward the good, but the best word of McConnell’s idea is conscience. When kids are young enough, they’re unbothered by such things as peer pressure. As adults grow up, they may be able to follow their moral compass a bit more. The in between, the time when we’re both being molded to and trying to fit into some role in society, that can be a bit more murky.

“Southside of Forever” and “Older Now” are the most interesting mid-album songs. The former addresses a “contradiction” in McConnells material: many people living miserable and self-destructive lives will never change. That even McConnell can’t imagine a happy ending for these people — if not in this life but the next — speaks to a groundedness that many spiritual thinkers and bleeding hearts lack. The latter track is a pleasure because it sees McConnell imagining a full life of maturing and improving. It’s an understanding that love in your 20s is both more intense and less profound than anything you’ll feel in your 40s. 

The album ends on a delirious high note. “New Sons And Daughters” imagines a world without something similar to the concept of original sin. When McConnell sings the word “free,” he’s putting tremendous emotion behind it. There’s a sense of peace and yearning that’s hard to come by in almost any kind of media. McConnell described the recording session as being magical for him. He knew he nailed it. 

“There’s so much energy behind that word that has a lot to do with wanting it so badly and sometimes experiencing it but not enough,” said McConnell. It’s really hoping that’s true or trusting that’s true with the flickers of what you get to experience. [The] That song is sifting through this haze of all of the baggage — religion, things people said, ways I was raised — and asks at the bottom of that, is it love and benevolence and freedom? And I think it is.”

Modern society conditions us to be self-interested and overprotective. Generations before us have passed on some beautiful spiritual traditions, but they’ve also left us with cycles of war, deep inequalities, and 

McConnell describes himself as a spiritual dabbler, always looking for answers. 

“For better or for worse, it’s been an obsession of mine since I was a kid,” said McConnell. “It’s always in my music and it’s normally what I’m reading. It’s part of who I am. That search is insatiable and constant.” 

His explanation for what’s out there is unique and gorgeous. It’s a theme shared by many religions, one that perhaps touches on afterlife. A place we come from and a place we will one day find peace in again.

“When I go inward, I have some sort of trust or hope that as bad as the wave can be, we all return to the ocean,” said McConnell. “It doesn’t make the wave any less scary and fucked up and weird and unknowable, I just have faith that whatever that ocean is, that we get back there.”

For those who think intensely about the world, the notion that humanity could break its destructive patterns and live peacefully is just about the best dream we could ever live. For five minutes and 24 seconds, McConnell allows us to bask in the beauty of that notion with him. I’ve never been so glad a songwriter has freed a few tears from my eyes.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Sean McConnell and the songs we discussed, starting with Skin, which serves as a title track and thesis statement for the album. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.seanmcconnell.com for more.

Few songwriters are truly at expressing strong emotions with powerful and specific words. Few singers in roots music can sell those lines with the flare of a rockstar and the sincerity of an actor. Jett Holden seems born to do both.

The fact that we even have The Phoenix is a bit of a miracle. Holden had stepped away from music before deciding to give it one last serious try.

“I didn’t want to, but at the same time I knew I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t take the chance at least,” said Holden. “I’m grateful. I’ve gained a lot of community over the last four years since Black Opry was incepted.”

Holden’s debut album is a display of powerful, emotional songwriting on both the political and the personal. It features the unapologetic perspective of a queer Black man from the American South. It deals with both trauma and inspiration. He rhymes corpses and forceps. It even has lines like “if you think karma is a bitch then the truth is you may be a bitch yourself.”

When we spoke, Holden was pleased that I zeroed in on so many of his lyrics, describing them as his favorite part of the songwriting experience. He spoke as though sharing intense feelings and trauma was an easy thing for him.

“Writing’s the way I got through so much of my life,” said Holden. “Sharing it helps me feel like I’m helping someone else.”

The album can be divided between the fun and the intensely personal. “Karma,” featuring one of Nashville’s most visible allies in Cassadee Pope, is catty pop perfection. “Necromancer” and “Scarecrow,” which has fun with Wizard of Oz characters at an opportune time, get a serious point across but are more clever than impactful.

Then there are the tracks that hit like a truck.

Holden chooses to lead the album with “Taxidermy,” one of the most defiant political anthems in recent history. He calls out racism, police brutality, homophobia, and the empty posts of so-called allies before a pivoting to a third act sung directly to the sorts of people who are impacted by the hurricane that is American culture in the Trump era. 

“There was a lot of talk,” Holden said of our social media feeds in 2020. “There were a lot of faces on Facebook walls, but there wasn’t a lot of action behind those words.” 

He went on to explain that many people who posted a black square for a profile picture went on to vote for someone determined to stamp out Black history. 

“It felt like it could’ve been me at any moment,” Holden said of “Taxidermy.” “I was living in Northeast Tennessee at the time, which isn’t always the best to queer people or people of color. There was like one gay bar I could go to and I would hear the n-word out the window just trying to walk to the grocery store.”

The words of inspiration at the end of the song and the verse about a queer teen committing suicide are painful reminders that it’s not only the bigots who need to be convinced that other groups deserve to exist. 

“It’s kind of heavy handed, but it felt appropriate,” said Holden. “It felt like a cool opportunity to say something, but also leave people with a hopeful message at the end.”                                                                        

There are songs that go to even darker places. And yet, they’re all strangely hopeful.

“Perfect Storm” is Holden’s description of being in an abusive relationship and needing to get out before it ended in violence. He describes being struck with fists and discovering a gun. Incredibly, he admits contemplating an act of violence himself. “I am not a lamb to the slaughter/I have heard the banshees cry his name,” he sings.

“I had been in a controlling relationship and I feared for myself a lot,” Holden said. “It was the first time I saw what it was that kept people in abusive relationships and I was the person who couldn’t escape it. That song was me trying to pull myself out of that mindset.”  

As painful as the experiences in “Perfect Storm” are, it could be vital for someone else in the situation to hear how Holden managed to escape.

The song became a rock-laced piano ballad that saw Holden’s most powerful vocal performance. When it comes to emotional performances, Holden is as sincere as they come. 

“A lot of these songs are lived experiences,” said Holden. “It’s not difficult to pull from that in that sense. It’s more so about getting comfortable on stage. That was the difficult part.”

“When I’m Gone,” featuring Emily Scott Robinson in another stellar backing vocal performance, also came into existence for a tragic reason: Holden lost a friend to suicide and decided to write the note that she hadn’t. Holden experienced depression himself, so this had to be a difficult song to write. The result is almost unimaginably comforting for the reader of the note. “I know you believe in Heaven/but I believe in souls/they all have to go somewhere/and mine’s tethered to yours,” wrote Holden. Graces like a happy hereafter and a continuing love story are extended to the dead and their partner. It’s no happy ending, but anything that can dull the pain at that point is welcome.

The last truly spectacular song on the album is the title track of sorts. “West Virginia Sky” literally tells the story of the sun and a dying phoenix, but it’s truly about a husband losing his wife. The natural imagery is stunning and Holden’s soaring vocals match the moment. My only criticism is that it’s almost too gorgeous to register as the only truly bleak song on the record.

“I used to help my mom take care of my grandma,” said Holden. “She has Alzheimer’s and I watched that process. People deal with that all the time being caregivers for their family.”

It’s the perspective of the husband that makes the song so difficult to stomach. He’s watching his wife fade. He’s watching his relationships with his children fade.

“Soon he’ll reach supernova and his time will come, but what will be left of everything after he’s gone,” Holden asked. “A lot of times people say life is short, but life feels so long sometimes. Especially when they’re dealing with trauma or loss.” 

If one phoenix is the dying wife, and another is the title of the album, Holden admits to feeling like a third. His return to music was more than a career choice. 

“It was not just about giving up on dreams,” said Holden. “It was about not giving up on yourself. Your life is precious. The best thing you could do is fight for yourself and fight for other people following in your shoes.”

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Jett Holden and the songs we discussed, starting with “Taxidermy,” which is both a scathing protest song and a love letter to the marginalized. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.missingpiecegroup.com/jett-holden for more.

Photo credit Kai Lendzion.

Progressive bluegrass is a genre all its own. The arrangements and movements are dazzling, complex, and imaginative. The lyrics, on many songs, feel like an afterthought. 

John Depew has the movements and the picking talent required to swim in the deep waters of the genre. He also has existential questions and hard won convictions about a few simple things that are important in life. His racing mind and the busy instrumentation swirl together on Bell of Hope. The result is strange and beautiful. It’s an album that features dozens on questions and maybe a handful of answers that somehow manages to satisfy. Phones ring. Eons pass. The natural world reveals its secrets. 

Put simply, Depew’s first full album is a magnificent high point in a genre that’s been too long stagnant and in awe of Chris Thile and jam bands. Depew’s voice sounds a lot like Thile’s, and the mandolin work isn’t quite at that level, but he thinks so much more deeply. 

“I’m maybe pathologically philosophical,” Depew explained when we spoke.

His first track, “Whale,” is about diving deep into his art as a way of life and a means of him supporting himself. He described the biblical imagery as familiar in his midwestern surroundings and said that while he tried to get on the phone with God in the song, his spiritual beliefs are more complex than the lyrics would suggest.

“When I use the word God, I’m talking about something quite a bit vaguer. I’m talking about whatever the creative force in the universe that makes everything happen,” said Depew. “There’s a certain idea in Christianity of God being this bearded dude. This person in the sky looking down on us with human-like thoughts going through his head. That’s not really what I mean, but I don’t really know what I mean.”

Regardless of who answered, Depew decided to climb inside the metaphorical whale. 

“It’s kinda freaking terrifying to leave a stable life and try to be a musician instead,” said Depew. “It’s a stupid thing to do. There’s a huge unknown, but I feel like I have to do this thing. There’s a place for me in this world, but I’m going to have to throw myself into it.”

Depew’s theory of life slowly becomes more apparent throughout the album. Nature is a source of inspiration and grounding, while natural history is proof of a greater plan.

“Anywhere you are in nature you can have a spiritual experience just by looking around,” said Depew. “I think it’s really important to recognize that although in a lot of cases it doesn’t always feel like it, humans 1000% are part of nature.” 

Birds in particular symbolize something important. He borrowed a concept from a Mary Oliver poem when he sang “They claim ownership of nothing/that’s the reason they can fly” on “Lesson.” 

“It’s very difficult for me to relinquish the concept of ownership as a white midwestern man from an agricultural society,” said Depew. “I really liked that idea when I read that in her poetry. The idea that freedom comes from letting go of the baggage that is our dominion over the world and letting ourselves exist.”

The swarming questions fade in the title track as some kind of answer emerges. Over the course of 12 minutes, Depew takes us through the history of the universe from the Big Bang to the emergence of human life. In the face of such a massive backstory, Depew feels as though ringing the “Bell of Hope” is all humankind can do. That can take several forms.

“The only thing I think I can really do is treat my wife and my kids with reverence and make meaningful connections with other people,” Depew said. “I think sitting in my bedroom thinking on these questions isn’t really going to do anything.” 

And yet in my case, it was all that questioning that sparked the connection. Depew saw our 40 minute conversation on topics ranging from the fabric of the universe to the strange rationals for genocide as another ring of that bell. 

“I could’ve written a 12 minute song about chasing tail in the bar and we wouldn’t have had this conversation,” said Depew. “In some ways ringing the bell of hope is just getting up every morning and trying to be a nice person.”

The last track, a celebration of good roots music, is a fitting way to close an album like this. “Joyful Sound” remarks on the way music can help us through hard times. Times are hard, but art like this is a powerful medicine. And the way Depew arrives at fairly traditional values through complex questioning of the world around him is decidedly refreshing. Even for radically different minds, time with loved ones is a common salve.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with John Depew and the songs we discussed, starting with Whale, which is one of many songs on which John respectfully uses Christian imagery despite having more complicated beliefs. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live every Tuesday at 12pm on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://johndepewmusic.wordpress.com for more.