GOOD FOLK Podcast: Recent Episodes
Spencer George & Victoria Landers
Good Folk is a newsletter, podcast, and community project exploring artistry, empathy, community, and storytelling through conversations with individuals in, around, and from rural America and the American South.
goodfolk.substack.com
Hi Folks,
Long time no see. It’s been a busy few months wrapping up my first year of my PhD, traveling across the South, and kicking off an undergraduate research program I’m mentoring this summer. There’s been a lot to say and not quite the words yet to say it. I’ve been mostly offline, both here and social media, focusing on live events, in-person community building, and lots of in-depth research time. As you might have guessed, Good Folk is going through some changes—stay tuned for a newsletter post that outlines more in depth some of where I am with this project these days. Good Folk is not going away, but the format of this newsletter will be shifting up a bit!
As we make that shift, I want to take a second to express gratitude for all of the amazing podcast guests we’ve been lucky to feature. It’s been an honor to facilitate these conversations and this project would be nowhere without the community that has gathered around it.
And now, let me introduce you to someone who is very much Good Folk: Rosa Castellano. Rosa is a poet and educator born and raised in Tampa, Florida, and currently based in Richmond, Virginia. Her work is deeply rooted in storytelling, language, and the exploration of identity and place. With a passion for both writing and teaching, she actively contributes to the Richmond literary community, fostering creativity and engagement among fellow poets and aspiring writers. Rosa was a finalist for Cave Canem’s Starshine and Clay Fellowship and is the co-founder of the Richmond Poetry Festival, a platform that celebrates poetry and brings together Richmond’s diverse writing community.
Her poetry has been featured or is forthcoming from RHINO Poetry, Diode, Passages North, Nimrod, The Ninth Letter, and Poetry Northwest, among others. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her highly anticipated debut poetry collection, All is the Telling, was recently released from Diode Editions.
All is the Telling is a compelling, transformative collection bridging the personal and political with an emotional intensity that lingers long after the final page. The text invites readers to reflect on their own lives as they are drawn into the intricate web of memory, identity, and survival, grounding in the immediacy of lived experience and stretching outward to echo the broader struggles of our time.
This conversation dives deeper into All is the Telling, as well as Rosa’s broader career path as a poet. Jumping from Florida to Virginia, we unpack various portrayals of the South, echoing my favorite reminder that the South is nowhere near a monolith. This is an episode for Southerners, poets, and artists of all kinds. Thank you to Rosa for joining us, and to all of you for listening.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com
Happy Friday Folks,
Do you ever cross paths with people and it feels that there is a level of synergy there that feels rare and important? I had this feeling when, a few months back, a message dropped into my Substack inbox. This message came from a writer named Jessie, and it affirmed why I love doing the work we do at Good Folk—even though, yes, I’m aware I’ve been absent for a bit. Blame the PhD (pleased to report I have finished my first semester!), and expect some longer newsletters with life updates soon.
I knew immediately that I wanted to have a longer conversation with Jessie, and that it was a conversation our listeners would benefit from. Jessie and I proceeded to chat over email, and then Instagram, for the next few months, and finally, I am pleased to welcome them to Good Folk for a conversation on legacy, family, roots, and the South.
Jessie McCarty is a Southern, Irish-American writer in Chicago. They have been published in The Minnesota Review, The Documentarian, Don’t Submit Lit, Thick Press, and more. They write the newsletter Poetic Classificationson Substack. Pretty Punks & Other Poems (formerly Yeats Fever), is forthcoming. Previous collections include The Bovine Huff (Track and Field Studios, 2021)and Our Fairy Diary. Their research has been published as chapbooks for the following theatrical productions: The Sarcoma Cycle (2024), Fs and Their Friends Between Revolutions: A Homo-Turgy (2024),and Perforated Play (2022).*
I love this conversation. Jessie and I unpack the complications of being a Southerner working from afar, what it means to tap into family legacies that aren’t always immediate and readily accessible, and the importance of understanding roots and lineage in approaching your relationship to home and place. It’s conversations like these that make me proud to be Southern and Appalachian and in community with so many people who share a vision for this region that is rooted in love and care and, most of all, hope.
Thank you to Jessie for joining us, and thank you to our listeners for continuing to tune in. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
Thanks for reading GOOD FOLK! This post is public so feel free to share it.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com
Hello folks,
It feels like it has been a while since I have spoken to you all here, and I apologize for that. With a combination of work travel, various due dates, and the general state of the world, we’ve fallen behind.
But I’m excited to be back here with you, and to bring you a conversation that touches on some particularly relevant themes: how to find hope at the end of the world, how to build community through difficult times, the importance of looking to one another and rooting in our relationships. It is also a conversation about the power of poetry to grasp some of these difficult topics, and the way that leaning in to art offers us new ways of seeing the world. I—as I imagine many of you are—have found myself especially needing those new ways of seeing the last few months.
Please welcome to Good Folk poet and translator Ruben Quesada. Ruben is the editor of the award-winning anthology Latinx Poetics: Essays on the Art of Poetry. His poetry and criticism appear in The New York Times Magazine, Best American Poetry, The Believer, Harvard Review and elsewhere. His recent collection of poetry,Brutal Companion, which released just last month and which we at Good Folk highly recommend, won the Barrow Street Editors Prize.
Thank you to Ruben for joining us and for such a meaningful conversation. I hope you enjoy.
GOOD FOLK is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com
Happy Monday Folks,
I’ve written and rewritten this intro a number of times and I find I’m still not quite sure what to say. We recorded this episode just about two weeks before Hurricane Helene struck Western North Carolina—a region my family has called home for many generations—and left disastrous floodwaters in its wake. At the time I’m recording this—almost two weeks after the storm—many folks are still without water and power. Many roads are still closed. Many communities are just now being reached.
In Florida, already hit by Helene, Hurricane Milton followed, giving folks hardly a moment to catch their breath. The damage goes on and on and on, a seemingly endless cycle. How do we rebuild when the world has become a series of repetitive disasters? Where is there space to catch our breath?
In this moment, I find myself inspired by the outpouring of community support that we are seeing in the mountains. Our team at Good Folk is all based these days in Central North Carolina, a few hours from the flooding, and even here, nearly every single business and organization is working to support our neighbors in the Western part of the state. Everywhere I go there is a supply drive, a fundraiser, a team ready and mobilized to help.
Here at Good Folk, we recently kicked off our new folk music series with WXYC and Fatwood, Landmarks, and raised nearly $500 in donations that were directly redistributed to mutual aid orgs and individuals working on the ground. Community support appears in so many different ways; this is the core of what we believe here, and I feel grateful to be in community with so many folks of a similar mind.
So let me introduce you to Jared Sullivan, one of those folks and today’s guest. Jared is a writer based in Franklin, Tennessee. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, Time, Garden & Gun, and USA Today, among other outlets. He was formerly an editor for Men’s Journal and Field and Stream.
Jared’s new book, Valley So Low:One Lawyer's Fight for Justice in the Wake of America's Great Coal Catastrophe, is a riveting courtroom drama about the victims of one of the largest environmental disasters in U.S. history—and the country lawyer determined to challenge the notion that, in America, justice can be bought.
For more than fifty years, a power plant in the small town of Kingston, Tennessee, burned fourteen thousand tons of coal a day, gradually creating a mountain of ashen waste sixty feet high and covering eighty-four acres, contained only by an earthen embankment. In 2008, just before Christmas, that embankment broke, unleashing a lethal wave of coal sludge that covered three hundred acres, damaged nearly thirty homes, and precipitated a cleanup effort that would cost more than a billion dollars—and the lives of more than fifty cleanup workers who inhaled the toxins it released.
Jim Scott, a local personal-injury lawyer, agreed to represent the workers after they began to fall ill. That meant doing legal battle against the Tennessee Valley Authority, TVA, a colossal, federally owned power company that had once been a famous cornerstone of President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal. Scott and his hastily assembled team gathered extensive evidence of malfeasance; threats against workers; retaliatory firings; disregarded safety precautions; and test results, either hidden or altered, that would have revealed harmful concentrations of arsenic, lead, and radioactive materials at the cleanup site.
At every stage, Scott—outmanned and nearly broke—had to overcome legal hurdles constructed by TVA and the firm it hired to help execute the cleanup. He grew especially close to one of the victims, whose swift decline only intensified his hunger for justice. As the incriminating evidence mounted, the workers seemed to have everything on their side, including the truth—and yet, was it all enough to prevail?
The lawsuit that Scott pursued on the workers’ behalf was about their illnesses, no doubt. But it was also about whether blue-collar employees could beat the C-suite; if self-described “hillbilly lawyers” could beat elite corporate defense attorneys; and whether strong evidence could beat fat pocketbooks. With suspense and rich detail, Jared’s account lays bare the casual brutality of the American justice system, and calls into question whether—and how—the federal government has failed its people.
It’s a timely book for a region that is once again in the throes of environmental disaster, and a timely conversation. These are questions that I am thinking about heavily lately, and questions pertinent to the current state of Appalachia and the American South. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
GOOD FOLK is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com
Hello Folks, and happy Friday,
I write to you from the edges of Hurricane Helene, which is currently moving over Western North Carolina and the Appalachian Mountains that have been home to my family for generations. I spent my teenage years on the South Carolina coast, and I am thinking today of all the communities that never planned for the type of flooding those of us on the coast know well.
I am staring out my windows at the rain pouring down in wild sheets and listening to Peter Stone, today’s guest, sing against a melodic guitar. It feels like a perfect soundtrack for this weather and a gentle reminder to never take anything as a given—and to find comfort in the continual shifting.
Today’s conversation is one about worship: what altars we find ourselves at, the different places we choose to spread our devotion. For many listeners of this podcast—myself included—that altar connects deeply to place. What is home but a sacred thing? And like many sacred things, where does worship fall on the line between love and hate? These are the questions I am still working through; but I know that I will always fall at the altar of a pine tree, an oak lined path, the swirl of a raging storm.
Others, like today’s guest, musician Peter Stone, find altars in different, more ephemeral, places: a sea breeze, a relationship, a deep green pool. Things that can be found in a variety of places. But both Peter and I believe in the worship of the everyday—of the importance of seeking out the transcendent all around us.
This is a conversation about love and belief and artistry and boredom. It is about how to find transcendence in the practice, how to look for meaning in the drudgery of artistic creation. How to parse out your own voice among the many. These are not simple tasks, and there is much to be said about creative practice. Let this conversation serve not as a guide but as an invitation to explore the deep space within.
Peter Stone is an independent musician and a writer of songs that are equal parts intimate and cinematic, energetic and evocative, familiar and haunted. It’s easy to imagine any of Peter’s songs playing over the final shot of a film about love and loss, giving your tears just enough time to dry while the credits roll before you leave the theater. With a voice like warm evening sunlight creeping in through a ranch homestead’s western windows, it does not come as a surprise that they have lived all across the United States, and recently here in our own North Carolina, acquiring dust and stories along the road.
Thank you to Peter for sharing some of those stories with us here today. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
North Carolina Folks: Join us on October 6th (next weekend!) for the first iteration of LANDMARKS, a live folk music series in collaboration with WXYC and Fatwood. We’ll be hanging out with Nathan Bowles of the Nathan Bowles trio for a special solo acoustic set on a lovely fall evening. Learn more and reserve your spot!
GOOD FOLK is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
Hello Folks and welcome to Season 3 (!) of the Good Folk Podcast,
After our summer hiatus, it’s great to be back in this space, with a lineup of conversations for our fall season. Today, we kick off with writer Matthew Ferrence for a chat on Appalachia, rurality, authenticity, the role of the arts in shaping rural identity, and, of course, the Democratic party’s recent interest in embracing rural communities, perhaps seen most clearly with the Harris/Walz Realtree hat, which sold out within 30 minutes and which is already being duped on Etsy, eBay, and Amazon (and which Cody Cook-Parrott wrote about in their newsletter, Monday Monday).
Matthew lives and writes at the confluence of Appalachia and the Rust Belt. With his newest book,I Hate It Here, Please Vote For Me: Essays on Rural Political Decacy, he has completed a trilogy (of sorts) focused on rural Appalachian identity and political narrative. His other two books are Appalachia North and All-American Redneck. He teaches creative writing at Allegheny College in northwestern Pennsylvania.
Does the Democratic party genuinely care about rural America or do they turn to it only when it can help them win an election? Can the arts help us build a common value system? Who is allowed to lay claim to rural identity—and should it really matter where you are from originally, so long as you care about the place you now call home? These are just some of the questions we discuss in today’s episode. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
GOOD FOLK is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
Hello folks,
Though I am currently off the grid until June 30th, I am thrilled to drop in with a special podcast episode with South Carolina author Mindy Friddle, whose newest book, Her Best Self, released just last week.
One thing I have learned in studying the South is that it’s always changing, always becoming. It travels across time, evoking both past and future all at once. I’ve spent a lot of time in small Southern towns the last few years, and I often feel there is no better setting through which to explore this strange sense of temporality we have here, and as well, to explore what it means to people to be a southerner. As I always say, the south is not a monolith; there are as many different types of southerners as there are landscapes here—and trust me, there are plenty.
Today’s conversation has me thinking about what it means to be a Southern woman. Growing up, my idea of womanhood here was to be tough and biting, to be bold and feisty, to take no s**t from anyone and especially not from a man. This is one version of the southern woman; other versions paint her as meek and soft spoken, gentle and kind. Still others paint her as the wife, the mother, the caretaker. In this conversation with Mindy, we explore the changing role of the Southern woman, the expectations a place can subscribe unto a person, and the way community is built both within and beyond a region.
Mindy Friddle is author of the recently released novel Her Best Self, as well as Secret Keepers (winner of the Willie Morris Award for Southern Fiction). The Garden Angel, her first novel and SIBA bestseller was selected for Barnes & Noble’s Discover Great New Writers. The South Carolina Arts Commission awarded Mindy a prose fellowship, and she has twice won the state’s Fiction Prize. Her stories and essays have appeared in numerous journals. She holds an MFA from Warren Wilson and lives on Edisto Island, South Carolina—a place our regular listeners will know is close to my own heart, being just South of Charleston, a city I’ve grown to call home over the last decade.
I hope you enjoy this conversation. Thanks as well for bearing with our pause these last few months; it’s great to be back with you.
GOOD FOLK is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
Folks, today I am thrilled to introduce you to of MycoLore in a very fun Good Folk x Folkwise crossover.
Daisy is a folklorist, cryptozoologist (and legend scholar), eco-philosopher, mycologist, and collective-joy-enthusiast. They're the current director of WiseFolk Productions, producers of the YouTube and Twitch streaming channel Folkwise, which explores the study of tradition non-traditionally through digital content creation, public education, and direct community engagement.
Daisy is also a PhD Candidate at The Ohio State University Comparative Studies Department, studying community, metaphor, and how knowledge forms in everyday life in community with more than humans. They're interested in questions about community formation, systems thinking, and more-than-human community members contributions to the transmission of everyday knowledge.
Daisy collaborates with other folklore-related organizations on outreach and impact projects, including the Western States Folklore Society and American Folklore Society, and is the current digital storytelling editor for the Livelihoods Knowledge Exchange Network, also known as Liken.
There is so much we can learn when we learn in community, and when we broaden our ideas of what community is. This is a conversation about the importance of a field like folklore, the necessity of community relationships, the need for mutual reciprocity to the landscapes we call home, and the vision of widening our understanding of the futures that are possible.
There is another world out there if only we are willing to look for it. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
Thanks as well to Daisy and Dom for hosting me over on Folkwise to talk environmental folklore, Southern culture and Southern futures, and the importance of creative work in the field of folklore—you can catch up on that episode here.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
Happy Wednesday Folks,
I’m thrilled to be back with the podcast for the new year and to introduce you today to Adam Perez, someone we have long been hoping to get on this podcast. I first met Adam when we were both teaching in rural North Carolina schools and we bonded over our similar frustrations with media portrayals of Appalachian culture, our complicated relationships to home, and our belief that art is a path forward for progressive change in rural places. Adam casts a lens on Appalachia that feels close to the place I hold in my childhood memories: beautiful even when haunted by the ghosts of its past.
Adam defines himself as a photographic artist based in Greensboro, North Carolina. His work has centered around the heart of Appalachia and Southern rural communities, seeking to uncover his own roots and connections to the vast historical region he explores its storied but often heavily obscured past.
By continuing an artistic process he started while photographing and participating in the 2019 Harlan County coal miners' protest, Adam has grown closer to understanding himself and the deep well of emotion he carries for the places he calls home.
This is a conversation about art and culture, about place and regionality, and about the drive for self-definition. It’s also about the importance of connection and the role of community in shaping Southern futures—something that benefits all of us, no matter where in America you live. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
Angela Eastman is a very cool person. I truly don’t know how to say it any other way. She lives a life that many of us dream of, or at least I do: one connected to nature, to craft, to teaching, and creative practice.
As soon as I encountered Angela’s work, I knew I was going to be a fan. And I was right. This is a conversation about many of my favorite topics: the distinction of art versus craft, learning to find our role as creative practitioners in natural systems, the importance of care in our artistic practice, why we need good teachers across all fields.
It is also a conversation that challenges the things we assume are true, asking us to look at alternate pathways to challenges such as invasive species, increasing material consumption, and the industrialization of fields we have traditionally labeled as craft. It is a conversation that asks you to pay attention to the world around you and let the path take you where it may, and I could not have left more inspired and energized.
Angela Eastman is an artist and teacher from Hillsborough, North Carolina. She holds an MFA in Sculpture from Cranbrook Academy of Art and completed the Core Fellowship program at Penland School of Crafts.
She has participated in numerous residencies, including at Haystack Mountain School of Crafts (ME), the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts (GA), MASS MoCA (MA), Vermont Studio Center (VT), Sitka Center for Art and Ecology (OR), and SIM and Nes residencies in Iceland. Angela is currently the Artist-in-Residence at the John C Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, NC, and is focusing on basketweaving with invasive vines.
In addition to sculptural work, Angela creates jewelry, baskets, metalwork, and ceramics through her design business Flag Mountain Studio. Angela also teaches art workshops to adults and youth. She is an advocate for craft education as a vital component of understanding the material world we live in.
Art is one of the many—though I posit our best—ways to understand that world. I find myself now looking closer and looking deeper. I hope this conversation challenges you to do the same.
GOOD FOLK is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
It’s a rare and beautiful experience to come across someone you immediately connect with only to realize you have been peripherally weaving circles around one another for years. It’s how I felt immediately upon entering this conversation with Annelle Staal, a North Carolina-based songwriter and entertainer.
Annelle’s sound is distinct with catchy, melt-in-your mouth melodies and timeless lyrical depth. A pioneer in the world of virtual performance and a visionary in their artistry, Annelle marries music, comedy and storytelling in a distinct and captivating show that has caught the attention of an international audience online. Celebrated for their sultry vocal and colorful creativity by Earmilk, DIVA Mag and ABC news, Annelle’s best is yet to come.
Annelle’s first studio project titled “MARS” in 2017 featured moody, driving pop production and a lyrical discussion of love, war and imagination. After the pandemic of 2020 cancelled Annelle’s live show schedule, the artist released an acoustic collection of music called “Heart on My Sleeve,” where stripped production was matched with vulnerable themes of loss and self discovery. Annelle began performing on the popular live-streaming platform Twitch TV. There, an international audience quickly grew in Annelle’s playful ecosystem of music and improvisational comedy.
After “Mr. Christmas,” a bluesy, big band holiday single in 2020, Annelle released a slew of songs in 2021 and 2022. Tracks like “Lemon Days,” “Turquoise,” and “Tonight” anticipate Annelle’s debut full-length album, which is set to release in 2024. Annelle publicly came out to the world as queer and nonbinary in 2022, with musical and visual art that celebrated sapphic and southern camp imagery.
The songwriter then took a musical detour with “VIOLET,” an EP of queer, nostalgic pop in 2023. Following its leading single “My Girl,” Annelle began recording and playing with a Raleigh, North Carolina-based band.
“Pressure,” tracked and co-produced by Annelle’s guitarist and musical partner Ben Youngblood, features the group’s groovy, indie-pop sound.
Annelle has toured the country with shows in Seattle, New York, Los Angeles, San Diego, Charlotte, Miami and more. They continue to stream a show of music and comedy full time on Twitch TV, have raised over $15,000 for charity, and advocate for the destigmatization and prioritization of mental health.
At its core, Good Folk is a reminder that, as Southern and rural artists, we are not alone. We have always been here doing this work, and there are so many of us spread out across the country. We seek to do this work with eyes open, in pursuit of the belief that when we do, we will see those of us all around—in collaboration, community, and creativity.
This conversation served as a reminder to me that community is everywhere if you are willing to look for it. I hope you enjoy.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
Just over two years ago, I returned to my hometown of Charleston, South Carolina for the summer to report on rising sea levels and the creative response by artists, who were—then and now—focused on generating public understanding even in the midst of collapse. I went into the work feeling hopeless and left feeling inspired to believe in the power of community, art, resistance, and resilience in activist traditions across the Lowcountry—a place full of as much violence and oppression as beauty and history.
Along the way, I came into contact with hip-hop artist and Lowcountry native Benny Starr, who became fundamental to my environmental philosophy. As he said to me all the way back in the summer of 2021 when asked about the artist’s role in responding to climate change, “Art is one of the natural predators of power. The goal of art is disruption. It is disruption that inspires joy, freedom, and community. You might be able to snuff out one voice, but you can’t snuff out the collective.”
The work we do here at Good Folk—and indeed the core of what I now consider my life’s work, both in this project and in my larger academic research—is to organize, unite, and empower that collective—even against all the odds.
At the top of his website, Benny quotes James Baldwin, who writes that “A society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven.”
Our role as artists is to reckon with the world around us, which exists in constant flux. But it is also to help us find communal roots amidst flux—something I cannot emphasize the importance of enough when it comes to climate work in the American South, which my academic research now centers around. Both Benny and I consider the South Carolina Lowcountry home—which means we both know how high it is at risk of being lost.
There are times where I think it would be easier to let it go—to let the water wash it all away and for us to restart in a place with less tumult, violence, and division. Of course, in America, a country founded on colonialism, escaping those legacies becomes impossible. And here again I turn to what Benny has taught me over the years: to think of water as a tool. Water reveals as much as it washes away; it shows us the spaces where community is needed most. Our work now is to return to those spaces of tension and believe in something better.
I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be joined by Benny today on the podcast for a conversation about legacy, environment, and the power of creative practice. Benny’s art reflects the landscape of the Lowcountry, where Black music and Southern culture intersect with deep roots in hip hop, gospel, jazz, blues, and rock, all of which are woven with rich histories of resiliency, eliciting a quest for a higher calling in those who connect with them.
Benny’s most recent solo project, A Water Album, takes up this quest. It was recorded live with his fellow bandmates, The Four20s, at Charleston Music Hall and released on Juneteenth 2019. Following the release of A Water Album, Benny has been featured in The Oxford American’s yearly Southern music issue and made history by becoming the first Hip-Hop artist to perform at Spoleto Festival USA, as well as A Water Album being named “South Carolina’s Best Album” in 2019 by the Free Times.
In 2020, Native Son, a duo of Benny Starr and harmonious singer, songwriter, producer, and multi-instrumentalist Rodrick Cliche, was formed. Together, they are redefining what it means to be dynamic while remaining highly respected. When merging the comforting allure of Southern breakfast at Grandma’s house with the triumphant command of a revolutionary’s chant, you get the sonic resonance that their sound taunts—decadent and nourishing.
Native Son’s most recent release, “The Land,” is a rallying cry that echoes the injustices of Black Legacy Farmers at the hands of the USDA and is part of an ongoing partnership with The Acres of Ancestry Initiative/Black Agrarian Fund and The Black Farmers Appeal: Cancel Pigford Debt Campaign.
As a part of the ongoing collaboration, Native Son screened “Restoration: A Concert Film” on Juneteenth 2020. In the fall, “Restoration” was also released for a limited-time viewing to coincide with the Justice for Black Farmers Act of 2020, introduced by U.S. Senators Cory Booker, Elizabeth Warren, and Kirsten Gillibrand on November 30th. To date, “Restoration” has been screened at the Pan African Film Festival, WorldFest-Houston International Film Festival, Seattle Black Film Festival, Reel Sisters of the Diaspora Film Festival & Lecture Series, Nevada City Film Festival, Rhode Island Black Film Festival, Las Vegas Black Film Festival, Nice International Film Festival, and more.
The U.S. Water Alliance welcomed Benny Starr as their inaugural One Water Artist-in-Residence in October 2020. Through his 18-month residency with the Alliance, Benny worked with staff and the Alliance network to infuse arts and cultural strategies into thinking, problem-solving, and programming. He was named one of Grist’s 50 Fixers of 2021, a list that includes emerging leaders in climate, sustainability, and equity who are creating change nationwide. After serving as Senior Fellow of Arts & Culture with the U.S. Water Alliance, Benny has begun his consultancy, Watercolor Creative, which utilizes creative strategies, artistic processes, and social practice to strengthen the efficacy of arts partnerships and integration.
I’ll leave you with Benny’s own words, from his artist statement, which I think say it best: “My work is spiritual. It’s ritual, improvisation, repetition, and imperfection. It is a space for dreaming, but equally important, a space to fail, reflect, refine, and improve. And I hope that when people engage with my creations and process, it moves them to engage deeply with their creativity in everything they do.”
Yes. Here’s to engaging deeply. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
GOOD FOLK is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit goodfolk.substack.com/subscribe
Hello Folks,
I’m writing to you from the state of North Carolina, and specifically, from the campus of the University of North Carolina, where I am a graduate student in Folklore. At UNC, I investigate the role that folklore can play in a world—and region—that teeters on constant collapse.
How can storytelling methodologies and communal practice bring us together against all the odds? How can we find common ground in one of the most complicated and contested regions in the world? Do we attempt to love the places we are from or do we learn to find comfort—and freedom—in abandoning them completely? Most simply, I describe all of this as “folklore futurisms”—using the field to stare down the dark unknowns of the future and attempt to find a path to them, no matter how tangled and intertwined it may be.
This, I believe, is also the role of many community activists across the South today. It is exhausting work to be an activist, and especially here in the South, where so often it feels the place you live rejects the work you attempt to do. I work these days largely in rural activism and climate change awareness, but those are only two branches of a very large tree.
You might notice that this podcast is dropping into your inbox on Friday, instead of our usual day of Wednesday. Let me provide some context: we had every intention of getting this to you on Wednesday, but then, walking back to my house in the middle of the day, police cars sped past me on the road, rushing towards campus, and a few minutes later I received a—now familiar—text alert from the university: Emergency: Armed, dangerous person on or near campus. Go inside now; avoid windows.
Just two weeks earlier, UNC students received the same message during what turned out to be a fatal shooting in one of the science labs on campus. On Tuesday, UNC students were thrown out of the legislative building in Raleigh after they gathered to protest the GOP leniency on gun laws, laughed at by lawmakers as they exited.
It feels impossible sometimes to be an activist here. It is exhausting. It asks so much of you, and it takes and takes and takes. And yet, we are still here, believing in change. The South is the ground of fertile resistance, and it has been the birthplace of some of the largest activist and labor movements in history. Those aren’t the stories we get in the media, which focus on repression and denial, but if we’re willing to look around and pay attention, we will see there is a different story happening all around us—one led by the activists, community leaders, and believers of change, willing to show up day after day in the hopes of something better for all of us.
Lauren Mathers is one of those individuals, and I’m honored to be joined by her on the podcast today. Lauren (she/her/hers) is the Executive Director of Sandhills PRIDE, the LGBTQ+ support and advocacy nonprofit based in Moore County, North Carolina.
She has spent her entire career in the nonprofit sector – first in dance and theater in Chicago, New York, the Berkshires, and Florida; later with the Girl Scouts of Southeast Florida; and now with Sandhills PRIDE, since January 2022. Lauren received her degree from Southern Illinois University where she studied art, film, photography, and bookbinding and she continues to pursue her artistic interests for relaxation and personal enjoyment.
I am tired. I am grateful. I am inspired by individuals like Lauren, who remind me that we must keep showing up, and we must keep believing. Despite it all, I still believe. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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Happy Wednesday Folks,
I’m thrilled today to welcome you to “season three” of the Good Folk Podcast, kicking off with a conversation about home, mythology, breakdown, safety, change, and choice.
Anyone who knows the South today knows that it is a changing place. The North Carolina I remember from my childhood is not the North Carolina I call home today. Much of this is a good thing; some of it is not. It is always easier for us to look back on the past and imagine it is somewhere better. This is the basis of nostalgia, and the basis of much of folklore work, which hinges on the preservation of the “traditional.”
As a folklorist, I spent a lot of time thinking about what traditions ought to be preserved— of what is worthy of carrying into the future. I’m most interested in looking forward, in thinking about where we go from here. And as a writer, I’m most interested in mythmaking— how the stories we tell impact how we see ourselves.
We are in a moment in the South where so many of our myths have crumbled, many for good reason. But what we are not seeming to grapple with collectively is the fact that people need myths and stories to survive; they need something to believe in. And when the stories one has long told themselves about their relationship to home, to place, and to identity crumble— well, many people will cling to the first new story they can find.
I see our essential work at Good Folk as a collective project to write new myths and stories into place, stories that are reflective of who we are, of what this place looks like, and of where we go— together. It must be a communal project, and it must hinge on the act of paying careful attention to the world around us, of seeing it up close. It requires recognizing all the changing and shifting stories around place, especially this one, and being open to the writing of a new story.
Artists and writers and inherent mythmakers, but these days, they are also documentarians, letting the world around them infuse itself into their work. This dual role of mythmaker and documentarian— perhaps best described as a citizen artist— is one of the key themes of this project, and one of the key themes that underlining this conversation with writer Sara Johnson Allen about place, myth, identity, culture, home, and how we grapple with the tenacious and nebulous nature of it all.
Sara Johnson Allen was raised (mostly) in North Carolina. Down Here We Come Up, winner of the Big Moose Prize from Black Lawrence Press, is her debut novel, released this month, and which I wholeheartedly recommend.
A recipient of the Marianne Russo Award for Emerging Writers by the Key West Literary Seminar, the Stockholm Writers Festival First Pages Prize, an artistic grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation, and MacDowell fellowships, her work has appeared in PANK Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, and Reckon Review among others.
When she is not teaching or shuttling her three kids around, she writes about place and how it shapes us.
None of us live in a vacuum; I believe that we are all influenced by place. But I also believe that we should consider more deeply the ways in which a place is also influenced by us— the roles and responsibilities we have in participating in the communities which we call home, and giving back to the communities that shape us. It’s a question I think I will spend the rest of my life pondering, but one thoroughly enjoyed diving into today. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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Happy Wednesday Folks,
I write this to you from the screen porch at my new house, where I now spend my entire workday since moving here. It’s summer fully now in North Carolina, and for all the words I have, I still can’t seem to find the right ones for how the light hits in the early morning, how the sky goes dark and orange when the storms roll in. This is what I stay here for. It’s the place that inspires me most.
Speaking of inspiration, I’m thrilled to introduce you North Carolina-based musician Tre. Charles, who joined me in conversation about finding creative fuel in the places around you and the specific way this manifests in the South. A few blocks from my home, there’s a brightly-colored mural with painted microphones, radio tapes and records, an open mouth, and above it all is written: The South Got Something to Say.
André 3000 offered the words in Outkast’s acceptance speech for Best New Rap Group at the 1995 Source Awards, and Brittany Howard echoed them in her introduction for The Oxford American’s Winter 2020 issue, writing: The South Just Has a Thang.
There is something here that those who call it home understand—a pull to expression unlike anywhere else I have ever seen. I have never felt more full of love, rage, hatred, joy, desire, longing, frustration, and awe than when I am here—and what else besides art can hold space for all of those feelings at once? There is a reason so many arts movements started in the South, and a reason so many artists—from here and around the world (I mean, just look at the roster of artists who recorded in Muscle Shoals) —have found themselves here.
Tre. Charles is one of those artists. Growing up along the East Coast from city to city, he was exposed to a myriad of different cultures, and it is from these experiences that he has cultivated a sound of his own which pays homage to his nomadic upbringing. With hints of avant-garde R&B, modern/indie rock, and ambient soul, Charles’ honest & thought provoking music has the ability to make every performance feel like a transformative experience.
He has been compared to musicians like Frank Ocean, Moses Sumney, Sampha, and James Blake, to name a few, but this artist has a sound all his own. Tre. has acquired many cosigners along his artistic journey, one of which being the world renowned guitar company D’Angelico Guitars, who he is now endorsed by as an official artist.
He has also been nominated for the Best R&B artist for the Carolina Music Awards and winner of the Virginia’s Favorite Award at the Richmond International Film Festival, as well as dubbed the future of music at the 2022 NXNE music festival in Toronto.
Tre. has performed in venues all across the U.S., from being featured on CBS and NBC programming to performing at a myriad of festival stages such as Artsplosure Carolina Jubilee, Dominion Energy Riverrock, NXNE, Blacktoberfest, D.C. National Cherry Blossom Festival, Charlotte Shout and many more.
His artistry has a unique way of making any setting intimate and personal. Tre. has performed for numerous CreativeMornings sessions as well as numerous Sofar Sounds; he also made his New York debut in 2022 at the legendary Rockwood Music Hall and the renowned Pete’s Candy Store to captivated audiences.
His lead single Stressin. music video amassed 200k+ YouTube streams and gathered major buzz, as well as his debut EP Currently., from publications such as NPR, INDY Week, Wearesoul, Iggy Mag, Metal Mag, Wonderland magazine, Notion magazine, Rated R&B and many more.
Already, after the release of Currently., Charles has been on show lineups with rising talent Devon Gilfilian and world renowned Tank and the Bangas.
You can also catch Tre. at this weekend’s Good Folk Fest at the Haw River Ballroom in Saxapahaw, North Carolina—a celebration of the emerging artists and musicians poised to be at the forefront of the Southern arts scene. I hope you’ll join us, and I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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Folks, today, I am thrilled to introduce you to writer and poet KB Brookins for a conversation about climate, grief, Texas, the South, the radical power of reimagining, and the role that we can play as artists in envisioning that future.
KB Brookins is a Black, queer, and trans writer, cultural worker, and artist from Texas. Their work is featured in Poets.org, HuffPost, Poetry Magazine, Teen Vogue, RichesArt Gallery, American Poetry Review, Oxford American, Electric Literature, Okayplayer, and many other places. Their chapbookHow To Identify Yourself with a Wound won the Saguaro Poetry Prize and was named an American Library Association Stonewall Honor Book in Literature. KB’s debut full-length poetry collectionFreedom House—just released, and I highly recommend—has been recommended by Vogue, Autostraddle, Ms. Magazine, and others.
Currently, KB is a National Endowment of the Arts fellow; MFA candidate at The University of Texas at Austin; Poet-in-Residence at Civil Rights Corps; and at work on their debut installation art project Freedom House: An Exhibition. They have earned fellowships from PEN America, Lambda Literary, and The Watering Hole among others. KB’s poem “Good Grief” won the Academy of American Poets 2022 Treehouse Climate Action Poem Prize. Their debut memoir Pretty (Alfred A. Knopf) releases in 2024.
KB’s background in nonprofit management, student affairs, and K-12 teaching informs their cultural work. In a span of five years, they founded and led two nonprofits with friends and community members to advance LGBTQIA+ justice and nurture/amplify marginalized artists in Central Texas. For two years, KB was the Program Coordinator of the Gender and Sexuality Center at UT Austin, where they founded the Black Queer & Trans Collective and co-led the President’s LGBTQIA+ Committee.
In the realm of artivism, KB served as Project Lead for the Winter Storm Project; curatedDo You Want a Revolution: ATX Artists on the Carceral State andWatch Dog: a zine about community surveillance and policing; facilitated a workshop where youth created video poems on policing in Austin, Texas schools (which can be viewed here); and hosted a variety show to raise funds for trans people’s gender affirming care. Currently, their passion lies in public speaking; workshop facilitation; consulting businesses, organizations, and individuals in their areas of interest; and projects that merge art and socio-political movement work.
This is the kind of conversation that only reaffirms my belief that there can be no possible separation between the artist and organizer—that our work is inherently political, meaningful, and has something to say.
I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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Hello Folks,
Spencer here— I’m so thrilled to introduce you to today’s podcast guest, musician John Harrison, also known as Jphono1, and I want to first thank Victoria for filling in on the intro for this episode. In the end-of-semester whirlwind, I’ve managed to lose my voice, which feels very on brand for me these days. For now, I’ll be here, typing to you from behind the screen…
From his early days drumming in The Comas, John has grown into a consummate veteran of the North Carolina scene. Between stints as co-songwriter and bandleader in North Elementary, he’s carved out a prolific visual arts portfolio, and regularly shows in galleries around the Triangle. As one of three founders of the collective label, Potluck Foundation, he helps shepherd a far reaching community of musicians who consistently turn out quality releases.
If that wasn’t enough to keep one person busy, he’s also recently taken a swan dive into improvisational electronic music as one half of Tacoma Park. Yet, like some kind of time warping wizard, John regularly manages to turn out releases as Jphono1 both solo and with his pals. It is in these two modes that John Harrison explores his sonic space. At once as a solo astronaut galloping on horseback through some stellar landscape, and also as the leader of a crew of heady pirates sailing dusty vinyl seas.
The solo releases of Jphono1 show a tinkerer twisting and warping the expectations of what a pop song should be. Early Jphono1 albums are a head trip of tracks that blend banjitar ragas with drum machines and synth fueled space explorations. Drums and fuzzed out guitars mingle with back porch picking, and songs stretch past their pop confines into instrumental explorations. Melodies twist and turn through loping loops then dissolve into the ether. At other times, like on “Loblolly Boogie,” John sheds some of the experimentation and decoration in exchange for air and clarity. Like the titular tree, the songs on “Loblolly Boogie” stand tall and let themselves be swayed by the atmosphere, giving you space to meander among them. This sense of patient exploration is what really ties the Jphono1 solo experience together, both on stage and on record.
If Jphono1 solo is patient and mindful, then records with the band are ecstatic and expansive. With trusty friends by his side, John illuminates and elucidates inside-out songs with succinct riffs and rhythms. The Jphono1 band turn up with a bit more grit and less concern for stylistic constraints. They can vacillate between jazzy passages, Latin-inspired percussion breakdowns, krauty riff rock, and giddy mushroom high hooks. As the band has spent more time playing together, they’ve become more comfortable stretching out their improvisational legs, and the tracks on “Parliament”, "Rectify Mercy" and "Invisible Futures & Make Believe Pasts" reflect this jammy bent. Some songs sprawl well past the five minute mark, and become their own little world. The length, however, doesn’t come across as indulgent. Instead it sounds like a group of musicians who trust one another enough to know when to let it ride. Whether live or on album, it’s clear that the Jphono1 band are as excited about having fun on their journey as they are about finding their destination.
Here’s to celebrating that journey. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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I can say with confidence that today’s guests are some of the most fun and joyous I have had the privilege to cross paths with. Described by the Boston Globe as “spellbinding acoustic musicians with a rare master of American roots styles” and by Billboard Magazine as “as close to flawless folk/bluegrass as it gets,” they truly need no introduction.
Two-time Grammy® Award Winners, Cathy Fink & Marcy Marxer are an eclectic folk festival on their own terms. They have entertained the Queen of Thailand, been keynote singers for the AFL-CIO, performed at hundreds of folk festivals, appeared on the "Today Show" and on National Public Radio.
Their superb harmonies are backed by instrumental virtuosity on the guitar, five-string banjo, ukulele, mandolin, cello-banjo, and many other instruments. Their eclectic repertoire includes classic country to western swing, Django style jazz to old-time stringband and bluegrass, contemporary folk and original gems. While their versatility defies a brief description, perhaps “well rounded Americana” does it best.
The duo has released 52 recordings, including “GET UP AND DO RIGHT”, which features duets of songs by other writers such as Alice Gerrard, Tom Paxton, Ola Belle Reed and David Francey, along with a few originals. Other recent recordings include the uke-centric collection, “WAHOO!” and “SHOUT AND SHINE” with Appalachian tradition bearer and songwriter, Sam Gleaves. The latest, “ALL NEW” is a double CD collaboration with friend, Tom Paxton, of 28 original songs written by Cathy & Tom, performed live in studio.
Cathy & Marcy have achieved the status of master musicians, but are also happily known as “social music conductors”, ready to start a jam session, mentor an up and coming artist or create an entire music camp to help others learn to play and sing. At past music camps they have taught Kaki King and Rhiannon Giddens banjo and through their long relationship with the Music Center at Strathmore’s Artist in Residence program they have collaborated with and helped the next generation navigate the professional music world.
They’ve earned two Grammy® Awards, in 2004 and 2005 for “cELLAbration: a Tribute to Ella Jenkins” and for “ Bon Appétit!" In 2003, they were GRAMMY® nominated for their CD, “Postcards” in the Best Traditional Folk Album category. They received another GRAMMY® nomination in that category for “Banjo Talkin’”.
In 2004 the Martin Guitar Company honored the duo with their own signature Martin Guitars, the MCH-Cathy Fink Model and the MC3H-Marcy Marxer model. Influenced by Mike Seeger, Marcy re-discovered the four-string cello banjo inspiring the Gold Tone Company to make the Marcy Marxer model cello banjo, now played by Tim O'Brien, Ricky Skaggs and many others. She also designed her signature Kala Ukulele, now played by hundreds of uke lovers. Cathy is a three-time winner of the West Virginia State Banjo Contest, the first woman to take first place in 1980, and in 2018 she became the first woman to win the Clifftop Appalachian Music Festival Banjo Competition.
Cathy & Marcy have performed at hundreds of bluegrass and folk festivals, taught at 100+ music camps, appeared on the “CBS Early Show”, National Public Radio’s “Morning Edition” and “All Things Considered”. They have advocated in Washington for unions, health care for children and the rights and livelihoods of artists.
In their 40 years performing together, the Washington Area Music Association has recognized Cathy & Marcy with over 60 WAMMY Awards for folk, bluegrass and children’s music. They have performed with Pete Seeger, Theodore Bikel, Tom Paxton, Patsy Montana, Riders in the Sky and a wide range of musical luminaries. As curators, performers and hosts, Cathy & Marcy have MC’d festivals, curated concert series and collaborated with a wide variety of musicians.
Cathy & Marcy have toured worldwide from Japan to New Zealand, Vancouver to New York and everywhere in between. Shows include the The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and Museum (OH), Smithsonian Institution, and the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. American Voices Abroad chose Cathy & Marcy with fiddler Barbara Lamb to perform in China, Malaysia, Papua New Guinea and Vanuatu in 2013 for the U.S. Department of State.
They are not only wildly impressive, but full of joy, hope, and love, both for one another and for artistry as a whole. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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A few weeks ago, we had the pleasure of teaming up with Live From the Nest North Carolina for A Night of Folk & Friends, a special live podcast taping and acoustic concert with Alexander Robichaud, Scivic Rivers, and Dissimilar South. I’m thrilled today to release the first episode of the acoustic series, featuring the sounds of and conversation with Dissimilar South. The full episode is available to paid subscribers, and a free preview is available for all subscribers.
Based in North Carolina, Dissimilar South has been categorized as indie rock, new folk, Americana, and even polished pop-country. Whatever they are, their refreshing sound is characterized by rich instrumentation, honest lyrics, and luscious harmonies. Dissimilar South’s core is the musical relationship of Carter Hodge and Maddie Fisher, now a six year affair. They released their debut EP “Treehouse” in 2021 and album “Tricky Things” in 2022.
Happy Wednesday Folks,
The poet Mary Oliver once wrote that attention is the beginning of devotion. I think about those words almost every single day.
It was the drive to learn how to pay attention that brought me back here. I wanted to remember how it felt to find beauty in an empty field, in the glint of light on leaves. I wanted to, as so much of the mythology of rural places entails, learn how to slow my life down. I wanted ease, and connection, and simplicity— to remember how, first and foremost, to just be a normal person.
Of course, it’s never that easy, and these days life feels busier than ever before. But it also feels full, and full of those moments of mutual recognition. They seep into my work, and they seep in today’s conversation, which is about artistry, and attention, and the spirituality of the everyday— the beauty in learning how to just exist, with no expectations. It is a difficult practice, but it is one should be all be cultivating. And today’s guest, musician Hubble Salgado, does so well.
Hubble is a musician who makes solo music under the name Fresh Air 4. Based in Nashville, Tennessee he creates his folky electronic music in the comforts of his living quarters on his humble analog setup. He finds inspiration from his family, friends, city, and the nature surrounding Nashville.
Connection is everywhere— you only have to learn how to pay attention, and to listen, and let the world translate itself to you. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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There are many exciting things to discuss about today’s episode, but first I must give a major shout-out and say happy twenty fifth birthday to our incredible podcast producer, Victoria Landers. Vic has been a part of this project since the very beginning, when I walked into the art classroom we co-taught in and asked them to help me design a logo for a newsletter I was launching. We’ve come a long way since then, and I can say with certainty Good Folk would not be anywhere close to what it is without them. Vic is the heart behind the scenes, editing our podcast episodes and letting me send them constant rambling voice messages about all the ideas I have for Good Folk.
So, please take a moment while listening to today’s episode to wish Vic a happy birthday, and feel free to leave a comment here letting them know how much we love and appreciate what they do <3
On to today’s episode… While listening back to it, I found myself struck with the question which seems to be on my mind quite a bit lately: how can you use your own talent to cultivate and grow the talents of those around you? Today’s guest demonstrates this ability aptly, and I’m so lucky to have had him join me in this conversation.
Musician Matt Southern was born in Jackson, Michigan and relocated to Raleigh, North Carolina in 2010. He soon began releasing solo records under the name Magpie Feast. In 2013 Magpie Feast became a full band and a staple of the local live music scene. They released several albums until they disbanded in 2017. Since then Matt began releasing records as a solo artist and with his band Matt Southern & Lost Gold. Through these various projects he has always remained productive, releasing 23 records (LPs and EPs) and various singles and one off projects.
Matt has also produced/engineered records for a diverse group of artists, from the folk/punk of Alexander Robichaud to the hip hop of Chompzz, and the country music of Kit McKay. Music production has become a vital connection to other artists in the community. It has become an important source of inspiration for his own work as well as a fulfilling way to use the skills he has acquired to help others realize their own artistic vision.
He’s a clear musical powerhouse, and as if that wasn’t enough, he’s also part of a team that produces Live from the Nest North Carolina, an acoustic music video series recorded in his living room. In their own words, “Live from the Nest is a video series (hosted on YouTube) documenting intimate music performances from a variety of artists in my living room in Raleigh. We strive to be a platform for the incredible and diverse wealth of talent in our area and beyond. We hope to connect artists with each other and the community they are part of. We want to showcase well established local favorites alongside artists who may just be starting out. In these ways, we hope to play a small role in building a more diverse and vibrant music scene in the Triangle.”
This conversation looks at the importance of cultivating community in any kind of creative work. You never know who you will cross paths with. You never know what influence they will have on your life.
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Happy Wednesday Folks,
In listening back to today’s conversation, I found myself struck with two thoughts: number one, I love this band; and number two, the feeling that we often find home in the places we least expect.
When I moved back to North Carolina nearly three years ago, I never truly planned to stay. I had a vague idea of what this place was, and I saw it as a temporary landing, a stepping stone on the path to greater artistry. Back then, I believed that anyone who had the chance to leave would. Success was merely a foreshadowing of an exit— and mine would come soon enough.
That year, I spent my time wandering through old growth longleaf pines and pretending the world was not ending around me. The world— virus-ridden, socially-collapsed— seemed to go on against all odds. And it was in the artists I found myself surrounded by that I found comfort, inspiration, and the ultimate sense that I was known deeply. I was known, and I was loved— and in that knowledge, I was found.
I moved from that small town in the pines two summers ago, but I still believe there is something special there. This project, I can say with certainty, would not exist without the collaborations and relationships formed in that space, and today’s guests reflect that narrative aptly. Our art is better in community; our art is better when we let it be driven by joy.
“I feel like it’s dense with people who give a damn.”
— Sean Diesfeld of The Violet Exploit, on small-town North Carolina
Thus, allow me to introduce you to today’s guest, The Violet Exploit, a 5-person Indie Alternative-Rock band that started in January of 2022. The band is local to Southern Pines, North Carolina and together they bring eclectic tastes and timeless yet timely sensibilities to their original music.
Their sound pays homage to classic rock with alternative nuances leaving audiences with a sense of nostalgia and energy. Their debut singles, “Laugh” and “Lay Down” were released in 2022 and were recorded locally in North Carolina. Throughout 2022 they worked extensively on recording their upcoming songs and playing various shows around North Carolina and Virginia.
With big plans for 2023, The Violet Exploit will have multiple music releases from singles to multi-song eps and even music videos. They are, truly, a force to watch, and a force to be reckoned with.
Their success builds on the close relationships they’ve formed as a band, evident in every part of this conversation. They also have thoughts on home, and the pressure to find it, to leave it, and to let it influence your work. I resonate deeply, and I hope you will, too.
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Today is a very special day as not only do we have a new podcast for you, it is also the 30th birthday of our guest, Jesse Barber. Happy birthday to Jesse, who is inquisitive, thoughtful, and talented, and has so much wisdom to share here.
Jesse is a documentary photographer based in the Appalachian region of North Carolina. His work focuses on the culture of rural communities and the influence of traditional values, such as those related to labor and religion. Raised in the rural South, Barber has an understanding of the nuanced perspective in small communities, and he seeks to expand our understanding of how religion, labor and history intersect with the land today. His work has been published in outlets such as Rolling Stone, The New York Times, and The Washington Post, and has won countless awards. A graduate student of Appalachian Studies at Appalachian State University, Jesse also works with SouthArts on documentary, fieldwork, and ethnographic projects.
Today’s conversation is about home, and about the struggle to find it. It is about Appalachia and the stories that surround this region. How a few menial drawn up lines have come to define so much of this country, and so many of our own identities within it.
Appalachia, as many of you who listen to this podcast will now, is many things. Most of all, for a lot of us, it is home. It is a place both beautiful and heartbreaking, both progressive and stuck in history. Folklore has contributed deeply to the myth of the region, as have journalists, who have long flocked to the mountains looking for a glimpse of the “real America”. This county has spent decades scapegoating the region, casting it aside, and leaving it behind. But in turn, those who call it home have come together to fight back and rewrite that story.
I come from a family with long roots in the Appalachian foothills, and for me, it has always felt like home, though a claim to this place still holds on my tongue. There is nowhere I have loved more, nor run away from so fast, a pattern that has tracked its way throughout my family line, all of us looking for better opportunity, better ways of life, somewhere else. In many ways, all of us are still looking for that home.
Jesse articulates so many of the things I have long felt, and I’m just grateful our paths have crossed. He sheds light on this place, not trying to make it something else, but simply showing it as it is. Like Appalachia itself, it’s beautiful. It’s heartbreaking. It’s home.
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I’m so excited to have the honor to introduce you today to Ida Floreak, painter living in New Orleans, LA. Her work deals with ecological anxieties paired with reverence for the natural world. She explores what it means to be human in a time of ecological disaster, where to find hope and our place in the recovery, as well as the universal human trait of worship.
Drawing from a classical tradition with influences in the Italian Renaissance and medieval reliquaries, Ida examines the importance of acknowledging a world and systems greater than oneself, and finding the sacred in the smallest artifacts of nature.
This conversation reminded me of one of the greatest forms of activism we possess: the act of paying attention to the world around us. When we began to pay attention, we begin to see the truth of the multifaceted world around us. And when we see that truth, we are invited to imagine it and reimagine it.
Lately, like many people, I’ve been thinking about the end of the world. I’ve also been thinking about how the very concept of the end of the world revolves around humankind, and the problems within this. The world will go on, whether I am here to see it or not. There’s fear in that, but there’s also comfort, too. As Ida says, everything will adjust to whatever future is next.
When I look at her paintings, I feel certain that another world is coming— one I hope will be more connected, more intertwined, and more attentive. Ida notices the details of things, and important power in the act of imagining new worlds. We are not all so separate as we think. Look around, and look forward. There’s something waiting out there on the other side.
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Happy Wednesday Folks,
Today I’m thrilled to welcome you back to “Season Two” of the Good Folk podcast and to introduce you to The Official Bard of Baldwin County— aka Jackson Chambers— an up-and-coming queer folk musician based in Auburn, Alabama by way of the Mobile-Tensaw delta.
Before I tell you more about the Bard, a disclaimer: in the pre-recording rush for this episode, I somehow managed to accidentally set my microphone settings to omnidirectional, leaving my audio here marred by echo. I apologize, and I’ll hope you’ll listen anyway, as the Bard’s audio is crystal clear and I promise this conversation is worth your while. Additionally, the full transcript for today’s episode will be free to all subscribers, dropping in your inbox shortly. Catch up on the first twelve episodes of the podcast here, and read through past transcripts here. Thank you to the Bard for lending their song, Cicada Waltz, as the intro and outro music for this episode.
Raised in the hot morning dew of southern Alabama yard sales and the powdered-sugar dusted walls of their family’s bakery, The Bard makes music to satisfy an eclectic mind. Starting in high-school as the frontman for what was “effectively a shitty Green Day/Misfits cover band”, the Bard is a completely self-taught musician. Despite no formal training, the Bard has wasted no time in exercising their artistic muscles. Fans of lo-fi outsider musicians and folk-punk-revivalists will appreciate their carefully-crafted lyrics and occasional off-key yelps, while the old-time fogeys (and fogeys-at-heart) will enjoy their library of Americana standards.
"I never go into anything wanting something. I always genuinely want to just let everybody know that they're appreciated and we could never talk again. But I'm still going to tell you your set was great. Genuinely, if you're doing something cool, I want you to know. That's how you build communities.”
— The Official Bard of Baldwin County
While a country-goth by trade, the Bard is hard-pressed to stick to a genre for long, incorporating a diverse menagerie of weird instruments and deep-cut tributes. Their high and lonesome tone, alongside their frantic, flamenco-punk guitar playing make them an instant favorite for many new fans. Their newest EP, “the patron saint of something” is available on streaming services everywhere, and they can often be found busking on weekends in downtown Auburn, digging through dusty thrift stores, or on the airwaves of WEGL 91.1 FM, Auburn’s student-run radio station. Overall, they're very glad to make your acquaintance, and hope to see you again soon, ya hear?
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Happy Wednesday Folks,
First, a few admin things: today’s episode marks the end of “season one” of the Good Folk Podcast. Our team will be taking the rest of the month off in an attempt to spend less time online. We will be back with the podcast in January, with lots of exciting things up our sleeve. In the meantime, I will still be sending out regular newsletter posts as the year wraps up.
I want to thank you all for your incredible support these last six months as we launched the podcast and stepped into a new era of Good Folk. I seriously can’t put into words how grateful I am to everyone reading this, to the community we’ve built, and to all the people who— whether you enjoy this work or not— are willing to approach what they know of rural and Southern spaces with an open mind. There are always going to be stereotypes to dispel and practices to unlearn. But I, for one, am grateful to do it in this way, with you all. Thank you for putting up with my bad audio, my rambling sentences, and my inability to ever send anything out on time.
As we reflect on the last eleven (!) episodes of the podcast, Vic thought it would be fun to reverse the roles and interview me (Spencer). Then, of course, the Moore County attacks happened, and it wouldn’t have felt right to me not to discuss the situation, which still continues to unfold. We begin today’s episode with a reflection on what happened and how we got here, before the tables flip on me to discuss the past, present, and future of Good Folk. This is a conversation about my own journey into this work, one that is also intimately connected to my own biases, healing, and unlearning. It’s about finding meaning in what you do, even when some days it’s the last thing you feel like showing up for. It’s about loneliness and community, and feeling as though you are the only possible one in the world who thinks like this, who hurts like this, who loves like this. Of course, that’s never the case, but it’s almost impossible to understand that in the moment.
If anything, I hope this newsletter reminds you of that. We are all just hands reaching out through the darkness for another to grasp.
I’ll leave you with a quote I’ve been repeating to myself lately about art, and why we make it, by writer Neil Gaiman:
“Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do... Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, and eventually time will take the sting away, but that doesn't matter. Do what only you do best. Make good art. Make it on the good days too.”
On the good days, too. Yes. See you in January.
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Folks, today I am thrilled to introduce you to the wonderful humans of band Palmyra, joining me in conversation. Established in the Shenandoah Valley, Palmyra’s set explores the fusion of traditional folk string instruments, three part harmonies and foot percussion.
The trio captures the collective spirit of three Virginia natives, Teddy (he/him), Manoa (he/him), and Sasha (they/them), often described as a distant cousin of the progressive folk band, Punch Brothers, mixed with elements of Oliver Wood or the Avett Brothers. Palmyra’s songs are intimate and contemplative, with arrangements that allow them to create the illusion of a full, larger-than-three ensemble. The trio's sound is a nod to Appalachia and Midwestern Americana, apparent through their stirring craftsmanship and dedication to a folk-driven, innovative experience throughout each live performance.
In 2022, Palmyra made their Newport Folk Festival debut, were named the FloydFest 2022 On The Rise Winner, and performed over 150 tour dates on acclaimed stages up and down the east coast, including a support tour with national headlining act, Illiterate Light. Currently, they are gearing up for a new round of shows in the new year and settling into their new home base of Richmond, Virginia.
It's just us in our minivan, playing anywhere and everywhere, trying to say yes to every opportunity.
— Manoa Bell
I loved this conversation. Teddy, Manoa, and Sasha demonstrate a level of care and respect for the music and each other that feels rare, and important. This conversation also touches on many things close to my own heart: concepts of home, what it means to call a place home, finding your own unique sound, and sharing who you are with the world, a feat that can be both the most freeing and terrifying thing in the world. There is something in the music of Palmyra that speaks to all of these things, and does so in a way that is rooted in tradition while also creating an entirely new sound.
As most great musicians do, they create music that I, as the listener, didn’t know I needed until I heard it. Touching on queerness, rurality, and mental health, while also playing with classic folk instruments, melodies, and rhythms, there truly is something special at work here. Just take a look at the video above for Medicine, the band’s newest song, dropping this Friday, December 2nd.
I can’t wait to continue to follow their journey, and I hope you enjoy this conversation.
I think it's a really beautiful thing that music can be that. For me, as a young queer person, I can go to a jam that maybe necessarily isn't a super safe environment as far as the people around me’s beliefs. But I know that I can go to that jam, and this is a language that I speak through music, and it's really respected in the room that all of us are using that same language to talk to each other, even though we're not talking about politics or identity.
— Sasha Landon
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Before you even begin to listen to today’s podcast episode, I need you to know one thing: 723 is so talented at what they do that not only can guitarist Tramaine Bowman play with his teeth, he can absolutely shred with them.
I had the privilege of seeing 723 play live just last night, and it only confirmed for me what I knew to be true the very first time I spoke to them: this band is doing something special, and they are going places.
Hailing from the North Carolina piedmont, 723 is a genre-bending music collective rooted in collaborative practice. The group was founded by “Space Sam” Gabriel Alvarez (the groups multi-instrumentalist producer), Tramaine Bowman (poet and guitarist), and former theater kid and vocalist Maxx Alvarez.
The group’s genesis was cemented in early 2021 during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic under the name “DISSOLVCOLLECTIVE”. Lending their talents and pooling their recording equipment, the trio would release four singles amongst the three artists before taking a hiatus for the remainder of the year.
The group would return stronger than ever with fan favorite single “Almost Meant to Be”. A clear departure from their early efforts, the collective had come to fruition after inducting the brotherly duo Brandon and Brian Finch, the group’s bassist and drummer respectively. With the band complete, the group had found new direction and set out to record their debut project “BRIGHT LIGHTS” a nearly year long effort that would prove to be ambitious for the budding musicians.
When you're really passionate about what you're doing, and you're really doing what you feel in your heart is what you're meant to be doing, it's like things just kind of fall into place.
— Gabriel Alvarez
Splitting time between performing their first few shows and recording songs from Tramaine’s kitchen in Hillsborough, the band’s efforts came to a head in early August of 2022 with the release of “BRIGHT LIGHTS” followed by a near sold out headlining show at Chapel Hill’s Local 506 just days later. The EP was a truly ambitious feat of DIY audio engineering.
Recorded on a shoe string budget and led in creative direction by the group’s in house producer and lead guitarist Sam, it’s a considerable step into new territory for the band. It features textures and sound scapes of all kinds. From the mangled and fuzzed out psychedelia of “WILLOW CREEK”, or the vulnerable and hauntingly cathartic cello movements of “LYFE” or the danceable funky rhythms and trombone featured on Latin inspired song “EYES” the project is truly genre defying, it’s tracks perfectly incapsulating the spirit of 723.
I'm not playing a character. I'm existing as myself on stage, playing with my best friends and showing off music that we all lived, and telling those stories and having so many people relate to them and relate to us and love us just for an hour-and-fifteen minutes that they saw. That is really the most rewarding thing.
— Maxx Alvarez
Today the band is back in the kitchen recording their sophomore EP and debut project for the group’s star vocalist and songwriter prodigy Maxx.
I’m so excited to introduce you to this group, and to see artists working together so successfully in collaboration. It’s true what they say: the best art comes out of community, and opening yourself up to a multitude of interpretations. None of us are alone. As guitarist Gabriel Alvarez says: You have to go out and find your community and just be a part of something bigger than yourself. It's so important. It’s how you change the world around you. Yes.
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Folks: if we think of ourselves as flowers, what does it look like to bloom? Does a flower grow on its own? Or does it need love and light and care to truly blossom? And what comes after the bloom?
Today, I'm thrilled to be joined by Liz Maker, a full-time landscaper and part-time florist living in coastal North Carolina, in conversation with myself and Victoria Landers, our podcast producer. Liz started their floral business After The Bloom in the fall of 2020 after receiving much community support to help fund their top surgery.
This success sparked a desire to help other members of the gender-expansive community on their gender journey. Through After The Bloom, Liz has bought binders, helped pay tuition, and most recently ran a gender-affirming surgery campaign which involved a GoFundMe and community-wide raffle. Liz is transgender non-binary, but feels most connected to the word genderqueer. Liz uses they/them pronouns, Colgate toothpaste and a Nissan Frontier.
“I think when you're coming into yourself and you're really figuring out who you are and you're being—or at least trying to be— the most authentic version of you and the most true version of you, that community, it's just magnetic. It's definitely connecting and making yourself vulnerable. It shows the good in people. And it's so much easier to find that community now that I feel like the community knows who I am and what I stand for.”
— Liz Maker
As a queer Southerner, I spend a lot of time thinking about the role I play in this place. I never got to see people I identified with find joy in the places where their roots grow. To really push this language, I never got to see them bloom. Most of the narratives of queerness I saw here involved leaving, heading off to somewhere where community could be cultivated and grown— somewhere else.
But for better or for worse, I am someone who craves roots. I want somewhere to call my own and somewhere to thrive in, and I want to be able to do that in the places I love, the soil that has nourished me from the start. We talk about leaving your hometown as if it is something we should all want. But for many of us, learning how to be who we are in the places that have seen us through every stage of growth is the most beautiful thing imaginable. And coming back to plant the seeds for what you did not have growing up is one of the most radical and transformative things you can do.
I love this conversation, and I love the work that Liz is doing. It is important and necessary and is, in my eyes, the true essence of what community building looks like: putting yourself out there to help keep the ground where you are rich and watered and thriving. If we think of community as a garden, no one succeeds when only one plant grows tall. We have to learn to live together. We have to learn to be what we needed when we might have thought we were the only plant for miles, because we never know what is growing beneath the surface. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
“I believe no one knows you and your body the way that you do. Honoring that is your birthright. And coming to terms with that is a spiritual experience, in a way. And I want people to feel confident with that inner knowing that of who you are, that the world tries tosteer you away from.”
— Liz Maker
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I would like to begin today’s episode with a question: when you think of puppetry, where does your mind go? If you, like me, conjure up images of the muppets or ventriloquists or the hand puppets you might have made in elementary school, then I am very excited for you to meet our guest today, who will broaden your horizons of what puppetry can be far beyond what you might know it as. For Sol Ramirez, puppetry is an art form, one with deep historical and social justice roots.
Sol Ramirez is a 19-year-old artist, activist, musician, and puppeteer. Throughout his young career, he has worked with Paperhand Puppet Intervention, Tarish “Jeghetto” Pipkins, the Hillsborough Arts Council and Orange County Arts Commission, and is the creator and director of 1, 2, 3 Puppetry, a puppet theatre company based in Chapel Hill, NC. He currently is attending school at the University of Connecticut where he is majoring in the Puppet Arts BFA program.
“I'm not interested in art unless it has a message, really. And the nice thing is, all art has a message. It doesn't matter how big or small or how poignant or how directed it is, there's always going to be a message with art.”
— Sol Ramirez
Puppetry, as I have come to understand it, weaves together the best of visual art and theater, using physical representations to convey deeper truths about our world. Puppetry has a long history as a folk practice that entertains and teaches at the same time. It has existed in some form in almost all civilizations and all time periods. Puppetry is said to pre-date written theater, and, according to the Encylopedia Brittanica, represents one of the most primitive instincts of the human race.
If you ask me, that instinct is about art and connection, and taking on other forms in order to build those connections. Puppetry blurs the lines between actor and object, utilizing aesthetic representations to communicate deeper truths. It is no doubt an art form, even if it is an art form we hear little about in modern society. Here in North Carolina, we have an extensive network of puppeteers, and most notably, young puppeteers. I am so excited to introduce you to Sol, who is not only creating beautiful, elaborate productions, but building community, telling stories, and, most of all, inspiring a new generation of young artists.
Sol and I— and I imagine many of you— lean into the belief that good art requires community. I’m not a huge believer that masterpieces are born only in isolation; as an artist, I’m interested in the ways in which we can connect artists across disciplines and locations and reimagine a world of narrative that hinges on collaboration. The more I have these conversations, the more sure of that belief I am. With that being said, I also understand how difficult building that community can be, especially for artists in regions and spaces where they might be physically isolated from the “tethers” and “centers” of their field— and I put that in quotations because I personally don’t believe there should be a center. Great writing comes out of places beyond New York City; great film goes far outside Hollywood.
What I hope for followers of this newsletter and podcast is that you are learning— more than anything else you get from this project— that you are not alone as an artist. If you’re looking for creative community and have no idea where to start, reach out to us. We’re here for you. And I’m really, really excited about what we are building here— together.
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“You are an artist. No matter what it is you create or how you create, as long as you're creating something worthwhile and that you enjoy doing and appreciate and it has some sort of significance in this world, that's meaningful.”
— Skylar Simmons
Today on the Good Folk Podcast we have the wonderful Skylar Simmons, an artist and zine creator from Clinton, North Carolina. Throughout high school and summers home from college, she created various public works for the city, ranging from murals and sculptures to a painted community piano. Skylar attended the North Carolina Governor’s School for art, which greatly influenced her interest in interdisciplinary collaboration. She recently graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University’s School of the Arts with a BFA in Painting and Printmaking and a minor in Art History.
Skylar moved to the Southern Pines area in January of 2021 with her partner, musician Sean Diesfeld and their dog, Freckles. Although she is trained as a fine arts painter, it has been the music community in the area that truly inspires her and helped guide her into graphic design and the launch of her art account, @PAPR.text on Instagram. There, she continues to help artists explore mediums, collaborate with others, and tackle DIY projects they may have thought were out of reach. Accessible art is highly important to Skylar, and has always been a part of why and how she creates.
In August, Skylar released S!Ck, a monthly zine project to promote the music and arts scene of the Southern Pines and Aberdeen area. S!Ck prides itself on accessible, creative, and thoughtful designs that bring people together to form stronger bonds within the community and grow the arts that define the culture of the Sandhills area.
This is a conversation about what it means to be an artist— who gets access, who gets training, and who gets to claim the identity for themselves. The arts have historically been an exclusive, contested realm, one that has long closed its doors to those who don’t fit the establishment’s ideas of what artists look like, or where they come from, or the kind of art they make. Especially considering the high concentration of museums in urban cities, how can rural artists find their voices and share their work with the world? Does one need formal training to claim artistry?
These are questions I have thought about for years, and I really appreciated Skylar’s thoughtful responses. We also discuss how art breeds empathy, and the ways in which DIY and local arts scenes can help one to realize what has been in front of them all along. There are places of value and worth everywhere you look; sometimes you just have to open your eyes and ask: who knew?
Good Folk is especially honored that we will be included in the September issue of S!Ck, dropping this week online and in person at local Sandhills businesses.
Thank you for reading GOOD FOLK. This post is public so feel free to share it.
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“But for all of the madness and microaggressions and disrespect and just utter madness that I deal with, some of the things that these children say are vastly profound, and they have very large hearts. And I am scared but very optimistic of the next generation of kids. My seniors that are graduating this year— if they heard me say this, they would never let me live it down— but they are very good people. The kids are alright. They are going to be alright.”
— Axel S.
On today’s episode of the Good Folk Podcast, we are joined by Axel S., who chats with our producer, Vic Landers, about the education system and the importance of queer educators in rural spaces.
Axel graduated with his bachelors in English and Secondary Education from UNC Greensboro in 2021, and is currently at UNCG earning his masters in English and Women's and Gender Studies. He currently works in rural North Carolina, and has worked with all high school grades and academic levels in the past 2 years. He is an advisor of the LGBTQ+ club on his high school campus, and advocates for the creation of diversity and inclusion within a community that may not be so accepting of such ideas.
Much of Axel's current work involves teaching the relearning of emotional wellbeing to teens, both through literature and through general discussion. His classroom is full to the brim of colorful posters that advocate for women in STEM, feeling your feelings, and the fine arts, promoting careers and hobbies many rural students might not have known of. Axel recognizes the positives and negatives that come with being LGBTQ+ in a rural and conservative setting, and aims to get more teens to simply consider other opinions. He also has a cat.
In a moment where teaching is one of the most contested professions in the country, educators have never been more important. Anyone who isn’t on the ground in schools every day likely has no idea what goes on behind closed doors— but every school across America is facing similar difficulties as students return back to the classroom. Teachers are overworked, underfunded, and often forced to wear many hats that far exceed their job expectations. Without teachers, the education system collapses. And without an education system, this country will fall to ruin in a matter of days.
On top of that weight on their shoulders, teachers in rural areas are facing what has been called a “tragedy”. Often overlooked by the mainstream labor movements, teachers in rural schools face classrooms without running water and ventilation systems, no textbooks or resources, and a continual loss of funding, sometimes even leading to schools shuttering. In North Carolina alone, 80 of the state’s 100 counties are classified as rural. Yet rural schools receive only 17% of state education funding. (You can learn more through a project I worked on with my students last year).
Where do rural educators go from here? How can schools support their educators from diverse backgrounds, backgrounds which are necessary to reflect the diversity of the students in their classrooms? In the words of today’s guest, Axel: “You write the lessons. Give them to me. I'll teach them, we go home. I feel like there's no other way to say it, because they— they being every party that you just said— want teaching to be in such a particular box. And it as a profession, doesn't fit in a box. Because every class, every county, every district, every school, and every room is different.”
Yes. Every classroom in every country in every state in this country faces similar issues with vastly differing circumstances. And it is long past time we remove ourselves from this idea of teaching fitting into a clean, universal box, and recognize the unique challenges, connections, hurdles, and joys of this work. I hope you enjoy this conversation.
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A disclaimer that my audio quality is less-than-stellar for a good portion of this episode. I’m testing a new microphone, and clearly, the audio settings here were not working. My apologies, and thank you for bearing with us on this podcast journey.
“We all derive importance from the people and the things around us, and that extends to what we make. What we make will become more important to us and better if it's built around this bond between people.”
— Nathan McMurray, Trash Tape Records
Today on the Good Folk podcast, we are joined by the folks of Trash Tape Records: Nathan McMurray, Evren Centeno, and Eilee Centeno. Trash Tape Records is a youth-run worldwide DIY record label founded in March of 2020 and, until recently, run primarily out of the triangle area of North Carolina. Nathan and Evren going to college, in Chicago and Asheville respectively, will lead to the label being run from multiple different places. Trash Tape strives to support young and unknown artists by distributing and promoting their music, as well as doing physical releases of some projects in the form of cassette tapes.
Nathan, Evren, and Eilee joined us for a conversation about some of my favorite topics: finding your creative community, the importance of collaborative artistry, taking the leap to pursue your dreams, and looking for love, even when it is difficult, even when it feels impossible. Wise beyond their years, these three have much to offer when it comes to uplifting other artists, seeking out what moves you, and moving past the myth of the lonely, serious artist. I’ll leave you with their words, which I think summarize it best: “Part of creating, it's like you're all creating to show for yourself, but also for this community that you enjoy being in. And you feel like creating or contributing something new to this community because the community itself brings something to you. All of that just goes away when you try to make it individualistically.”
You can listen to a selection of Trash Tape’s artists in their curated playlist:
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Born in Cleveland, Ohio, Nia J moved to NC at a young age and has been living there ever since. She attended UNC Charlotte, where she began making music with a producer and friend— Ike Byers. Together, the pair have collaborated to release several singles and a debut EP comprised of 7 songs, “Rabbit Hole.”
Singer-songwriter, Nia J's melodic music infuses sultry vocals and rich harmonies into contemporary R&B— producing a unique and introspective sound.
She aspires to use both her pain and joy to create music that helps others.
Nia joined us on episode four of the Good Folk Podcast for an important conversation about finding your voice in artistry, learning to trust it, and returning to your roots as part of that process. Many artists from Southern and rural communities grow up being told they should hate the places they are from— that they should want to get to big cities where “real” arts and culture thrive. But none of us would be who we are if it weren’t for the places we are from— our roots imbue our art, our lives, and our own unique journeys.
Nia also curated a guest playlist for us of the songs and artists inspiring her most right now:
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Dacia Green is a multimedia artist, performer, Floridian, and child of the African diaspora. As a graduate from Williams College with an Honors B.A. in Women's, Gender, and Sexualities Studies and Africana Studies, Dacia relies heavily on the audio-visual form to repair and disrupt the intricate intersections of identity. At Williams, Dacia published an audio-visual zine entitled Our Home Will Be Underwater By 2040.
Tormented by the question: “What does it mean to exist in a place that will cease to exist in my lifetime?”, Dacia Green, in alliance with (F)empower, uses (F)empower's queer and intersectional lens on environmental politics to offer a site for a queer reimagining of South Florida’s history; a history saturated in colonialism, settlerism, gentrification, and violence.
We are thrilled to have Dacia join us for episode three of the Good Folk podcast, where we delve into their work documenting coastal climate change and the organizations taking creative approaches to acknowledge it. We also discuss the complicated history of the region and the unique role of Florida in the Southeastern landscape.
Resources:
Our Home Will Be Underwater By 2040
(F)empower
Sea levels are going to rise by at least 20ft. We can do something about it. (from The Guardian)
Common High Ground (from The Bitter Southerner)
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Alexis Lawson is a poet, storyteller, and author of the poetry collection The Beauty in my Bare Bones(2019). She is passionate about making arts more accessible to youth, while writing through the black voice, incorporating her culture into narratives that some otherwise may not see representation. She is currently a lifestyle and culture writer based in Raleigh, North Carolina, specializing in black womanhood, mental health awareness, clean beauty, and realistic lifestyle. Her work has been published in Charlotte Observer, Midnight and Indigo, Grown Magazine, Business Insider and is forthcoming in a McGraw Hill textbook, ColorBloc Magazine; which you can view in her portfolio.
Alexis joined us for Episode Two of the Good Folk podcast to talk about the importance of storytelling, the American education system, moving beyond genre in writing, finding joy in poetry when the world feels like it is at its limit, and using hope and empathy as radical forces for change. We also discussed the cycle of rejection, what it means to call yourself an artist, and how to get your work out into the world.
Resources:
In Memoriam by Alexis Lawson, featured in Good Folk
Her Black Hand
Ghost in a Black Girl’s Throat by Khalisa Rae
Why Write Love Poetry in a Burning World by Katie Ferris
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Victoria Landers graduated with a BFA in Studio Art with a concentration in Photography at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro in July 2020. She is currently based in Moore County, North Carolina, working in local non-profits by day and expanding their art by night. Photographers Andy Deluca and Lu Hui influenced Victoria to focus on the theme of the relationship one has with themselves and the world around them. Since the unexpected move back to her hometown due to covid, Victoria's has shifted to include the stories, people, and environment tied to southern living. She learns to find the beauty in the backroads that raised her. In today's society, young people are pushed to mature fast and encouraged to stay in the familiarity of life; therefore, she strives for her work to allow people to slow down and pay homage to the emotions that rule the heart.
Victoria joined us on the very first episode of the Good Folk podcast to discuss their new role as Head of Media and Design at Good Folk, rural artistry, questions about home and identity, and finding community in unexpected places.
Resources:
Photographer Leah Sobey
Proverbs31Failure Cemetery Justice TikTok
Country Queers Project
Claire Vaye Watkins in the Los Angeles Times
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