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Pony Bradshaw

In her 2008 filmic auto-portrait, Beaches of Agnès, artist and filmmaker Agnès Varda says, “if we opened people up, we’d find landscapes.”

For Varda, those landscapes were beaches. For singer-songwriter Pony Bradshaw, they’re the hushed hills and deep valleys of North Georgia. And from the first aching thrum of “Ginseng Daddy,” the opening track off his latest record, Thus Spoke the Fool, he’s inviting us back to that beautiful, haunted place, his homeplace, to visit again.

Similar to his previous two offerings, the tracks on Thus Spoke the Fool feel less like songs you hear, and more like places you go, odes to the land and language of Appalachia, lyrical topographies paying faithful homage to the region where Bradshaw put down roots nearly two decades ago. The songs are lush with mountain laurel and tobacco leaves, taking listeners to mill towns, and American Legions, and Mineral Bluff. They’re flushed with the flood of the Coosa and Hiawassee Rivers, tense with the tenor of a buck dancer’s tapping feet.

Recorded in part in the sanctuary of an old church outside of Athens, Georgia, Thus Spoke the Fool is a taut,10-song collection, and the third and final installment in a trilogy that began with 2021’s critically lauded Calico Jim. What began as a bluegrass record alchemized during recording sessions in Nashville to create a more hybrid, textured sound, heavy on fiddle and pedal steel.

Beyond any strict genre classifications, however, it’s mountain music that bears witness to a maligned and misunderstood region by a songwriter forever contending with the notion of what it means to call a place home.

“My hope is that [my music] brings these small and big ideas forward to share a new perspective,” says Bradshaw. “It’s something I think is important and worthwhile in this strange world. Place, and community, and sticking around seem important. History does, too. Telling the story of North Georgia seems important.”

If Thus Spoke the Fool seems more at home within an oeuvre of novels and poems by writers like Wendell Berry than any musical contemporary, that’s by design. A writer deeply reverent of place and the natural world, and ever-curious about our relationship to it, Berry is a strongly felt influence in all of Bradshaw’s work, although listeners of Thus Spoke the Fool can also feel the spirit of writers like Jean Giono and Maurice Manning shimmering throughout.

“Ginseng Daddy” is a “myth-making tune,” Bradshaw says, written in the voice of the album’s narrator, “a singing raconteur,” and in the spirit of Melville. The ekphrastic “¡Viva Appalachia!” conjures Stephen Vincent Benét’s 1925 ballad, “The Mountain Whippoorwill.” Listeners of a more literary bent will hear echoes of the James Dickey poem “Buckdancer’s Choice” in the high-stepping “Housebroke.”

Thus Spoke the Fool gives us Bradshaw at perhaps his most kaleidoscopic lyrically, each song a kind of world-building vignette, vivid scenes painted with characters as real and unreal as those populating Faulkner’s apocryphal Yoknapatawpha County. But listeners should resist the impulse to assume autobiography, Bradshaw warns. His songs offer gorgeously-rendered glimpses into mountain life as he sees it, but they are, he says, primarily fictions.

“I’m a shapeshifter,” Bradshaw reminds listeners of Thus Spoke the Fool. “You can’t trust me. I’m Ginseng Daddy, and Calico Jim, and Holler Rose. Does that make me an unreliable narrator? I am all of them, but I’m none of them, too.”

Pony Bradshaw

On his new album North Georgia Rounder, Pony Bradshaw leads the listener on an exploration of the woods, rivers, and mountains of Appalachia, more specifically, the area for which the album is named and he’s called home for the past 15 years. “It’s got its hooks in me,” Bradshaw says of North Georgia, and it shows, with songs that quickly establish a setting, much like the one he initiated with the album’s predecessor, Calico Jim. The sonic excursion includes stops along the Conasauga River, visits to the holler, and a few diversions—nearby Knoxville plays a supporting role, as do Louisiana and Arkansas. It’s an impressionistic journey of introspection and connection all at once.

Will Stewart’s tastefully-understated guitar leads and Philippe Bronchtein’s atmospheric pedal steel provide the perfect backdrop for Bradshaw’s impassioned vocals in lead-off track “Foxfire Wine.” Its swampy, bluesy intro makes way for an interesting amalgamation of Sturgill Simpson and The Grateful Dead, serving as the perfect aperitif for “a hell of a heaven and a hell of a show.” From that point on till the album wraps with the aptly titled “Notes on a River Town,” not only do you see and hear North Georgia, you even smell and taste it.

Take, for example, “Safe in the Arms of Vernacular,” a pensive, melancholy track that delights all the senses and is reminiscent of Ray Lamontagne’s mellow side. When Bradshaw sings of the “bonafide gas mask” his Dad brought back from Desert Storm and describes the Saudi Arabian sand as turning to “glass sharp as a sultan’s sword,” one can almost see it. As quickly as it sets the ever-vivid stage, the track shifts its focus to a waitress downtown. “Draped in Bedouin gown, smoking Kent cigarettes in the underground” in an attempt to “escape all those voices,” she naturally drinks white wine—”Riesling room temp from a coffee cup,” to be exact.

A voracious reader, Bradshaw credits his talent for expressing such rich details in his songs not so much to other songwriters but instead to books, fiction, short stories, essays, and literary criticism. With such colorful descriptions as “teeth stained red with Lebanese wine, long hair … in sweeps of oil blacker than a cypress pool,” one might assume he bases the subjects of his songs on real-life people he interacts with in North Georgia; instead, Bradshaw describes them as “nameless characters” compiled from “fragments” he’s collected, pieces that usually start with just a line or two. These fragments all add up to a remarkably cohesive 10-song collection, despite Bradshaw being a self-professed admirer of (and writer of) the non-sequitur. This is thanks in no small part to his own masterful vocal delivery and the expert musicianship of his backing band, one that includes the aforementioned Stewart and Bronchtein with Robert Green on bass, Ryan Moore on drums, and Jenna Mobley on fiddle.

“I really enjoy records that are actual records of time,” he explains. With this in mind, Bradshaw looked to create an album that relied less on innovation and experimentation, aspiring to capture the songs’ live spirit. He and his band did just that, making North Georgia Rounder—vocals, overdubs, and all—in just five days at Jason Weinheimer’s Fellowship Hall Sound in Little Rock, Arkansas, where he had also tracked Calico Jim in 2020.

“Me and balance … we’ve never really worked out,” he confesses, acknowledging the irony of his quest for order and structure despite having chosen a path that is often chaotic. But as he sings in the moody yet catchy “Holler Rose,” “you’ve got to be willing to play the long game.” “If it’s worth it, there’s a beauty in suffering,” he explains. “It’s taken me a long time to realize that, but I’m thankful for all those terrible decisions I’ve made.”

“Every day, I wrestle with the moral consequences of being a touring musician,” he adds. “I’m always finding ways to make it okay to be doing this. I feel irresponsible sometimes,” he professes, “because I basically make my living off the goodwill of others and chance. So I’m always trying to battle those two things.”

“The poet soon stops experimenting and innovating and starts his life’s work,” Bradshaw expounds, citing a quote from one of his favorite writers, Wendell Berry. A single album as a life’s work may seem like a grand, overambitious aspiration. But for Pony Bradshaw, North Georgia Rounder is just that – a life’s work, one that, as he describes it, is a culmination of “sweat and work and joy and pain and anger and patience and restraint.”

 

Ryan Culwell

Walk around throwing punches everywhere and you’ll earn yourself an almighty ass whooping. Keep your hands in your pockets all day, though, and you’ll start to feel like you’ve already whooped your own. It’s a paradox that Ryan Culwell finds himself wrestling with frequently on his extraordinary new album, Run Like A Bull. Recorded with longtime collaborator Neilson Hubbard (Mary Gauthier, Kim Richey), the collection is raw and magnetic, cutting close to the bone as it searches for a middle ground between release and restraint, recklessness and responsibility. Culwell faces down his own worst instincts here, grappling with weighty, existential notions the way Flannery O’Connor might, conjuring up images of alternating beauty and brutality set against a distinctly American backdrop. “We all laugh when a young calf struggles to his feet,” Culwell sings in his gritty rasp. “When an old bull falls down on his ass I guess it ain’t so sweet.”

Born and raised in the Texas panhandle, Culwell earned widespread acclaim with his first two albums, 2015’s Flatlands and 2018’s The Last American, which prompted Rolling Stone to hail his writing as both “gorgeous and bleak” and NPR to rave that his songs “wring grace from plain and often dark details.” The music earned Culwell dates with Patty Griffin, Billy Joe Shaver, Hayes Carll, Patrick Sweany, and Ashley Monroe among others, alongside a full calendar of his own headline shows around the country and millions of streams across platforms.