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Death Angel at the 2020 GRAMMYs

Photo by VALERIE MACON/AFP via Getty Images

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Death Angel's Will Carroll On Fighting COVID-19 death-angel-drummer-will-carroll-opens-about-fighting-covid-19-it-looked-i-was-going

Death Angel Drummer Will Carroll Opens Up About Fighting COVID-19: "It Looked Like I Was Going To Die"

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"It was a rude awakening," the Bay Area percussionist tells the Recording Academy in an exclusive interview about his experience
Katherine Turman
GRAMMYs
Jun 4, 2020 - 11:20 am

It looked like 2020 was going to be a banner year for Death Angel. The quintet were still on a high from their first GRAMMY nod for the title track of their ninth album, Humanicide, and were celebrating their role as progenitors of the Northern California thrash metal scene on the sold-out Bay Strikes Back tour in Europe with Testament and Exodus.

But less than a month after the GRAMMY ceremony, the coronavirus had begun its sinister spread across Europe, and gigs were getting canceled. Less than two months post-GRAMMYs, Death Angel drummer Will Carroll had contracted Covid-19 and was on a ventilator in a medically induced coma, fighting for his life in a San Francisco hospital. Neither his fiancée nor his family was able to see him, as Carroll, a previously healthy and happy-go-lucky 47-year-old, suffered heart failure from the meds, and was "proned" 18 hours a day—turned face down—in a desperate effort to save him. He spent 12 days in a coma—time he recalls as rife with "bizarre visions, which I remember vividly; one of them was going to hell"—before turning the corner.

"It was a rude awakening," he tells the Recording Academy. "I don't remember the trip to the hospital or being at the hospital. So when I did come to after my 12 days of the coma, I was shocked. I was like, 'Where the hell am I?’ I didn't know if I was even in San Francisco, or the United States, for that matter."

By the time Carroll and other members of the tour were flying home from Europe to SFO airport, the drummer knew something was wrong: "I haven't had the flu in years, and I don't get fevers and cold chills and stuff like that," he says. "There were other people really sick before me on the tour bus, too." Members of both other bands on the Bay Strikes Back tour tested positive for Covid-19, but none became nearly as ill as Carroll.

Singer Mark Osegueda remembers that initially, while playing gigs in Europe, news of the virus "seemed mythological. I’m an optimist and of course you think ‘I'll never be touched by it or people I know will never affected by it.’ We're so safe in our [tour bus] cocoon here.” And the positive feelings around their GRAMMY experience was still fresh: "When we got nominated, I flipped out, and  telling my parents we were nominated just gave me a chill and brought tears in my eyes," the singer says. "It's a childhood dream come true right there. It felt really magical."

No one could have predicted that Carroll, who has been with Death Angel since 2009, would have gotten so sick. "My fiancée [Leeshawn Navarro] was going through hell herself at home. She was calling the hospital multiple times a day to check, and they were using words like ‘dire’ and ‘grim’ and ‘grave.’ So it looked like I was going to die," Carroll says. "When I did come to, the doctors couldn't believe it. They were coming in just to see for themselves, looking at me like I was a miracle. It was really scary when I saw the looks on their faces. like, wow, I must've been that close, you know?"

An article on Carroll in the San Francisco Chronicle quoted his doctors at the California Pacific Medical Center, saying that the hospital "tried every treatment they had heard about, from hydroxychloroquine and azithromycin to the experimental drug remdesivir." As one of the early Covid-19 patients the hospital had treated, Carroll’s case, especially the use of proning, "changed how the California Pacific Medical Center staff handles coronavirus cases."

While Carroll isn’t a lyricist in Death Angel, he’s certainly given Osegueda plenty of fodder for a new record. The drummer is understandably a changed man. While those unfamiliar with Death Angel may have wrongly surmised that the band and their lyrics negative or Satanic, you couldn’t meet a more positive and friendly bunch of guys. As lead guitarist Rob Cavestany explains, "Let it be known that we are a very, very, positive and positive spirit and energy kind of people and band. All the dark topics and brutal things happening in our lyrics or in our concepts are meant as a message or warning; a wake-up call kind of thing." And, "Humanicide," with a creepy prescience related to the pandemic, is about the destruction of the human race, with lyrics like "Flames / When nothing's left, no remains / There's no one left to blame /Global denial /This is the reason all hope is lost." Cavestany explains, "We're not saying it should happen, but it's where we're going if we continue like this, so we need to do something about it, so that kind of thing does not happen."

Carroll, a huge fan of KISS and Twisted Sister with the tattoos to prove it, says that he was "into the dark stuff" prior to his Covid-19 drama, but now notes that his experience shifted his "outlook on spirituality. I kind of believe there is higher presence, a higher power. And between that and everyone's collective positive energy, people rooting for me and sending me messages to get well, I think that collective energy was what got me through it. I do believe in the spirit world now, and energy and karma and stuff like that."

Carroll has high praise for the medical team, who, once he was awake, asked him, "You get a lot of people calling you; are you famous or something? I said, ‘well, I play in a heavy metal band that's famous in the heavy metal world.’ They're like, ‘Oh, what's the band called?’ Death Angel. Then they were kind of like, ‘Whoa, and didn't have much to say, but they eventually looked me up and found videos of me, and were like, ‘Oh wow.’  I guess they were impressed," he says with a laugh. "But it was funny, between the name Death Angel and my semi-evil tattoos and weird band logos, they were taken aback a little." He did, however, play the GRAMMY nominee card. "Yeah. I definitely threw that in!"

Death Angel: turning the world on to metal, one person at a time! Osegueda believes that metal "is definitely getting accepted a bit more now. It's a slow climb, but it's definitely more than it was say, even five years ago. It used to be the larger publications pretty much just covered Metallica. And when they did the Big Four show, then they covered the Big Four show. It’s an underground movement still. But undeniably there are sales that are reflecting that it's not declining. So I see an upswing in it. I don't know if it’d ever be, you know, as prominent as, say, R&B, or when rock was king. But I definitely see it as respected in a much bigger way now."

The band, who formed in 1982, has endured way more than its fair share of ups and downs, including a 1990 tour bus accident that ultimately caused the band to break up. They reformed in August 2001 for Thrash of the Titans, a cancer benefit for Testament frontman Chuck Billy. Billy, along with his wife, also tested positive for the coronavirus after returning to California from the Bay Strikes Back tour. Carroll’s finacee, who he was home with for several days before being hospitalized, tested negative for the virus.

As parts of the world slowly, amid much controversy, begin to emerge from lockdown, Carroll is close to being his old self, albeit more conscious of drinking (not much) and striving to develop the healthiest habits possible. Upon emerging from the hospital he had to learn to walk again. "I can't imagine people who were in a coma for a year or two, what kind of condition their body must be in, ‘cause I was only in one for 12 days and I couldn't walk," he says. "My muscles, I had atrophy all over the place, I came home and used a walker for first three or four days, and then I was able to walk on my own. Now I'm almost a hundred percent." On May 29, about two months after his ordeal, Carroll played drums for the first time since the last show of the Bay Strikes Back tour. "Everything felt as it should," he says. "I’m super stoked to be back on the horse."

Meet The First-Time GRAMMY Nominee: Death Angel's Rob Cavestany Reflects On The Success Of "Humanicide" & "Giving Up My Life To Music"

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[From left]: Bartees Strange, Anjimile and Jordana Nye. Photos courtesy of Julia Leiby, Maren Celest & Grand Jury Music

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What's It Like To Release A Debut During COVID? bartees-strange-anjimile-more-what-its-release-debut-album-pandemic

Bartees Strange, Anjimile & More On What It's Like To Release A Debut Album In A Pandemic

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A variety of rising artists sit down to discuss the unusual and inopportune circumstances of releasing a debut record during COVID, and what it takes to make the best of an impossible situation
Mike Hilleary
GRAMMYs
Oct 27, 2020 - 1:36 pm

Video-chatting through her phone, Wichita-based singer/songwriter Jordana Nye shows me a tattoo she recently got on her right forearm. Written in small red ink is a single word: "numb." "I feel like I've just been kind of numb throughout the whole thing—like my tattoo," she says. Laughing at herself, almost as an aside, she quickly adds, "The decisions you make when you're in quarantine."

The "whole thing" Nye is referencing is of course the increasingly fragile state of the music industry as a result of the coronavirus pandemic, a global health crisis that has in just a few short months forced the closure of concert venues across the country, the cancelation of festivals and tours, and manifested an overwhelming sense of uncertainty for the untold number of musical artists that make recording and performing songs their livelihood. While established, high-profile acts such as Bruce Springsteen, Lady Gaga, and BTS are fully capable of releasing a new album in the middle of a volatile and complicated environment and experience little to no impact on their financial bottom line and cultural cachet, those like Nye, who only just made her first steps into the industry with the release of her debut album Classical Notions of Happiness in March, are finding themselves mentally and professionally hobbled at the exact moment they are trying to introduce themselves to the greater music listening community.

In addition to Nye (who has followed Classical Notions of Happiness with the EP Something to Say and has a second EP … To You scheduled for release in December), a variety of rising artists, including Christian Lee Hutson (Beginners), Anjimile (Giver Taker), Bartees Strange's Bartees Cox Jr. (Live Forever), and Nation of Language frontman Ian Devaney (introduction, Prescence) all sat down to discuss the unusual and inopportune circumstances of releasing a debut record during COVID, and what it takes to make the best of an impossible situation.

The Initial Shock

Jordana Nye: I kind of went through like the worst depression. I mean, you just gotta keep swimming. It's hard to sometimes. But you get medicine, get therapy, talk about stuff. That's what I did, and it helped a lot. I couldn't even do anything for maybe three months straight. It was the worst.

Ian Devaney: It was kind of disbelief, especially when I realized how long it would go on and I realized what that would do to small and mid-sized venues. I was like, even when we do come back from this, the landscape is just gonna be so totally different. What does this mean as far as these businesses as independent hubs in the community? But my brain also just zoomed out to the corporate consolidation of touring above the D.I.Y. level basically. Are the only people who are going to be able to keep their venues open the ones who aren't as artist-friendly?

Bartees Cox Jr.: After we released my EP Say Goodbye to Pretty Boy, it was crazy. We got invited to play this WNYC soundcheck live show thing on March 12. And then we also had a show in New York on March 13. And this was when the shit was really going down in New York. And we were there, we played the thing, and we were all like, "Dang, this looks like it's gonna get really serious." And then after the EP came out, my team and I were like, "Well, do we just not do anything for a year and a half? We have momentum now. We should just ride this and keep writing." And that was just it, let's just follow the wave. It's working right now. So why why stop, you know?

Read More: Anjimile Opens Up On 'Giver Taker,' Sobriety, Identifying As Trans & More

The Road Is Closed

Christian Lee Hutson: Just from my perspective, the thing that seems to help debut artists the most is supporting other artists on tour, and that element has been completely taken out of the picture. Having your name tied to whatever the act is you're opening for and getting a chance to be in front of new people that might not have heard you on whatever streaming playlist, that aspect is probably the most damaging.

Ian Devaney: I've always been someone who feels like Nation of Language captures more people through the live show. And so when it became clear that we weren't going to be touring for a long time, I was like, "Oh, I guess we're doomed. I guess we'll put these things out and maybe some people listen to them, and then it will just fade away and we'll get on with the next thing and wait. But I was very shocked and flattered that the record started doing much better than I ever thought. That was very exciting. I feel very grateful for that.

Bartees Cox Jr.: I'm glad that we put Live Forever out now, instead of right at the beginning of the pandemic, because I don't think people knew what the f**k was going on in March. I saw some bands, put some records out that were really good in February and January who had huge tours booked all summer. I feel like this really hit them in the chest. That just takes so much like gas and energy out of you.

Ian Devaney: We were three shows into a tour, when they were like, "OK, everyone has to go home." It wasn't just disbelief that a dangerous thing was happening, but disbelief from the whiplash of the fact that we were about to be on the road for a month. But now, I'm back in my apartment. There was confusion and then, yeah, just real sadness of not knowing when I'm gonna get to do this again.

Christian Lee Hutson: Doing my first real headline tour, that was supposed to happen. I was supposed to on it right now, actually. In June I was also going to tour with one of my favorite bands, The Magnetic Fields. I was excited to spend a month with them. Those are two things I feel like, "Oh, man, those would have been cool." And hopefully, in a world where we're safer, those things can still happen.

Read More: Bartees Strange On 'Live Forever' & Why "It Shouldn't Be Weird To See Black Rock Bands"

Ian Devaney: I was really looking forward to playing the Seattle show on our canceled tour. KEXP seemed like the first radio station that consistently was reaching out to us and playing us on a regular basis, and we kind of developed a close relationship with them. And to me they've always been sort of one of the gatekeepers of like, "Oh, I'm in this level now. KEXP knows about my band." And so, them just being excited for us to come and us getting the sense that people just driving around in their cars during the day were hearing our music—and that being such a strange thing to wrap our heads around—it felt like we were gonna show up and be like, "We've arrived."

Jordana Nye: I was going on my first tour. I felt unprepared. I was also really nervous. And then when the COVID stuff started, there was a surreal moment where I was like, "What? I was just about to do something that could impact my life in such a big way and now it's gone." I was told there was gonna be hotels.

Christian Lee Hutson: Not touring is a huge change in my life in general. I've been touring with other people or just on my own for the last 11 years in my life. So to not do it at the one time I've finally released an album and not be doing it feels hilarious.

Bartees Cox Jr.: I keep telling myself, "It's just delayed. You will get to play the record for years. It will always exist." It won't be the same, but I also think when shows open up, people are gonna be really hyped to go to shows. The bottom line is, it'll be okay. Again, I have no choice. It's hard to like dwell on that. I knew that would be the case, before I put it out.

Fiscal Feasibility

Anjimile: I would describe it as not an ideal time, but I also have never monetized like my music career in a major way. It's not like, "Oh, no, all this money I usually make is gone!" [Laughs.]

Christian Lee Hutson: My wife and I are both living on unemployment and savings right now and just kind of hold on as long as we can, just hoping that touring can come back before we're in a crippling amount of debt.

Ian Devaney: The unemployment insurance is currently supporting me. When we left for tour the restaurant I was working at I said, "I understand if you won't have a space to me when I get back," but they were like, "We I think we'll be able to work the schedule," and I thought, "Perfect." But then the reason we came back was because everything was shutting down. And so I got an email suggesting we should all file for an appointment, and we'll see what happens.

Jordana Nye: At least I have my job back in Wichita. I work at a brewing company called Norton's. They're super involved in live music and it's a great place. I was like a barback during the summer. And now I'm a dishwasher. It's humbling.

Team Building and Content Alternatives

Bartees Cox Jr.: I just feel sometimes [as a new artist] you're the only one that knows that you have something special, and you just gotta build around it. And then all of a sudden people just show up around you. You have a team and you have a plan. But you got to make the first step.

Anjimile: It definitely changed the scope and nature of the promotional cycle. When it became apparent that touring was not happening I was like, "OK, so I guess we'll have to get creative and do other things to generate and maintain interest in this record."

Christian Lee Hutson: I think everyone was just flying by the seat of their pants, like, "We'll do the best that we can do and we're just gonna do everything that we can as we think of it." Those were really the kind of conversations that were had. The funny thing about all of this is all you can do is throw your hands up and just do it, surrender yourself to it. And I feel like everyone has a label and Phoebe and me and my management, everyone has been pretty good at just being like, "Alright, we're just gonna roll with it."

Anjimile: I'm also working on building a team. I now have a booking agent. And I'm talking with managers for the first time and that's super exciting. I'm doing all these behind the scenes team building stuff.

Ian Devaney: We've actually, in the middle of the pandemic, gotten booking agents. And they were like, "This is weird, but we an tell people about the band for when things open back up. We can get your name into circulation of who's being considered for what." You can get the sense that they are ready to just throw us intensely on the road, and we are ready to do that as well.

Bartees Cox Jr.: Will Yip, who runs memory music, was just like, "This thing is super fresh. It's good no matter what. You got to just trust us." I was the most apprehensive because no one's ever cared about my music or anything I've ever done. So I was like, "Well, OK, if this is what you think, I trust you guys." And they were all just so passionate about it and they just worked so f**king hard. My publicist Jamie and manager Tim, they just really pushed the record really, really hard. Teams are so important. I didn't know how important they were until really this year, how much how much it helps to have a label and a manager and a publicist that love you and love your record, and are going to put in extra hours and go the extra mile. That was the difference-maker. I think that's why it didn't matter what was happening around us because yes, it's an election year, yes the world was literally ending, yeah there's a pandemic. But this record is f**king good. And it's not the first time a great record has come out when things are really bad.

Anjimile: I got hit up by a U.K. booking agency first, and they were like, "Hey, obviously, there's no touring happening right now, but we love your sound and we're looking into the future to see where you would fit in certain clubs, and we just want you on the team." The same thing happened with my new U.S. booking agent. She was like, "We've been following you for a couple years, seen your name everywhere. Booking doesn't really exists, but I want to work with you and get you on the team and we can talk about slowly building what a live Anjimile thing looks like."

Ian Devaney: I think part of it is letting fans know that we're not stopping. It often helps me emotionally invest in a band if I can believe that the band is really in it to keep moving. I don't know if that makes sense. People will email us or reach out through Bandcamp and things like that. And it's always just really nice to hear people's stories of how they've enjoyed the record.

Jordana Nye: My team taught me to just try to keep working and keep busy until we get a sense of what the hell is going to happen—and just release music because it's really all you can do. Anything you can do, you just have to do it.

Anjimile: I think the main idea for me is just galvanizing and continually engaging my social media presence. My social media numbers have climbed substantially as a result of this release, which is exciting. And not to sound like a f**king music industry business guy, but content is helpful, and so I'm just trying to create chill content without losing my mind. We're about to have a contest. We've got a video coming out. Hopefully people can sit at home and watch. I want to try and create content that folks can engage with at home. Part of our merch is boxers. We were like, "What about hats?" "Well, nobody's gonna see the hat." "What about fanny packs?" "Nobody's going anywhere." "OK. Boxers. People will be at home wearing them." We're just trying to be as creative as possible.

Jordana Nye: I've got some music video stuff in the works. There's a new one coming out that was filmed in my home of Wichita for "I Guess This is Life," and my best friend is in it with me. It's very, very sweet. And I can't wait for it to be out. But I'm also shooting a music video out here in L.A. for the track "Reason." It’s going to feature me walking an invisible dog on a leash. I'm f**king excited for that. I can't wait.

Ian Devaney: Our manager has been really kind of fantastic and diligent. In his mind there's still people who don't know the record. And so just because it came out in May, doesn't mean we're not going to keep working it as though everyone knows it, because they don't.

Mental Health Whiplash

Christian Lee Hutson: It's like, for debut artists, what do you have to compare it to?

Bartees Cox Jr.: I almost feel like more people are listening to music now than they were before, like really listening through albums, and really interacting with them.

Christian Lee Hutson: I think it would make me crazy to sit around and just be like, "Damn it, I spent all this time on this and of course when my record comes out, this is what happens." I mean, I'm actually kind of encouraged by the response to the album just in general, because I feel like it's such a weird time for music to come out and I'm happy that anyone has found it at all considering it's come out in the most turbulent year in recent memory. That aspect I feel positive about, like it was weirdly worth it, even though I'm not doing all of the things that I thought I would be doing a year ago.

Bartees Cox Jr.: I mean I've never had fans like I do now, and I'm doing all this during a pandemic.

Ian Devaney: In a strange way, I'm glad we're putting music out now. I feel like we are, as much as anyone can, engaging with the madness and sort of being defiant in the face of the madness and not giving up on trying to be creative and trying to dream big about what we can do in the future.

Anjimile: It feels surreal, but at the same time I've released music locally in Boston over the years. And nothing has ever come of that. And so releasing an album nationally with a label, I think my expectations were actually pretty low. Usually when I put out music nobody cares, you know? Why should they really care? And this time some people cared, and I was like, "Holy f**k." Even that that was beyond my expectations. And so I don't know, I'm just kind of trying to go with it. Because even though things feel weird, and at times, unfair and strange I don't know what is going to happen in the next three months, six months, nine months, right? I'm just cautiously cautiously optimistic about what will happen next. Because I do think that so far, things have actually happened right on time. Even though shit is really weird right now, and I don't know what's going to happen next, maybe something positive in my career will occur. Who knows?

Bartees Cox Jr.: I was talking to a friend about this. You look at these areas in music, or in America, like Vietnam War era music or these other big social phenomenon and the music that came from it, I think that one day people will look back on this quarantine pandemic era and think, "All these records came out during this weird ass time are interesting because of it."

What Comes Next

Bartees Cox Jr.: I was thinking that bigger artists that need bigger studios are gonna kind of be hamstrung by this where more D.I.Y. people can just be like, "Yeah, I'll write another record."

Jordana Nye: Going on tour, getting experienced would have helped my career a lot in way. But working on new music is also helping it.

Ian Devaney: For Nation of Language, we're planning on putting out a seven inch either like, December or January. So we've been working on two songs, as well as songs for the second record.

Anjimile: At this point, in the year, I have a lot of songs written, some which I think might be good. And so I'm just stacking up demos at the moment, trying to make sure I have like the juiciest tunes available.

Jordana Nye: I'm still just making music and content, and it kind of tells me that I can pretty much do anything that I set my mind to, which is comforting, especially in dire times when I feel like I'm not doing anything at all, and I feel like I'm a loser. People are digging the new stuff so I'm super excited for that, and makes me want to do more with different genres and just play around with them.

Bartees Cox Jr.: I'm gonna really take my time. I put out two records this year. I don't feel like I gotta like, hustle. I just gonna just keep working try to make some money and hold it down.

Christian Lee Hutson: I'm honestly just writing a lot and I am recording a lot of stuff at home. Early on in quarantine, I was just like, "Alright, in order to tell the days apart, I'm gonna record a different cover song for fun every day." So I did that for a while until I got bored of that. And now I'm just demoing and recording new stuff. It's the only thing I really know how to do. And I'm grateful that there's a lot of time to do it. Something I noticed observing other friends' album cycles in the pre-COVID world is the amount of time that they had to actually write and follow up their debuts is actually pretty slim, which I feel like I have a lot of time to accomplish that.

Capturing Los Angeles' COVID-Closed Venues

GRAMMYs

Lisa Loeb

Photo courtesy of Lisa Loeb

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Quarantine Diaries: Lisa Loeb quarantine-diaries-lisa-loeb-celebrating-25-years-stay-i-missed-you-watching-rupauls

Quarantine Diaries: Lisa Loeb Is Celebrating 25 Years Of "Stay (I Missed You)" & Watching "RuPaul's Drag Race"

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The GRAMMY-winning '90s mainstay is also releasing a new music video featuring Michelle Branch, "Doesn't It Feel Good"
GRAMMYs
Sep 23, 2020 - 8:22 am

As the coronavirus/COVID-19 pandemic continues to rock the music industry, GRAMMY.com reached out to a few musicians to see how they were spending their days indoors. Today, GRAMMY-winning indie-pop/rock favorite Lisa Loeb shares her Quarantine Diary. Lisa Loeb's latest studio album A Simple Trick To Happiness is out now. Watch Lisa's new video, "Doesn't It Feel Good" featuring Michelle Branch and directed by Jessa Zapor-Gray, exclusively on GRAMMY.com below. 

[7:00 a.m.] I start off the day early before the kids get up, to feed my 19-year-old diabetic Tortie cat and give her insulin, drink a strong coffee (Lisa Loeb Wake Up! blend, of course, perfect flavor and strong with milk and sugar), Ezekiel Bread toast with almond butter and super fruit jelly, and a walk outside before the day begins. The sun shines pink through the window at the top of the stairs at my house in Los Angeles. You can see the sunscreen on my nose, because it’s early and I always wear my sunscreen, but was probably too tired to notice I didn’t finish blending.

[7:45 a.m.] I make the kids breakfast, something like bagels or pancakes, fruit, bacon, yogurt, and hope that they eat it before they get into their virtual classes.

[9:30 a.m.] while my 8-year-old, Emet, has a break, I take a tap class—distanced, in the back yard, with masks. I love walking, dance classes and strength training, most of which is happening online, but I finally moved the tap class into the back patio with a couple of like-minded moms. Connecting with humans, safely, set to music, really lightens things up. 

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[1:00 p.m.] After I make lunch, the kids go back to their virtual school. I stay in earshot of my son while trying to scoot into my office to answer a million emails and stay on top of the myriad projects I have going on: a new family friendly children's album, new songs for a new grown-up album, voice-over auditions, fan club vinyl signing of my 25th anniversary no. 1 song, "Stay (I Missed You)," which was also GRAMMY-nominated!

[4:00 p.m.] Later, after the kids are done with their school, I change clothes, turn on the bright lights, set up the gear, and start pre-recording events and concerts. There are so many virtual events happening all over the country: from voting events to women’s cancer and lupus, I’m honored to play all of them, and people have been reaching out to musicians a lot. Sometimes the events are live, but often they’re prerecorded, so I’ve become a pro with lighting, makeup, hair and audio, and really trying to get our wi-fi up to speed—literally. 

Sometimes I have fan club events online, watch-alongs, or live concerts, including two concerts in which I’ll be playing my entire Tails album acoustically on Sept. 26 on the LoopedLive app, to celebrate the 25th anniversary of its release. Here I am pre-recording a TV appearance for a Ziggy Marley duet that will air on the Kelly Clarkson show, then I’ll finish up with an appearance for a Hallmark special to honor Hero Dogs. 

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There’s usually a number of Cameo shout-out requests that have come in at this point for birthdays, anniversaries, or just uplifting message, and I try to squeeze them in before I make dinner for the kids. Or if I’m smart, order in Thai food!

[7:30 p.m.] After dinner, Emet watches part of an Avengers movie with my husband, Roey. I cuddle with my daughter, Lyla and our aforementioned cat, Sweetie McGee, while we eat ice cream with chocolate chips and watch "RuPaul’s Drag Race." 

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[8:30 p.m.] Then it’s up to bed to brush teeth, get in the PJs and read with each kid, if it’s not too late, and then time to finish up some work, clean the kitchen and get in bed to read. I’m an avid reader, and during the distancing orders, I’ve been able to read more than ever. Then, time for sleep, and to set the alarm for the next day to see what it will bring.

Making Heads Or 'Tails' Of Success: Lisa Loeb Celebrates 25 Years Of Her Major-Label Debut Album

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Michael Tenneson and Kevin Woodley

Photo courtesy of D.J.C. Records

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Colorado Inmates Find Faith On 'Territorial' LP play-again-colorado-inmates-pour-heart-hope-faith-territorial-lp

Play That Again: Colorado Inmates Pour Heart, Hope & Faith Into 'Territorial' LP

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How a group of Colorado inmates at Territorial Correctional Facility came together to defy their own prejudices and limits and record an album for the ages
Matthew Daddona
GRAMMYs
Sep 9, 2020 - 9:14 am

In 2014, Michael Tenneson, 60, confined to prison for multiple life sentences, played a blues progression on his Fender Stratocaster that wept through a low-wattage amplifier. The progression would eventually become the backbone to "Mama's Cryin," a track on the soon-to-be released LP Territorial, the first album to be solely written by incarcerated individuals, but at the time it was a riff that, like other pursuits in prison, was more likely to be forgotten than salvaged. As the tune faded into yet another improbable fit and start, Tenneson heard a voice call out to him: "Hey man, play that again."

The voice belonged to Kevin Woodley, an overweight Black man confined to a wheelchair and whom Tenneson had seen before but never talked to. When Tenneson played it again, Woodley wailed an improvisational vocal that turned heads inside the small room. Tenneson didn't need to hear any more to convince himself that Woodley was a supremely talented singer with the right amount of soul and world-weariness. "I made him promise me that if we ever got a chance to play music again, we'd do it together," Tenneson said.

That opportunity came in 2018, nearly four years to the day when Fury Young, 31, an ardent activist with an easygoing exterior, wrote a letter to Tenneson, who was laid up in the infirmary due to an illness. Young, the founder of Die Jim Crow and the label DJC Records, was at the time focusing on Die Jim Crow being a one-off concept album and had heard about Tenneson through a mutual friend, Claudia Whitman. Whitman, the founder and CEO of the National Capital Crime Assistance Network and an advocate for the abolishment of death penalties, had told Young about Tenneson's musical range and abilities. "The only problem," she told him, "is that he’s white."

Fury Young is white, too, and culturally identifies as Jewish. It was his 2013 reading of Michelle Alexander’s breakout book The New Jim Crow that inspired him to do more—to do something—about racial injustice and inequality. Coming to terms with his somewhat privileged life in New York City and the fact that, unlike some of his friends, he hadn’t been to prison, he decided to provide help—in the form of music—to incarcerated and formerly incarcerated individuals.

That Tenneson is white wasn't a dead end for Young, but it did make him wonder whether his services could have been better utilized by minorities who had been unilaterally affected by a prison system mottled by systemic racism. But he also wondered if Tenneson, with his experience as a multi-instrumentalist, could provide a bridge to other musicians and walks of life.

Tenneson, reading Young’s letter in the infirmary and trying to parse out the scribbled sentences and messy handwriting, recalled that day with Kevin Woodley, that diffident-turned-soaring voice from five years ago, and decided that he needed to stoke up the band that never was. 

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Kevin Woodley (Left) and Michael Tennesen (Right)
Photo courtesy of DJC

As its name suggests, Territorial Correctional Facility was created when Colorado was not yet a state but a territory, a lawless outcropping of land in the West that saw violent eruptions between Native American tribes and white settlers who were seeking land expansion. The original Territorial prison opened in 1871, five years before Colorado officially became a state, and grew in tandem with its municipality, Cañon City; by 1899, the penitentiary that originally held 50 cells had added two more buildings and had grown to 400 inmates. Today, Cañon City, among its popular Riverwalk and numerous recreation areas, claims Territorial as one of its primary income generators. It is one of seven prisons located in or around the city.

The history of Territorial's racism, displacement of native peoples from their lands, and public lynching—capital punishment wasn't abolished in Colorado until 2020—is not lost on Michael Tenneson, who has spent the last 40 years within the United States prison system and has witnessed the fractioned relationship between inmates and justice-seekers. Having grown up in foster homes in rural Wisconsin where he was molested and abused, Tenneson matured into burglarizing homes and a life of heavy drinking and drug use. During one night of drinking, a break-in to a drug dealer's home turned into a triple homicide. Then, on the run for that, and partying in Colorado, he killed two other people after a poker game turned contentious. He described himself back then as having a twisted worldview, particularly when it came to other races. His upbringing had made him narrow-minded and prejudiced, and he was frequently explosive and at odds with others and imperious when it came to his own self-worth. In his early 20s, he was saved by a Black Marine after getting beat up outside of a bar near Camp Pendleton. His outlook began to take a turn then but, ironically, it was prison life that altered the paradigm, forcing him to confront his bigotries and bad choices in a space that provided no escape nor outlet for distraction.

By the time Fury Young was approved to record a full LP at Territorial in December 2017, Tenneson and Woodley's relationship had blossomed into a friendship, to the extent that Young now refers to Woodley as the John Lennon to Tenneson's Paul McCartney: where Tenneson is affable and often boastful, Woodley is pensive and shy. Woodley's body is wracked with cancer, diabetes and lupus, which have affected his mobility and respiratory health, but his hands remain calloused and strong, a reminder of the boxer that he once was. Like his hands, he uses his voice as a powerful tool, but as recording time approached, Woodley had second thoughts about the project. He doubted his voice's range, that his tone was not what it used to be. "You have a better voice than any of these guys will ever have," Tenneson told him. "You have a story to tell. That's a powerful thing." In the past, Tenneson might've bristled at Woodley, but now he had found a reason to defend his new friend from the same insecurity that had once consumed him. 

Tenneson and Woodley's vision was to tell a narrative about the sometimes-mournful and sometimes-redemptive tale of self-discovery in prison. Indeed, Territorial, the album, just like Territorial the prison, features contributions from multiple prisoners of varying ages, races, religions and musicianship. As a hybrid of musical genre and perspective, it is the collective story of universal struggle and search for meaning amid the personal recollections of its contributors.

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Kevin Woodley
Photo courtesy of DJC

Over the four consecutive days that Fury Young had recorded the album inside the makeshift band room—where he brought in all of the recording equipment including light stands, PVC pipes and moving blankets to dull sounds—the coterie of newfound bandmates—led by Tenneson, Woodley and another singer Dane Newton—found themselves attempting to make the music feel organic while also being held to a tight deadline. The group had had only practiced once a week for a few weeks prior to Young's arrival and had to contend not just with the egos inside the band room (as they might have expected) but with those outside the door. Young recalled numerous times in which other prisoners would pop their head in to inspect what was occurring within the 17 x 15 room, some of them envious that this group had received such a creative opportunity. Young reported that even the guards, though initially straight-faced and "on duty," eventually got into the spirit. By the last day, Young recalled, one of the guards helped provide a supplemental sound effect for one of the tracks by controlling the gate that let prisoners in and out of one of the areas. 

The first track recorded was "Mama's Cryin," the rueful blues song that Tenneson and Woodley had concocted five years earlier but that now had the backing of a full band. In the song, Woodley croons "Children dying / Mama's cryin' / cuz daddy's lying on the floor / bullets flying," over vibrato, reggae-tuned guitar tones. Tenneson, speaking to me from within a phone station in Arkansas Valley in Colorado (he has since been transferred), choked up when recalling the profundity of the message and its commentary on current events. As a white man who has killed a person of color, Tenneson harbors guilt about his past; when he hears about police brutality or white-on-black crime he feels "torn up inside." The only redemption he could find—he'd considered suicide—was in religion. Though he prefers the word spirituality to religion, he was baptized in prison several years back. "Religion and spirituality was at the core of our project," he said.

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Dane Newton
Photo courtesy of Fury Young

Before the recording sessions began, one of the project's contributors, Philip Archuleta, who goes by Archie, performed a traditional Native American ceremony with eagle feathers in which he "asked malicious spirits to leave." He and another Native American, "Lefty," brushed each performer with the feather and uttered a prayer. "I felt some energy there," Tenneson said of the experience.

Archuleta grew up in Colorado among Dakota and Shoshone tribes and has served 22 years of a 40-year sentence. "The problem is," he said, "I keep getting into trouble." Although the Territorial sessions were recorded before COVID-19 swept through the world and caused widespread panic within prison populations, Archuleta told me that the recent safety measures have affected his mental wellbeing. He and other Native Americans have not been able to go to the sweat lodge or allowed to partake in peace pipe-smoking ceremonies. The medical facility has become inaccessible save for the treatment of life-threatening injuries, he said. In the meantime, the lack of stress-relieving procedures that his spirituality granted him has contributed to confrontations with other prisoners. "But this has been a struggle all my life," Archuleta said of his heritage. "It's like we’re a novelty at first, we're told that we're interesting. Then we get treated worse." If the recording of Territorial gave him an opportunity, though a limited one, it was the chance to feel that Christianity versus spirituality versus agnosticism wasn’t as important as the fight between free and not free.

Before the band room was reopened at Territorial Correctional Facility, before even Tenneson had received the letter from Fury Young, concerts at Territorial were hosted in the gym once a month. Like a bare-bones "Battle of the Bands," in which the performers were barely distinguishable from their audience members, Tenneson had performed with different iterations of bands and musicians, the entire time realizing that neither the group nor the venue itself was permanent. In prison—especially in prison—places and their functions are often abandoned or swapped out for projects that will beget more money. In his time within the system, Tenneson has seen a hobby shop at Arkansas Valley (where he was before Territorial and would later return to) closed down when the budget could no longer be supported; he has seen art and beautification projects lose momentum and stall; and he witnessed the closing of the band room after a Labor Day escape in 2018 tightened security and precautions around the facility. But during those days in the gymnasium—where tunes were recalled and imparted, where lineups were tested, where grace was a guitar and microphone—possibilities felt endless.

During one of these sessions in 2018, Tenneson had put Jojo Martinez, 40, on the spot. Known as a rapper outside of prison and having rediscovered faith and rap inside of it, Martinez took the opportunity to rap to the expectant crowd. Tenneson was impressed, same as he had been when he heard Woodley first sing or Dane Newton play keyboards, even if he had come from the opposite pole of rap and hip-hop music ("I got corrupted," Tenneson said of his switch in interest from jazz, which he studied as a kid, to rock and blues when he first heard Jimi Hendrix, and traded his savings in for a Stratocaster). Martinez, who goes by "Bizz," was brought into the fold to contribute his verbal talents. "I put my whole heart into it," Bizz said, whose experience with the others inspired him to continue to chase his musical passion. Bizz is set to be released to a halfway house in October and has used his time quarantining at Sterling Correctional Facility (he has since left Territorial) to work on music that is both spiritual and politically charged. Territorial blurs the line between faith-based messages and political ones, offering a reading, and for Bizz, a sign, that the two can be twined.

The George Floyd protests and subsequent reactions that have confounded governments have further incentivized Fury Young's mission. In addition to raising funds through GoFundMe (Die Jim Crow is a nonprofit that is incumbent upon private and public donations), Young has achieved momentum via the protests that have occurred around the world. In June, Die Jim Crow released BL Shirelle's Assata Troi (Shirelle is also the Deputy Director of Die Jim Crow). Shirelle, 33, spent 10 years behind bars beginning at age 18. This year marks the first time since being a minor that she is free from prison and parole obligations. Assata Troi has received rave reviews and has affirmed Shirelle as a pseudo-elder statesman (she is still young, after all) for those who have seen both sides of the system. Today, she and Young keep up correspondence with incarcerated or formerly incarcerated people with whom they have several upcoming projects.

Bizz is conscious that a different world than the one he left awaits him when he gets out. He is also aware that his switch to faith-based rap has its challenges. Still, he is confident that his message will transcend this bifurcated moment, where FOX and CNN "are the biggest cons in the world." Though television is limited at Sterling, Bizz gets flashes of news media—both conservative and liberal channels—and uses these bits of charged impartiality for material for his lyrics. He also followed the coronavirus news with bated breath, especially once realizing Sterling hadn't reacted to the crisis in a way that was timely and responsible. He described an environment in which there were few masks and virtually no equipment to help aid recovery, where 100 or so guys were packed into a small day room at one time. "The largest outbreak was in this facility," he said. "They tested everyone and I tested negative, then, a couple days later I lost my sense of smell." Once diagnosed with COVID-19, Bizz was thrown into "the hole" rather than a recovery unit where he suffered for weeks. As of May 2018, 593 state inmates had tested positive for the virus and two Sterling inmates had died. There is currently a class action lawsuit pending, backed by the ACLU, claiming that Colorado's governor and his Department of Corrections aren't doing enough to prevent coronavirus outbreaks throughout the Colorado prison system (two of the plaintiffs are housed at Sterling).

Amid the urgent need for masks and other PPE at prisons, Die Jim Crow has organized a GoFundMe for incarcerated individuals (many prisons have denied donations or have not responded to Die Jim Crow's queries), and as of August has raised over $21,000. This has amounted to over 23,000 masks. 

In preparing for an early 2021 release of Territorial, Fury Young will also be publishing into a different world than the one he became aware of in 2013. The frequent instances of fatalities and injuries at the hands of police have received more widespread and immediate attention since the likes of Trayvon Martin in 2014 and Freddie Gray in 2015, though the coronavirus has slowed attempts of reconciliation in the form of large-scale events, peace talks, and—in the case of the power and vitality of the arts—live music.

For the musicians who recorded Territorial, for whom playing the album to a live audience will forever be a pipe dream—memories of the session persist. Tenneson has since lost touch with Woodley, whose illnesses have caused numerous complications, and Dane Newton, whose vocals on the final track "America the Merciful" offer an apologetic love letter to the country that has given and taken so much. "America the merciful will forgive my sins again," he bellows, "I don’t want to die chasing the wind." Tenneson, in his own thematic companion piece, "Holy Rain," in which he implores to his savior in gravelly mysticism to "wash me clean lord / with your blessed holy rain" before his mournful humming is drowned out by careening saxophone, bass and electric guitar, is making an argument for the legacy of his bandmates, for their project: that whether or not their music is heard or whether it ever awards them acclaim or freedom, it will—finally, once and for all—wash them anew. "Music is one of the things I can give back," Tenneson said. "It's all I can give."

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Rufus Wainwright

Rufus Wainwright

Photo: Barbara FG (Cleared for any usage with credit)

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Rufus Wainwright & More On Their Favorite Venues sacred-spaces-rufus-wainwright-yungblud-keb-mo-and-others-reflect-independent-venues

Sacred Spaces: Rufus Wainwright, YUNGBLUD, Keb' Mo' And Others Reflect On The Independent Venues And Clubs That Changed Their Lives

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As the majority of the live concert industry across the world remains on pause, GRAMMY.com chatted with a handful of artists about their cherished concert memories at some of their favorite clubs and venues
David McPherson
GRAMMYs
Aug 3, 2020 - 6:00 am

Though it's been more than 50 years since Café Au Go Go closed, Blood, Sweat & Tears frontman David Clayton-Thomas still recalls the cultural significance of this famed NYC basement bar. Formerly located at 152 Bleecker St. and operating from 1964-1969, the Greenwich Village hotspot hosted everyone from Cream, with Eric Clapton, to Jimi Hendrix.

"It was the place to be in those days," Clayton-Thomas reflects. "That is where Blood, Sweat & Tears started. We became the house band for a couple of months while recording our first album at CBS Studios on 52nd Street. We would work the club at night and record during the day. It's hard to forget a club like that. It will always be a part of my wonderful memories of New York."   

It's not a stretch to say that the resulting Blood, Sweat & Tears self-titled 1968 album, which has sold 10 million copies worldwide and won the GRAMMY for Album Of The Year in 1970, would exist today without the band's experience at this small yet renowned club. 

Clayton-Thomas' story illustrates exactly how independent music venues are more than four walls. Within the confines of these cramped clubs is a shared cultural history and community: collective stories of unforgettable nights watching your favorite bands and artists perform. The spirits of these artists—some long gone—are forever etched in the wood and ingrained in the stain-filled dance floors.

Exterior of Café Au Go Go in NYC in 1965

Exterior of Café Au Go Go in NYC in 1965 | Photo: Don Paulsen/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the live music ecosystem, already hit hard by rising real estate prices, gentrification and urban sprawl, entered crisis mode. Seminal clubs across North America, from L.A.'s historic Troubadour to Toronto's legendary Horseshoe Tavern, lie silent. 

Like concertgoers, club and venue owners, too, are eagerly awaiting the return of live music. In the interim, these entrepreneurs do what they can to keep their businesses afloat: Some launched GoFundMe fundraisers, while others turned to social media, patrons and local and federal government for financial support. The politicians are starting to hear these pleas. 

Earlier this month, the U.K. government announced a £1.57 billion (approximately $2 billion) aid package for the arts, culture and heritage industries. In the U.S., a pair of senators introduced a relief bill: the Save Our Stages Act. The Recording Academy is also endorsing a pair of solutions: the RESTART Act and the Mixed Earner Pandemic Unemployment Assistance Act.     

The sad reality: Without the leniency of landlords and the passing of stimulus acts by governments, many iconic clubs and independent venues will not survive the financial fallout caused by the coronavirus pandemic. Even with these lifelines, the outlook could be grim. According to a survey from the National Independent Venue Association (NIVA) last month, which surveyed nearly 2,000 music professionals across the U.S., 90 percent of independent venue owners, promoters and bookers said they will have to close permanently within the next few months if they do not receive financial relief from the government. 

As the majority of the live concert industry across the world remains on pause, GRAMMY.com chatted with a handful of artists, including Rufus Wainwright, YUNGBLUD, Keb' Mo' and others, about their cherished concert memories at some of their favorite clubs and venues.

Rufus Wainwright

Venue(s): The Troubadour and Coronet Theatre in Los Angeles, Calif.; McCabe's Guitar Shop in Santa Monica, Calif.; The Town Crier in Beacon, N.Y.; Ursa, owned by his sister Martha Wainwright, in Montreal, Quebec 

Rufus Wainwright

Rufus Wainwright performs in Austin, Texas | Photo: Barbara FG (Cleared for any usage with credit)

Self-isolating these days at his home in Los Angeles finds GRAMMY-nominated singer-songwriter Rufus Wainwright spending time practicing more, especially the piano. "I've been able to dive into the technical forest," he tells GRAMMY.com. Before the pandemic hit, he was on tour and starting the promotion cycle for his newest album, Unfollow The Rules, which he released last month via BMG. He booked gigs at many clubs, including The Troubadour, to promote the record. Then he had to cancel them. 

"The Troubadour, for me, is especially poignant," Wainwright says. "I performed there a couple of times over the years, and I've seen many shows there. We were set to play there at the beginning of this tour. This album is very much influenced by the history of Laurel Canyon [in Los Angeles], songwriting and Hollywood, and we had this symbolic show booked at The Troubadour to emulate some of the grand history that occurred in that venue. Sadly, that opportunity got ripped away when the pandemic struck." 

Read: Beginnings And Endings With Rufus Wainwright

Other touchstone venues for Wainwright in the L.A. area include: The Coronet Theatre, now Largo At The Coronet, where he regularly performed early in his career and McCabe's Guitar Shop on Pico Boulevard in Santa Monica, where the artist played a series of shows before the pandemic hit. 

"I am familiar with the smaller-venue situation mainly because my parents started out playing in coffeehouses in the 1960s and '70s," Wainwright says. "Places like the Caffè Lena in Saratoga Springs, [N.Y.], and The Iron Horse Music Hall in Northampton, Mass., are all part of the really vital, socially important folk music movement my parents [Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle] were a part of in the 1960s. For a lot of artists, these venues are like a trampoline that can catch your fall when you aren't necessarily the flavor of the month. I grew up witnessing this dynamic, and I started out in smaller venues. To dominate that dynamic is really important and harder than you think. A lot of big artists cannot play a small venue … it's too scary and too intimate, but I love them!"  

YUNGBLUD

Venue(s): The Crowndale in Camden Town, London, England; The Lock Tavern in London, England; The Electric Ballroom in Camden Town, London, England

YUNGBLUD performs at the Electric Ballroom in 2019

YUNGBLUD performs at the Electric Ballroom in 2019 | Photo: Matthew Baker/Getty Images

Born in Doncaster, Yorkshire, British rocker YUNGBLUD left home at 16 and moved to London. "I ran away because the north of England is not a place for a kid in lipstick playing rock 'n' roll," he says. Once settled in the south, he discovered the live music mecca of Camden Town, north of England's capital. 

"These venues shaped what I am as an artist today," he says. "I remember walking into Camden Town for the first time and my mind exploded; it was everything I ever wanted. It was Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory. I had a golden ticket to everything I read about: The Libertines, Amy Winehouse, etc. I used to skive off work to get coffees and go to Camden for hours, telling my dad I had been mugged! 

Read: Yungblud Talks Turning His Tour Postponement Into An Online Rock & Roll Variety Show

"Camden was really a big turning point in my career," he continues. "I've played every tiny venue in Camden, from The Crowndale for 10 people to a sold-out show at The Lock Tavern where Amy Winehouse played early in her career and who is a massive inspiration to me. She taught me being you is good enough. Later, I played the Electric Ballroom to 1,500 people. The Camden Assembly, formerly The Barfly, is where my guitar player [Adam Warrington] and I really connected and when we figured out we were going to play music together for the rest of our lives, bonding over our love of Joy Division, Blur, N.W.A, Foo Fighters and David Bowie.

"When I think about Camden, that spirit, and every show I've played in the clubs there, I remember why I'm here and what I'm doing it for … it's all about the passion!" 

Colin Linden

Venue: The Legendary Horseshoe Tavern
City: Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Opened: 1947

Colin Linden (R) with Robbie Robertson (L) performing at the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern in approximately 1989

Colin Linden (R) with Robbie Robertson (L) performing at the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern in approximately 1989 | Courtesy Photo: Colin Linden

These days, Canadian blues artist Colin Linden lives in Nashville, Tenn., but Toronto is where he cut his teeth. The GRAMMY-nominated songwriter and producer grew up fast, sitting in as an underage teen with local legends like Willie P. Bennett and David Wilcox at small clubs around town. Today, Linden figures this is the longest time he has gone without a gig in his 48-year career. "I feel a real need to connect with people," Linden says. 

Toronto's legendary Horseshoe Tavern is Linden's seminal venue. He still has a scar on his forehead from a time he played The Shoe in the mid-1980s and bounded off the stage a little too recklessly. And in the early 1990s, he played there frequently with a secret band, which included Bruce Cockburn, called Bambi And The Deer Hunters. 

"It is the place where I started playing as a kid and kept on playing over many years," Linden recalls. "It was an important venue long before I ever set foot in there. It's a place where I've had a lot of laughter and a lot of tears. When I think about the Horseshoe Tavern, I think about so many things. I remember sitting in the back alley in booker Peter Graham's car, playing him my demo and talking over my mistakes. I really wanted a gig there." 

The most memorable night for Linden at this venue happened on March 13, 1989, when he shared the stage with The Band members Rick Danko, Garth Hudson and Robbie Robertson. "That was such an amazing night," Linden thinks back. "I remember Robbie getting offstage and asking me, 'How can you guys hear anything?' I realized he had not been on a stage in more than 10 years and forgot how loud it gets in a club!"

Keb' Mo'

Venue: Harvelle's
City: Santa Monica, CA
Opened: 1931

Harvelle's

Harvelle's | Photo: John M. Heller/Getty Images

Harvelle's, a popular West Coast blues club with a long history, is where Kevin Roosevelt Moore started playing in 1992 before he was known as Keb' Mo' and before he had a record deal. His first audition to play the historic venue failed. Later, he landed a gig at the club through a friend who needed a guitarist. After that, Moore played the venue regularly for years. One Tuesday, Moore was performing when television producer and composer Chuck Lorre was in the audience; an introduction led Moore to land the theme song for the popular CBS sitcom, "Mike & Molly."

"It's very important to maintain the local watering holes of our country," Moore, who this year took home a GRAMMY for Best Americana Album for his 2019 album, Oklahoma, explains. "For me, Harvelle's is the place where I figured out who I was. Harvelle's is where I became 'Keb' Mo'.' If not for Harvelle's, I, and many other artists I know, would not be where we are today. It's so important to make sure these local places that feed the community—socially, culturally, and artfully in a musical way—remain open. When you take away the starting point for musicians, you take away the connection. It's the local pubs and the local dives that make us who we are.

Watch: Keb' Mo' Reflects On The Journey To His 'TajMo' GRAMMY Nomination

"Even today, Lady Gaga, Bruce Springsteen, etc., all want to do a dive [bar] tour because the dives are what's happening," he continues. "It's about connecting to the people. It's raw, it's honest and it's genuine. The place you have to be most genuine of any place is in a dive, because when you play a fancy theater, everyone comes to see you and is expecting something. In a dive, no one gives a crap about you, so you have to go to them and figure out how to connect and reach them. In a way, playing a dive is way more difficult than playing a concert. Harvelle's and all the dives, coffee shops [and] restaurants of the world are very important to creating that connection and community within the music business." 

Sarah Jarosz

Venue: The Cactus Café 
City: Austin, Texas
Opened: 1979

Sarah Jarosz

Sarah Jarosz performs at The Cactus Café in approximately 2006 | Photo: Steve Oleson

At 29, New York City-based American Roots singer-songwriter Sarah Jarosz has already won three GRAMMYs. (Her newest album, World On The Ground, released in June, features production from five-time GRAMMY winner John Leventhal.) Jarosz shares her love for The Cactus Café, one of the storied music clubs situated on the campus of the University Of Texas At Austin in her hometown. The venue has hosted a who's who of Texas songwriting legends and bands over the years, from Townes Van Zandt and Guy Clark to The Chicks and Nickel Creek.

Read: Sarah Jarosz Graduates to GRAMMY Winner with 'Undercurrent'

"Since I'm not able to play shows on the road right now, I've naturally turned my thoughts to some of the first venues I began playing in," Jarosz says. "I have a particular fondness for The Cactus Café. That's the first club I remember my parents taking me to as a little kid, even when it was way past my bedtime. I remember the smell of the coffee brewing, the clinking of the glasses at the bar tucked into the back corner, the warmth of being surrounded by kindred spirits and music-lovers. 

"Venues like The Cactus are sacred spaces," she adds. "For the hour or two that you're inside them, the outside world disappears, and musicians and listeners alike find solace in the energy and the sounds."

Jane Bunnett

Venue: Jazz Showcase
City: Chicago, Ill.
Opened: 1947

Jane Bunnett performs at Jazz Showcase in Chicago, Ill.

Jane Bunnett performs at Jazz Showcase in Chicago, Ill. | Photo: Jim Funk

Jane Bunnett, 63, is a soprano saxophonist, bandleader and three-time GRAMMY nominee. The most recent ensemble the Toronto artist assembled is the all-female, GRAMMY-nominated Afro-Cuban jazz group, Jane Bunnett & Maqueque. 

She holds a special place in her heart for Chicago's Jazz Showcase, started by Joe Segal in 1947. Legends from John Coltrane to Miles Davis have played this historic club. Today, you'll still find the 94-year-old NEA Jazz Master Segal hanging around, but his son, Wayne, runs the day-to-day operations. 

The first time Bunnett tried to sit in and play at Jazz Showcase in the late 1980s, Joe refused to let her play. Flash ahead a decade. Bunnett was back in the Windy City for the Chicago Jazz Festival. After her set, musician Ira Sullivan introduced her to Joe, who didn't recall the incident. Amends were made. In the last five years, the club has become a regular anticipated stop for Bunnett & Maqueque; they were scheduled for another gig there this spring before the pandemic hit.

Read: 'Bitches Brew' At 50: Why Miles Davis' Masterpiece Remains Impactful

"I've got incredible memories of playing that room," Bunnett says. "Right behind the bandstand is a beautiful 10-by-12-foot photograph of Charlie Parker. I remember the first night I'm up on that stage, it was such a joyous moment. Joe sat right in front of my percussionist and just stared. I looked around the room at all the paraphernalia and history and just soaked it in. There I was with a bunch of young Cuban kids in their early 20s who didn't have a clue of who many of the artists pictured on the walls were."

Sierra Hull

Venue: The Station Inn
City: Nashville, Tenn.
Opened: 1974

Sierra Hull (R) performs with Justin Moses (L) at The Station Inn in Nashville, Tenn.

Sierra Hull (R) performs with Justin Moses (L) at The Station Inn in Nashville, Tenn. | Courtesy Photo: Sierra Hull

At 28, bluegrass/roots artist Sierra Hull has already released four full-length albums. Her most recent, 25 Trips, released in February on Rounder Records, is the follow-up to her GRAMMY-nominated 2016 album, Weighted Mind. 

"It's easy to take for granted that a venue like The Station Inn will always be there," she says. "It's a staple of the Nashville community and a musical home for so many of us. I've been deeply inspired by the concerts I've seen by both legends and peers there, and have played the stage myself countless times over the years. It's the type of venue that is perfectly small and intimate yet with a history that makes it feel larger than life. 

Read: Sierra Hull Takes Her Place In Bluegrass History, Talks Legacy & New Music At Wide Open Bluegrass

"It really breaks my heart to know that venues we all love are struggling and could potentially go under during this pandemic. I hope and pray they can survive this for the sake of our community and the need we all have to gather together in places with so much history and meaning."

Ondara

Venue: Cedar Cultural Center
City: Minneapolis, Minn.
Opened: 1989

Cedar Cultural Center

Cedar Cultural Center | Photo: Jahi Chikwendiu/The Washington Post via Getty Images

Ondara, previously known as J.S. Ondara, grew up in Nairobi, Kenya, listening to a lot of rock music before moving to the U.S. in 2013. His debut album, Tales Of America, released in 2019, received a nomination for Best Americana Album at the 2020 GRAMMYs. In May, the singer-songwriter released his follow-up, Folk N' Roll, Vol 1: Tales Of Isolation, an 11-song collection written and recorded by Ondara, in less than a week, while in lockdown in Minneapolis. The compositions speak to our times and collective quarantined experience. A direct response to the global pandemic, the album serves as therapy for Ondara. 

Before moving from Africa to America, Ondara had never been to a concert. His first show was at the Cedar Cultural Center, a Twin Cities live music hot spot for the past 30 years. It changed his life. 

Read: Kenyan Singer/Songwriter J.S. Ondara On Telling His Own 'Tales Of America' With Debut LP

"I was new to America, and I had spent some time with music unsuccessfully," he recalls. "Nothing was working out, so I decided to go to school. Halfway through my second semester, a friend invited me to a show to see Seattle singer-songwriter Noah Gundersen. I had a completely spiritual experience at that concert. I dropped out of school the following day and went back to focusing on my music and making my debut record. It was life-changing. The novelty of [it] being my first concert, along with my internal turmoil of my desires to be a musician being stifled, all played a part in the experience. It left a lasting impression. I honestly can't wait until I can be in a room full of people again and sing right in their faces." 

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Some of the content on this site expresses viewpoints and opinions that are not those of the Recording Academy and its Affiliates. Responsibility for the accuracy of information provided in stories not written by or specifically prepared for the Academy and its Affiliates lies with the story's original source or writer. Content on this site does not reflect an endorsement or recommendation of any artist or music by the Recording Academy and its Affiliates.