Sierra Ferrell brings that old-timey earthy magic. Everything in Sierra’s expansive universe feels connected to ancient fairies & all things rock & feather, spirit & bone. Then there’s the voice, the singular lure. Go back past early Emmylou & Linda Ronstadt, past Loretta Lynn & queen Dolly Parton, past Patsy Cline & Wanda Jackson, to some secret carnie caravan, horse-drawn travelers, carriages covered in flowers, always flowers, said the forever flower child.
When Sierra Ferrell finally came into focus from past the edges of my peripheral vision, she was draped in flowers. A friend was at her Ryman show, & suddenly I asked myself why I wasn’t there. I am definitely not averse to something so deeply old-time, but I had not yet sipped from her cauldron of joy, all potion & passion.
For me from those first looks & first listens & now falling hard into forever fandom, Sierra will always be that voice & sound, but she is also everything that surrounds the sound: aura & ambiance, vibes & visions, the total & complete package, as much the siren of floral synergy, the bell-ringer of blossoms & blooms, a botanical salve & effervescent essence sure to heal what hurts & fill it with sudden & surreal sonic hope.
Sierra comes from the traveler scene: hitch-hiking, train-hopping, rubber tramping, & busking at the street-corner forever party. Reminds me of watching & rewatching Wild & Into The Wild & my own traveling itch back in those eternal 1990s, the 90s that recalled the 1930s. Now seems a prescient time for all the tropes to resurface so profoundly.
Early in 2024, I was still reeling from the lyrics of Hurray For The Riff Raff’s recent retelling of America from the road. No longer some Kerouac-meets-Frodo bromance. No, these are “sisters of the road,” like I once read about in Boxcar Bertha back in my own transient road-tripping. As Alynda Segarra breaks past the binary, maybe we should say siblings of the road in the big circus tent I had already convened in, to kick off the year at the communes of Critterland, with a troubadour like Willi Carlisle. There’s no mistaking why these are my favorite records of the year, in part because they all conjure those prayers said in tents by candlelight & sung around campfires that lasted until pink predawn slipping into sunrise.
All these pieces are of a piece--country folk revivals on the fringes. Then, someone sent me the CBS Sunday morning micro-documentary of Sierra Ferrell’s roots & rise. She left poverty & pills in the West Virginia hills to hobo & busk here & there & everywhere, & especially in places like train towns in Utah or on the wistfully wicked streets of New Orleans. Every Sierra song is infused with such railroading roughness yet wrapped in the sweet sweetness of her flowery fashion & shimmering voice over such swinging sounds. Sure, it’s folk & country & Americana, but it’s also blues, jazz, ragtime, swing, & all of these are parts of the overall freakshow medicine show aura. The fringe vibe never leaves the frame. We’re all inside the spooky psychedelic hall of mirrors, like teens rolling or shrooming at the county fair.
But we need not glorify or romanticize her early independence & interdependence in what could be a traumatizing scene. In multiple interviews, I have heard her convey her near-death-experiences brought about by drug abuse. On one podcast, she recounted a vodka bender that bled into a physical fight with an ex, smashing his head with her guitar, he leaving her with broken bones & finally in a women’s shelter. Now that I am familiar with her story, it still gives me chills, for all the angels & unlikely miracles that watched over Sierra Ferrell to pull her through. I listened to a radio host say, “You give me the chills. It gives me the chills to tell you that you give me the chills.” That kind of spiritual energy is so freely available in Sierra’s performances & interviews, if only we will receive.
It’s tempting to get cute or trite about such a shero as this & her inspiring recovery story, to make her into the Netflix equivalent of an “after school special.” But don’t; the perils of addiction & abuse still haunt & taunt on the periphery. In the many conversations I have listened to or watched, Sierra maintains a happiness & gratitude & self-deprecating humor. She’s not that kind of super-serious performer that needs us to take her seriously. Just see how the compassion falls from her mouth, whether banter between songs or in these longer podcast formats. Sierra Ferrell is a beacon of outward & inward light, of care & self-care.
From my most recent show with her at the Evanston Folk Fest on the beach of Lake Michigan, her brief banter bespoke beloved community. It’s like each bit is a dopamine dose, an essential affirmation. She reminds us to self-love, not as selfishness but as a mirror to a wider compassion. Heck, she also asked everyone to go read the Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. Not every night, our favorite performers assign homework, but I for one can abide such nudges.
Sierra Ferrell is humbly & hopefully self-making her own myth, not that far afield from pop phenomena like Taylor & Beyonce & Chappell Roan, but more so deeply aligned with Nashville, Bakersfield, & every Honky Tonk or Dollar Bill bar in-between. Her music soars & we soar with it. A trance that can translate to everyday joy. A flight into the stars that is also always grounded on this holy ground.
[photos from the Evanston Folk Fest, 9-7-2024]
When Sierra Ferrell finally came into focus from past the edges of my peripheral vision, she was draped in flowers. A friend was at her Ryman show, & suddenly I asked myself why I wasn’t there. I am definitely not averse to something so deeply old-time, but I had not yet sipped from her cauldron of joy, all potion & passion.
For me from those first looks & first listens & now falling hard into forever fandom, Sierra will always be that voice & sound, but she is also everything that surrounds the sound: aura & ambiance, vibes & visions, the total & complete package, as much the siren of floral synergy, the bell-ringer of blossoms & blooms, a botanical salve & effervescent essence sure to heal what hurts & fill it with sudden & surreal sonic hope.
Sierra comes from the traveler scene: hitch-hiking, train-hopping, rubber tramping, & busking at the street-corner forever party. Reminds me of watching & rewatching Wild & Into The Wild & my own traveling itch back in those eternal 1990s, the 90s that recalled the 1930s. Now seems a prescient time for all the tropes to resurface so profoundly.
Early in 2024, I was still reeling from the lyrics of Hurray For The Riff Raff’s recent retelling of America from the road. No longer some Kerouac-meets-Frodo bromance. No, these are “sisters of the road,” like I once read about in Boxcar Bertha back in my own transient road-tripping. As Alynda Segarra breaks past the binary, maybe we should say siblings of the road in the big circus tent I had already convened in, to kick off the year at the communes of Critterland, with a troubadour like Willi Carlisle. There’s no mistaking why these are my favorite records of the year, in part because they all conjure those prayers said in tents by candlelight & sung around campfires that lasted until pink predawn slipping into sunrise.
All these pieces are of a piece--country folk revivals on the fringes. Then, someone sent me the CBS Sunday morning micro-documentary of Sierra Ferrell’s roots & rise. She left poverty & pills in the West Virginia hills to hobo & busk here & there & everywhere, & especially in places like train towns in Utah or on the wistfully wicked streets of New Orleans. Every Sierra song is infused with such railroading roughness yet wrapped in the sweet sweetness of her flowery fashion & shimmering voice over such swinging sounds. Sure, it’s folk & country & Americana, but it’s also blues, jazz, ragtime, swing, & all of these are parts of the overall freakshow medicine show aura. The fringe vibe never leaves the frame. We’re all inside the spooky psychedelic hall of mirrors, like teens rolling or shrooming at the county fair.
But we need not glorify or romanticize her early independence & interdependence in what could be a traumatizing scene. In multiple interviews, I have heard her convey her near-death-experiences brought about by drug abuse. On one podcast, she recounted a vodka bender that bled into a physical fight with an ex, smashing his head with her guitar, he leaving her with broken bones & finally in a women’s shelter. Now that I am familiar with her story, it still gives me chills, for all the angels & unlikely miracles that watched over Sierra Ferrell to pull her through. I listened to a radio host say, “You give me the chills. It gives me the chills to tell you that you give me the chills.” That kind of spiritual energy is so freely available in Sierra’s performances & interviews, if only we will receive.
It’s tempting to get cute or trite about such a shero as this & her inspiring recovery story, to make her into the Netflix equivalent of an “after school special.” But don’t; the perils of addiction & abuse still haunt & taunt on the periphery. In the many conversations I have listened to or watched, Sierra maintains a happiness & gratitude & self-deprecating humor. She’s not that kind of super-serious performer that needs us to take her seriously. Just see how the compassion falls from her mouth, whether banter between songs or in these longer podcast formats. Sierra Ferrell is a beacon of outward & inward light, of care & self-care.
From my most recent show with her at the Evanston Folk Fest on the beach of Lake Michigan, her brief banter bespoke beloved community. It’s like each bit is a dopamine dose, an essential affirmation. She reminds us to self-love, not as selfishness but as a mirror to a wider compassion. Heck, she also asked everyone to go read the Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. Not every night, our favorite performers assign homework, but I for one can abide such nudges.
Sierra Ferrell is humbly & hopefully self-making her own myth, not that far afield from pop phenomena like Taylor & Beyonce & Chappell Roan, but more so deeply aligned with Nashville, Bakersfield, & every Honky Tonk or Dollar Bill bar in-between. Her music soars & we soar with it. A trance that can translate to everyday joy. A flight into the stars that is also always grounded on this holy ground.
[photos from the Evanston Folk Fest, 9-7-2024]
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