By The country song is ending. The last strum of the guitar hits the venue wall-to-wall, covering the 100-or-so heads filling the space between stage, bar, and door. Gracie Jackson, the front person of GracieHorse, steps back to the mic, as the last notes reverberate from the amps by her feet.
“Fuck that song,” she says, as the song fades. “This one will be better.”
—
It’s a magnification of the attitude, which I experienced weeks prior, over at a local dim sum restaurant. Jackson orders seaweed salad, and I get spicy wontons for the table. In classic LA fashion, nearby diners probably couldn’t discern the immense musical talent from Gracie’s largely unassuming presence. She’s polite, quiet, even a bit reserved. While not quick to smile, she proves quick to laugh. Once we connect on our Northshore Massachusetts roots (she’s from Andover, I’m from Haverhill) a true ease of conversation sits in with us at the table. I tell her I’m psyched to see her show the next month. She tells me she’s grateful to be performing.
On stage, she’s less grateful than she is competitive. It’s a fascinating, incredibly entertaining departure from the two previous leads who took to the stage for the night’s opening sets. As expected, the openers took more than a few minutes to address the crowd, thank them for being there, and for listening to their music they work so hard on. They gushed about what it means to be on stage performing.
Gracie doesn’t gush. The closest she gets is back at the dim sum restaurant, talking about her friends, fellow musicians, and bandmates. In fact, our entire conversation before the show is constantly derailed by her asides about the other musicians she collaborates with. She patiently repeats their names (and spelling) so that I don’t get it wrong: Chris Cohen. Editrix. Meernaa. Sam Buck. Banny Grove. John Dwyer. Dougie Poole. I find myself taking more notes on people other than herself. Multiple times, I nearly remind her that I’m writing a piece about her and her music, as if she had reason to forget why we were there in the first place. I quickly realize there’s no point. To Gracie, her music doesn’t mean as much—or isn’t worth mentioning—without calling out the inspirations, collaborators, and friends who made it happen.
It’s a softer side than what’s revealed on stage. As she rips through one bluesy, old school country song after another, commentary is minimal. Even as she takes her time between each to pick up another guitar (she brings four on stage) and tune it to perfection, it’s quiet enough in the venue to hear a member of the crowd palm a few pilsners to the band behind her. After the third or fourth song, Gracie addresses the crowd once more:
“Everybody shut up and pay attention—Bill is gonna show you how to play banjo.”
They launch into “Backup Slowly,” a true-to-form bluegrass country song, which holds down the midsection of GracieHorse’s latest record, L.A. SHIT. Not only does Bill Evans show us how to play banjo, he shows us how to have a damn good time. Smiling softly, happy to be, Bill (a Golden Bachelor, we’ll say) manipulates those strings with seemingly no effort, and not a soul in that venue isn’t swept away by his charm.
—
I think of how lucky I am to get to witness good music, live, in my own neighborhood. I even start to daydream about moving away from LA, to the Midwest countryside, living on a ranch, and playing the role of modern cowboy, listening to “true” country and folk music like this every day of the year. I’ll blame that admission on the whiskey in my hand as much as the music.
Gracie says the same weeks earlier. In life outside of venues, she’s a nurse, caught between her talents as a musician and the all-encompassing career path that a traveling nurse faces. In fact, L.A SHIT, she tells me, was written based on her time in Wyoming (brought there by a nursing role). She was close to staying put, trying out life as a local country singer, but then couldn’t turn down an opportunity to tour and perform in new cities. She says she’s not sure what’s more ideal: traveling the world, or settling down as a cowboy. I say, why not both.
Gracie clearly has a community in LA that makes it easier to live the big city life. The show is a small representation of that community. The crowd, of course, plays into that: with only around 100 in the audience, there’s an intimacy of shared experience, friends and fans being made alike. Meanwhile, the band is a microcosm of more than just community, something more akin to family. The act plays with a visible and tangible trust, like they’re speaking their own language. They clearly love playing together, which makes them sound that much better.
In Gracie’s expected fashion, she introduces each member with palpable admiration and respect; even her playful tone can’t cover up her appreciation for the boys behind her. There’s a pedal steel played by Tim Ramsey. Noah Kohll plays lead guitar. Aaron Olsen takes bass. David Ozinga holds down the drums. Each member gets a small moment of acclaim from the crowd as Gracie introduces them, winding down the show. She doesn’t introduce herself. She gives only a quick and quiet “and we’re GracieHorse” before launching into the final songs.
Gracie ends her set with “Hollow Head,” the lead-off track of L.A. SHIT; it’s a personal favorite, but based on the reaction of others around me, a crowd favorite as well. Its relaxed pace spurs the room to dance, showcasing Gracie’s deep and heady voice over galloping instrumentals. I find myself singing along.
As the last notes filter out, the crowd is content. Gracie asks for her beer, and in the brief silence while she takes a sip, we can briefly hear the set playing outside, as the venue was double-booked that night. Gracie takes to the mic one last time. “Thanks everyone for coming to my rock concert. Fuck the band next door.”
L.A. SHIT appeared on our list of the Top Albums of 2023, and GracieHorse brought the house down at our final showcase of the year, where this interview took place. Grab the album on Bandcamp and check her out on March 17th at Scribble!
Cover photo by Joe Difazio
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