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INDY Week
“I’m interested in the throughline. That’s always what I’m interested in.”
Rhiannon Giddens is speaking from her home office in Ireland, stacks of books and skeins of yarn piled on a shelf behind her.
She’s speaking about reviving traditional music from the past—specifically, in this conversation, songs honoring German student protester Sophie Scholl, who was beheaded in 1943 for distributing anti-Nazi pamphlets—and finding its resonance in the present.
Giddens has made a career of excavating these historical acts of resistance—from Scholl, whose example has clear historical reverberations today, to Omar ibn Said, a Muslim scholar trafficked into slavery in North Carolina, and whose memoir Giddens turned into a Pulitzer Prize-winning opera—and drawing them into the present. Recently, Giddens was in the news for her own moment of defiance, deciding not to play the Kennedy Center after it fired its longtime president, appointed a Trump loyalist in her stead, and installed President Trump as chair.
As a devout student of history, it’s no surprise Giddens’s next act also has a throughline to the past: Biscuits & Banjos, a three-day “exploration of Black music, art, and culture” takes place in downtown Durham April 25–27. The event marks 20 years since Black Banjos Then & Now, an old-time gathering, took place in Boone.
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There, Giddens and other revivalists, including future Carolina Chocolate Drops bandmates Justin Robinson and Dom Flemons, met Joe Thompson, an Orange County fiddler born in 1918 credited with keeping the Black string band tradition alive. The Carolina Chocolate Drops—who will reunite for the first time in over a decade, at the upcoming festival— formed in response to Thompson’s mentorship, as he passed down singular techniques learned from his father and grandfather, who was born into slavery.
Ahead of the festival, the INDY spoke with Giddens about roots music, her new album with Robinson, and readying for Biscuits & Banjos.
INDY: Biscuits & Banjos is a few weeks away. Why did you choose Durham, and what are you most excited about with the festival?
Durham and Chapel Hill are really where the Chocolate Drops got started. We met at the Black Banjo Gathering and App State, and went down to Joe Thompson’s house in Mebane. But when we played together as a trio, we would busk on the street at the Wachovia building in Chapel Hill, and played at all the venues around Durham and Carrboro and Chapel Hill. The whole area is kind of like our birthplace as a band.
INDY Week, you know, broke us out there as a band. We had barely been a band when Dom was on the cover, and it’s really how things got kick-started. I think we mentioned in that article, “Yeah, we do school shows”—we hadn’t done school shows—and we wanted to. And then we got all these schools that were packing out February for Black History Month. And, you know, we had to come up with stuff, and that all went into our first record.
It felt like a natural fit to come back to the Triangle. Durham specifically is a historically Black city—and obviously that’s changed over recent years, but the history is very deep. We were very careful. We talked to people from Durham, like, “Does Durham need a festival like this? Would Durham be interested in a festival like this? Would we be adding value?”
When we found out there is a space here—the Art of Cool is gone, Moogfest is gone—we did our due diligence, and the whole time we’ve been working with people from Durham and from North Carolina. The whole team is made up of mostly North Carolinians, outside of the folks on my team.
Durham could use a festival, and this one speaks to a lot of the things the city is most at risk of losing touch with. And this festival also has all these other aspects of material culture—food, storytelling. Can you speak to what you see as a relationship between all of these things?
It was kind of my dream—really, biscuits, books, and banjos was the ultimate dream, but Biscuits & Banjos is shorter and catchier. The idea came about as I was just seeing what was happening in the culture. I call it nonmainstream Black culture, right? This is not Kendrick Lamar, not Beyoncé, not Black moviemakers and stuff. We’re on the edges, and we break through every once in a while.
In terms of the music, I wanted it to be a place where that was the center—instead of us being on a stage somewhere or an act in another festival, all it is is us doing this work. The cultural excavation that a lot of us are doing in this work is also happening in the foodways world. High on the Hog was a big kick starter on Netflix.
This idea of creating a space where we can cross-pollinate and see each other and meet, and somebody coming in can get an idea of what’s happening in general, across—you know, I think it is a culture in and of itself, of historically informed art-making and food-making and books and thinking about how they all come together. These folks have been doing this work, and a lot of them I know very well—it was an idea of “Gosh, let’s come together and celebrate.”
Let’s come together—not just for a day; come for the whole weekend. Let’s have a party, let’s have dinner together.”
Let’s come together—not just for a day; come for the whole weekend. Let’s have a party, let’s have dinner together, let’s plot, you know, let’s make a plan of things to do. It’s anti “How much money can we make with this festival?” It’s really, how can we make this a community-based festival, a cultural festival? So it’s really about gaining more than a paycheck. We tried to keep the price low for the wristlets, and we have a lot of free programming, which is really amazing, and that was the goal from the beginning.
I have that 2005 INDY story pulled up and wanted to ask you about one thing you said in it: “Playing this music is a reclamation, and I think that’s happening across the board in old-time music, a lot of youngsters are picking it up because it’s something that’s real. It’s not pre-packaged, pre-fabricated, and spoon-fed to you on MTV.” That was 20 years ago—what has or hasn’t changed since then?
I think in general, the old-time, Bluegrass, and Americana community—Americana obviously being a new term—really has picked up a lot of momentum.
There is a lot that’s very exciting about what’s been happening, but I also feel like there’s also been a lot of commodification of this music, and that brings its problems. There’s an academization of this music going on in places like Berkeley. Not to throw shade on those institutions, but I want us to be aware of what’s happening to this music.
All traditional music changes. It changes function—it’s dance music, and then it’s performance on stage music. The Chocolate Drops took dance tunes, and we performed them on stage. I’m not saying that you can’t do that, but [we’re getting further] away from that last generation that grew up connected to the land.
Yes, let’s play it fancy ways, and let’s put on the gear and get on stage and do it. But also, let’s make sure we’re still sitting on the porch and just playing the tunes.”
I just want us to investigate why we’re playing this music still, and what we’re doing with it. It’s something worth saving, but I do want to make sure that we’re connected. That’s kind of behind the release of the record, What Do the Blackbirds Say to the Crow? It’s a reminder: Yes, let’s play it fancy ways, and let’s put on the gear and get on stage and do it. But also, let’s make sure we’re still sitting on the porch and just playing the tunes.
I’m curious about where your new album was recorded and the significance of those places.
Joe’s [Thompson’s] tradition was fiddle and banjo—no guitar, no percussion. It was just fiddle and banjo, and there’s a different sound to the banjo when it’s not played with a bass or a guitar. Particularly, Joe’s music really wasn’t developed for guitar or bass, and that’s why Dom often played percussion instruments with Joe’s tunes.
I was like, “You know, gosh, it would be nice to just have a whole record of fiddle and banjo, and let’s do them in the places where the tunes come from. Let’s do something from the West [in North Carolina], some in the Piedmont, some in the East,” because I knew Justin knew tunes from all of those places. So then it was naturally like, “Well, let’s do Joe tunes that we’ve never recorded at Joe’s house.” Joe’s nephew welcomed us and fed us, and it was just really a beautiful thing.
And then we went to Etta Baker’s house in Morganton—and her house has not changed. It’s insane. It’s like she wandered off one day and never came back. It doesn’t have electricity, [and] literally her hat is on the rack. Both me and Justin walked in there and almost cried because we’re like—“Grandma!” Her son came and hung out with us for the day, and told us stories about Etta and listened to the tunes.
Global music’s great, you know. Spotify—as a professional musician, I hate Spotify; as a consumer, obviously it’s great that you can listen to anything anywhere—but there’s nothing wrong with like taking tunes back to the land, playing them on the land. There’s something about playing these instruments outside. [Recording] was: microphone for my banjo, microphone for his fiddle, microphone for the outdoor sounds, and that’s it.
In a Rolling Stone interview, you spoke a bit about “Texas Hold ‘Em” and feeling some unease about it and other big projects feeling transactional. Are there anti-capitalist practices that you see emerging that you look to for inspiration?
I think a lot of us would love to do a lot more of it. I’m in an okay position–I’m by no means a millionaire, but because of the type of work I do, I’m funded doing the other things that I do at universities and speaking and all sorts of stuff that are generated by my recording but aren’t tied to it.
My recording and touring, as long as it’s funding itself, I’m fine, but I know a lot of people aren’t in that position, especially the young people, who are—I don’t know how they’re keeping it together, to be honest. It is very unfair what’s been happening, and it’s going to affect a whole generation of musicians, but that’s neither here nor there. In terms of capitalism, I think just talking about it is important.
I don’t want to teach Joe’s music for money, because he didn’t charge us money. We were his apprentices. We just went and learned his music and then had the responsibility of spreading it.
I’m just trying to figure it out. Part of my thing was to make Biscuits and Banjos as free as possible without big-name brands coming in. I don’t know how sustainable it is, but we did it this year. And it means a lot, you know. I’m trying to do that where I can—we did it a couple of times on the last tour, showed up with some chairs and instruments, and put the word out 24 hours in advance with the local acoustic community, and people just came out. We just play, no money, no tickets. The more that we can do that, the better, because you can see people walking by going, “What the hell is? Oh, wow, that’s so cool.”
I wish that we were taken care of better as a part of society, so that we could then give back more. Right now, nobody’s winning, except for the folks who own Spotify and the labels, and then a few acts at the top, when somebody will spend $1,500 to go see Taylor Swift, and then that’s their budget for the year.
For smaller acts getting started, the scene is really, really difficult, because people aren’t going to the local shows and not building relationships with musicians. So it’s really hard to be like, “You want me to also play for free?”
Extras on the Side
Upon being announced, Biscuits & Banjos sold out quickly—great news for the future of Americana music and Durham’s ability to sustain ambitious festivals like this one, but disappointing, of course, for those still hoping to catch world-class string music.
Luckily, festival organizers have curated abundant free programming. You can find a full list of community events online; below, here are our picks for free things to do.
Friday, April 25
Pembroke musician Charly Lowry, a member of the Lumbee/Tuscarora tribes, first rose to fame on American Idol and has soared as a soulful dynamo since. See her play at 8:45 p.m. at the Blackbird Stage at Lot 20.
At PSI Theatre, catch two film screenings: German Soul presented by Justin Robinson at 6 p.m. and Boil That Cabbage Down with director Candace Williamson at 7:30 p.m.
Break it down both Friday and Saturday night with the Pinhook’s 10 p.m. event Sweet Molasses: A Pop-Up Juke Joint, hosted by local DJ collective The Conjure.
Saturday, April 26
Blackbird Stage at Lot 20 has programming throughout the day, all Saturday, so show up anytime after noon (programming runs 11 a.m.–10:30 p.m.) and you pretty much can’t miss. But if you’re trying to narrow down your options: A 3:30 p.m. performance by breakout string band New Dangerfield, followed by guitarist and composer Yasmin Williams’s 5 p.m. show, is a powerhouse sequence.
It is likewise impossible to pick favorites from programming at the ATC Water Tower; however, 1:30 p.m. talk “Sounds, Soul, & Supper,” featuring Durham’s Ricky Moore alongside other culinary mavens, promises to be delectable, and 3 p.m. talk “Libraries as Sanctuaries for Black Stories,” featuring Tressie McMillan Cottom and Mychal Threets, is apropos of the moment.
Sunday, April 27
Carry the inspirations from the weekend forward with a stop at 21C’s Music Village, where you can find banjo lessons from Deering Banjos, shop for instruments, and more.
Several weeks ago, you canceled your appearance at the Kennedy Center, and it made headlines—
That still surprises me.
I think we’re starved for anyone standing up. People are just capitulating right and left.
That decision was difficult. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to protest; I wanted to figure out the best way. But then I was like, “What am I staying for? People who want to come to my show aren’t gonna feel comfortable.” I had enough time to pivot, and there was another venue open. I was lucky.
There are people who stayed at the Kennedy Center, and they made statements or made the show a protest. I really feel the best thing that we can do is support each other. As long as people make a statement, we need to support it, because there are people in all sorts of different positions—big platforms, little platforms, people dependent on them.
The main thing is that whatever people decide to do, do something that feels right to you. I don’t use social media to talk about current events, because I use my social media for other things.
I use it for history; I was just talking about the German Peasants’ Rebellion. I’m playing the long game. Some of us aren’t playing that long game, and they can afford to play the short game. If you’re a big pop singer, there are things you can do that keep the sanctity of your platform.
I’m a measured person. I always think about what I’m going to write. I’ll always try to educate myself about it, so I’m not just going to pop off about stuff I don’t know a lot about. If we’re all really considering what we’re trying to do—this is the time, and everybody has to figure out what is their best thing is. What do they know the most about? Some of us are sitting there writing that song that’s going to be the song of the summer. I’m not that person.
Facebook is where my old people are, because that’s fans, they’re all 50 and above. It makes me see what social media could be. Say that Peasan’t Rebellion—it has like 250 comments, which is a hell of a lot of comments for somebody my size, and the amount of information in those comments from historians and people talking about it, dropping book recommendations and going “I didn’t know this, I’m gonna find out. Oh my God, look at the patterns of history.” And that’s my job, in addition to the other things that I’m doing.
What drives you to incorporate history into music?
I can’t not do it. I’m so obsessed, and it’s become my way of living at this point. Like I said, I’m a really long-haul person—I’m in the middle of a musical right now that incorporates a lot of very fraught things from our past—and when it comes to songs, I’m not a Bob Dylan. There are people who are writing about what’s going on now.
I’m interested in looking at these movements in the past—people have been fighting against the same shit for generations. And centuries. And centuries. I’m interested in the throughline. That’s always what I’m interested in.
I’ve been in the stacks at Wilson Library—well, not in them, but benefiting from the people who work in them. Part of the problem is that we didn’t know what we had. We didn’t know because we didn’t educate ourselves about things that were set up in the 1940s and ’50s and ’60s and ’30s, even; we just took them for granted.
And now we’re being shown what we took for granted as they’re being dismantled one by one. How to fight that, as a musician, when we’ve been gutted? When all the creatives are being gutted and now we’re being silenced and put into fear, and we’re the ones who are not supposed to lead the charge but provide the soundtrack? I’m going to do what I can.
Follow Culture Editor Sarah Edwards on Bluesky or email sedwards@indyweek.com.
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