Although Indigo Girls Amy Ray and Emily Saliers met in elementary school, they didn’t start playing music together until they became teenagers. Even at that young age, their differences—both musically and temperamentally—were readily evident. The daughter of an Atlanta radiologist and a homemaker, Ray was the more extroverted of the two—not surprisingly, she gravitated toward post-punk bands like the Replacements. Saliers, on the other hand, was quiet and studious (her parents were professors), and her tastes ran accordingly toward singer-songwriters such as Joni Mitchell.
When the two joined forces with their acoustic guitars, they quickly discovered that their differences in personality and musical preferences coalesced into something musically magical that has lasted for over 25 years.
In addition to her work with the Indigo Girls, Ray has also released four solo albums; launched and run the independent and not-for-profit Daemon Records for 21 years, giving dozens of artists a leg up and the chance to be heard; co-founded Honor the Earth to create awareness and support for Native American issues; and is a tireless and hands-on supporter of countless political and social causes such as women’s rights, gay rights, gun control, anti-death penalty work and environmental protection. And that’s just for starters.
Who did you listen to while you were growing up?
Mostly I listened to albums my sister had: The Jefferson Airplane and Strawberry Alarm Clock … a lot of ‘60s and early ‘70s psychedelic music. I also liked Neil Young, James Taylor, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. But then at a certain point I heard Patti Smith, the Replacements, Lloyd Cole and The Commotions, Aztec Camera, The Clash, and the Sex Pistols. When I heard those types of bands, everything turned inside-out for me in a way that was really good. It was a feeling of, “Oh, this is what I’ve been waiting for.” The post-punk bands really liberated me in a sense. Whenever I go back to things I listened to before then, I just can’t even relate to it. There are a few exceptions, like James Taylor and Neil Young, who I can still relate to as a writer. But as Emily and I started doing more original music, that’s when the differences in our influences started to become more obvious.
Throughout the performance, Jonatha’s songs form a foundation and continuity that allow the story to flow seamlessly, perfectly, timelessly. Backed by cellist Rebecca Arons and guitarist Sean Driscoll, Jonatha sits at the piano and delivers gems like the introductory “Are You Getting This Down” and “My Misery,” a song that describes a martyr-like commitment and the loneliness felt: My misery doesn’t like company / I can do this by myself / I can ride the undertow / I don’t need your help. At other times she picks up her guitar and lets her trademark dissonant chords hang in the air as she speaks, as she does during the exquisite “How Far You’ll Go For Love.”
The song that is the pinnacle, though, is “Time”— a meditation delivered in a lonely spotlight with only a kalimba to accompany her. With it Jonatha marks the turning point in the story as her mother’s decline seemed to be in freefall and hospice was brought in. It’s a powerfully simple yet profound expression of not being as ready for the ending as she thought, asking for a little more time.
Has your involvement in these issues tended to make you more optimistic or more pessimistic?
I feel optimistic. I feel inspired by certain groups we work with. We funded a group that’s part of the Zapatistas—in Chiapas, Mexico—and just seeing their discipline, and how they’ve become politicized within their own communities, and how they’ve done things for themselves [is] extremely inspiring. They’re so big-hearted and so hopeful. And they have so much grace, which is really hard to find. Seeing that in someone else can teach you a lot, and then you can come back to your own struggle and bring what you’ve learned to the gay community or to environmental issues.
In what ways has your association with various types of cultures had an impact on your music?
It’s certainly put us in touch with different types of music. But also, in a way that’s obvious to me but probably subtle to some people, it’s given us a sense of freedom. We’ve seen a lot of people who would risk their lives for what they’re fighting for and who have so much less than us. And that triumph of the spirit makes you look at your own music kind of differently. You start taking more risks, and you get a sort of feeling of, “What have I got to lose in view of the larger scope of the world?” You stop being so precious.
—Interview by Russell Hall, excerpted from Performing Songwriter Issue 31
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