The Moth - Soundtrack to Your Life: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: April 28, 2026

In this hour, stories of how music moves us. Guitar lessons, band geeks, and record deals. This episode is hosted by Moth Director Chloe Salmon. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Alistair Bane learns to play the guitar from a punk musician. Hanif Abdurraqib finds solace in his hometown mall the summer after a family tragedy.  KB Brookins competes to become drum major of their high school's marching band.  Musician Rissi Palmer is offered a life-changing opportunity on her journey to become a country music star. Podcast # 975 To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Chloe Salmon. When my dad was in engineering school in England, he supported himself by taking on DJing gigs. He played weddings, events, parties, you name it. Over the years, he amassed a collection of almost 7,000 records, his prize possessions. When he graduated and got a job in the U.S., he had to leave almost all of them behind. But he started another collection that combined the few records he was able to bring with him with ones he picked up in his new life. Some nights, I'd be in my room and would suddenly hear music blasting from the record player in the basement.

That was the signal for all of us, myself, my brothers and my mom, to come running. And then, the dance party would begin. On those nights, my dad was our DJ. At the end of each tune, he'd stop dancing and pick the next one. And somehow, it was always the perfect song. In this episode, stories of music and how it moves us and grooves us through life. Our first story comes from Alistair Bain, who told it at a story slam in Denver, where we partner with public radio station KUNC.

There's Alistair, live at the Moth. So like a lot of queer kids in the 80s, I ended up on my own, pretty young, and there were some harsh parts to that, but there were some awesome parts like that Wednesday when me and my best friend Candy were in a dive bar in New York seeing 10 local bands for a dollar. Thanks to our new fake IDs. I was a little bit worried about mine that said I was a 40-year-old white man named Norman Schwartz. But this was a kind of bar where it was like, eh, we're all human. When the fourth band came home, the singer was like the second coolest person in the world next to David Bowie.

And the awesome part was the whole set. He kept looking right at me and candy. Now, because of our height difference, it's hard to tell if he was staring at her breast or my face. But when the set finished, he came to talk to us, it was my face he was liking. He ended up writing his name and number on my arm. And he said, I wrote that in Sharpie, so you can't forget to call me.

And Brandy was like, that's the most romantic thing. I think you guys are soulmates. So the next week, I met him in a different dive bar, and we started talking, and this bar was having a drink special, 25-cent shots of peppermint schnops. I didn't know. He had been on the street enough to be experienced in a lot of things, but peppermint schnaps, not so much. But Danny, the singer, ordered a dollar's worth, so I was like, okay, we're about the same wage, sure. I ordered a dollar's worth.

We kept talking, and then this thing happened, where the peppermint schnops hit my skeletal system, and it turned my bones into pudding, and I fell on the floor like in this big person puddle. I remember, like, Danny's saying, are you okay, being in a cab, maybe crawling on stage, And then it was morning, and I woke up, still fully clothed, and a big fluffy bed that weirdly smelled like Estillade or perfume. And I looked to see if Danny was there, but instead, it was a 70-year-old woman. And she was like, oh, you're awake, sweetie. I'm Danny's grandma.

He was so worried that you might choke on your own vomit in the night that he asked me to watch over you. And I was like, this is not punk rock. I got to get out of here. So I found my shoes. I'm like, okay, thanks. I was going to bolt for the door. But when I opened the door into the main room of the apartment,

there's Danny drinking coffee. He goes, good morning, Norman. My fake IDs sing right on the table in front of him. I sit down, he pours me a cup of coffee, and he says, ah, you know, it's really not cool. You lied about your age. I kind of nod. And he said, and you know, you were like passed out drunk,

and not every guy would be, you know, like decent about that. And he was being so nice that somehow it just embarrassed me more and pissed me off. And I was like, I'm not some stupid baby you have to protect him, lecture. I know people aren't decent. I've been knowing people aren't decent since I was 12. And you cut down wherever you want to me because it wouldn't matter. You'd just be one more jerk in the world.

and I'm nothing. I didn't mean that like just to sound punk rock somewhere there's some truth in it. And he saw it, and I saw his face. And then I just burst into these big, ugly, so on David Bowie, so uncool so, and I was seeing there crying, try to get my other shoe on. And I heard him say, you know what you're not to him for?

Do you want to learn to play guitar? I was like, what? He said, I don't know, like I always thought if I had a little brother, I could teach him to play guitar. And so over the next year, I'd go over to their apartment, hang out with him as grandma, learn chords. And while the rest of my life had a lot of chaos in it, that was this one, like, beautiful place

where there was this friend that really respected me and liked me just for me. He moved to LA the next year and we kept in touch by letters. But during those days of no internet's, no cell phones, it was easy to eventually lose touch. The last letter I got from him was when I was 24, I'd written to him to say I'd gone to rehab. I had three months clean and I really saw a future for myself. He wrote back in the last paragraph of the letter, he said, I hope you're proud of yourself.

I hope you make sure that the people in your life value you. And I hope you still play guitar. And yeah, Danny, yes to all three of those. Thank you. That was Alistair Bain. He lives in Denver, Colorado, and in addition to telling stories, he's a visual artist, quilter, and clothing designer.

In his spare time, he rehabilitates feral dogs from the reservation, which he says is a much more relaxing hobby than it might sound, as long as you don't mind a tiny bit of growling. He says that he met so many good friends like Danny through a shared love of goth and punk bands. The music scene was a place where he finally felt like he fit in and was appreciated for being himself. Our next story was told by Hamif Dirkieh,

at a main stage in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where we were presented by Michigan Public. Here's me. So I grew up on the east side of Columbus, Ohio, and if you were a teenager in the 90s, on the east side of Columbus, Ohio, the place to be was Eastland Mall. This was specifically true in the summertime. And for me, in the summer of 1997, it was an especially unique, massive summer because it was a summer between middle school and high school.

What this meant was a couple things, but the most primary thing was that my friend, who I had gone through middle school with, we were all kind of scattering Thai schools all around the city. So we weren't going to have that kind of affection driven by proximity that we'd been sheltered with for our sixth, seventh, and eighth grade years. And so the plan was we were going to have one last joyful, freeing summer together at the mall almost every single day. The best way to get to the mall from where I lived was to take the number 92 bus. but the better way to get to the mall from where I lived was to sneak on to the number 92 bus, which you could do if someone in your party

had a little bit of change in their pocket that they could fumble with while talking to the driver at the front door so that everyone who was with them could sneak on to the back door while the driver was distracted. And this was vital for us because we were from poor working class neighborhoods

and our parents would leave us alone for the bulk of the days. And so the mall effectively became a kind of parent to us. And so the bus would drop you off at the front door and then you would walk straight to the food court, of course. The food court which at least at that time in my life also operated as a kind of medieval court as well. The things most commonly on trial there were the blossoming or dying out of crushes

or scores from a couple days ago that needed to be settled in front of the sabarrows or whatnot. So for example, if I had maybe gotten a little bit too exuberant in my trash talk on the basketball court on Friday right before the street lights came on, I knew that on Saturday I would have to answer for that in some capacity or the other. This was also kind of the place where the mall, it was the beating heart of the mall. So the stores that surrounded it were the coolest stores, the foot lockers or the Clairs or the champ sports. But it was also kind of the place where we went to be our freest, most joyful versions

of ourselves. had like a dollar, you'd get a slice of pizza and a cup that you settled for water, but you could fill with something else. The real and most ideal versions of adolescence that I loved are the parts of it where new freedoms are introduced and maybe some other ones are taken away. And for me, at 13 years old, the highest point of freedom was going to high school because I'm the youngest of four, so I had three older siblings, so I'd already watched take that joyous journey through the halls of high schools and come home like new people.

And so I thought that for me it was going to be this really glorious summer, followed by a fall of like clandestine phone calls with girls and staying out super late and having cool friends who smoked secretly and all these kinds of things. As long as I got through this nearly perfect summer, but in the beginning of June in the first couple of weeks, my mother died unexpectedly and suddenly. And it's hard to perhaps explain what happens next to someone who is not from a very very very much. from a very intensely caring area or a neighborhood that's focused on community care. But my house became kind of flooded with people. It was this real claustrophobic moment that even in my gratitude for the presence of others,

I was still feeling really closed in by the grief. People would come and bring meals three times a day and people would ask me how I was doing when I was walking on the street. And the shopkeeper at the corner store would give me free candy, which was cool at first. but then it became a little less cool, and then it became kind of embarrassing.

As a teenager, I wanted nothing more than to kind of vanish. I was very content being a supporting cast member in the film of my own life. When you lose a parent, however, you kind of become the kid with a dead mom and then nothing else. There's no way to kind of sink into anonymity beyond that. You're kind of drifting from one moment of darkness

to another moment of darkness seeking a light through which you can reformat yourself. The mall was really useful in this way because no one really asked about or cared about my dead mother at the mall, not because they were cruel, but because no one really went to the mall seeking heartbreak or no one went to the mall to feel pain. Heartbreak and pain happened at the mall, of course.

Breakups occurred or a shoe you wanted sold out before you get to it. But no one really arrived at the mall seeking pain And specifically, no one could ever focus on one single person because the mall, in the ecosystem of it, it was pulled forward by a focus on the collective. And so spending too much time on one person's woes or pleasures or whatever else stopped you from doing the things

you would normally do at the mall. Talk to girls, try to get girls' stone numbers. In my case, trying to get girls' stone numbers unfortunately using my mother's death as a tool to get in, but it never really worked that way. I hope I'm forgiven. And this was a real respite for me because at home, it was very silent. In the weeks and months after my mother died, my mother was a very loud woman, so she laughed loudly.

She moved around the house loudly. Her sounds kind of announced her presence before she entered a room. And in the moments after she died, my house kind of grew increasingly silent until the echoes of those things faded away completely. But in the mall, it was just loud all the time. There was a cacophony of sounds. My friends and I would sit on tables and like bang out beats on the wooden tables and then stomp our feet on the chairs to kind of make a little symphony and then the security guard would sometimes come over and he would try to wrap along to the beat we were making and then

the raps would always be bad and then we'd get to make fun of them and he would sulk away. In my favorite place in the mall, there was a balcony above the food court where you could have a perfect vantage point of not only the food court itself but all those cool surrounding stores and the mall's busiest days, which usually were in mid-July, you could just watch like a sitcom unfold. It was, for me, like sinking back into being a supporting character in the movie of my own life. But summer comes to an end,

and I specifically dislike the feeling of summer coming to an end. Even now, I grumble as August kind of turns over into, like, those awful, slow, long, hot days. As a teenager, specifically in the night, 1997, I really hated this feeling because it was so visceral. The signs for back to school were kind of coming up. My friends were vanishing to do back to school shopping, and I was often alone wandering them all, which is less romantic when you are doing it alone, to be sure.

But another thing had happened within me was that I was no longer excited about going to high school. It no longer felt like a freeing thing to me because in those first couple weeks of August, my house had started to get flooded with letters and phone calls, administrators and teachers and counselors at my new high school were calling to ask what they could do, how they could help. They had all heard my mother died, and they were wondering how they could make my first year at high school feel a lot more peaceful. This was well-meaning, as well-meaning as people bringing casseroles and whatnot to my house, but it was also a reminder that I was getting ready to enter a space wherein I would be the kid with the dead mom for four more years of my life and nothing else. And so towards the end of summer, I used to think that when the mall closed,

If I just stayed really quiet and found a corner, I could maybe live there forever. This, of course, could have never worked, but when you're a kid, you're thinking, I could find a really quiet space and no one will know I'm here. In late August, maybe a week or so before school started, there was this day that was very hot,

and it was also very gray. In Columbus, there's these storms that happen in the summer that are really quick, maybe five, ten minutes, but they're also really violent. And the aftermath of them has these effects that last for hours or sometimes even days. And this was one of those days. And the mall was half full because the people were getting ready to go back to school. But I was in my spot, the balcony above the food court with my one slice of pizza and my cup that should have had water in it, but definitely had sprite.

And I was just watching these small movements unfold. And then the blackout happened. And it didn't happen all at once. I remember a light above my head flickered and then went off. and as I was gathering myself, figuring out what happened, all the lights in a row began to flick off in the mall. And because this was a mall in a poor area

and people in it were working in a poor area, we were all like, well, you know, lights go out all the time. Bills don't get paid, we get it. And so what happened was this really calm moment where a foot locker employee went in the back and grabbed a flashlight and a couple other employees of other stores followed suit, like the CD store guy

and the Claire's employee. So there's these flashlights waving around in the darkness. And then someone says, oh, I got batteries for a boombox, and then someone gets a boombox, and then the batteries go in the boombox, and then someone says, I have CDs in my car. And so someone follows another someone out the door to go to the parking lot, which by that point is soaked by the torrential storm, and they reemerge in the mall with a book of CDs tucked underneath one of their shirts. The CD book, thankfully, mercifully dry, they, less so. for their sacrifice, they were granted these really massive jerseys from the Jersey store.

This was 1997, after all. And the flashlights were put in a little circle at the center of the mall. And so maybe five or six flashlights were all beaming up into the same spot. And it was this one magnificent light that looked like it might break through the ceiling itself and signal outward to let people know that we were in here and alive. and someone put on some music and a dance party started a very impromptu small dance party of 20 to 30 people

folks who worked on the second floor of them all running down the non-working escalators very gingerly to join the dance circle and me alone up in my balcony where no one knew I was or no one could see me I'd found my perfect hiding spot and I watched this dance party slowly unfold and I watched the light push itself into the ceiling

and it was a wonderful reminder that as we kind of move through these series of darknesses, there is a light pushing us up higher wherein we can reform ourselves and become better than we were before. And I remember the rain stopped and I walked back to the bus stop,

and I still did not want to go to high school, to be clear. But I knew that when I did go to high school, I had a blueprint for how to make myself a newer, better survivor of a thing. Thank you. That was Hanif of Duraki. He's a writer from the east side of Columbus, Ohio. I could see why the respite the mall provided

the mall provided made such an impression on Hanif during a turbulent time in his life. When we first started talking about what would eventually become this story, Hanif came to the table with the idea of a love letter to his hometown mall. I think he succeeded. In a moment, a teenager battles to become their high school marching band's drum major. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon.

In this episode, Stories of Music. Next up is KB Brookins, who brings us to a proving ground for many teenagers, high school marching band. They shared this story at a main stage in Iowa City, where we were presented by the Englerth Theater. Here's KB. At 17, I wanted to be famous. All the bright lights and reverence,

all the world's eyes on me. I wanted to be so accessible. that when you were in my presence, you felt blessed, bedazzled, happy. So really I wanted everyone to like me, and I'd do anything because of it. By 17, I was known as the weird lesbian band geek, so I desperately needed to change if I was to have a shot at fame. The summer before my senior year, I made a list of ways I could become popular, inventing something, smoking weed, lying,

lying and saying I was a celebrity's bastard child. Eventually I landed on something reasonable. I was in marching band and tryouts had just opened for drum major. And to be drum major at my high school was to be top of the food chain of all the arts programs. Drum majors were leaders. They were second in command to the band director and the center of every formation that the band and the cheerleaders and the dancers and everyone looked toward is those Friday night lights flashed down. So why not try it?

In June of 2012, I alongside three hopefuls became a drum major candidate, or DMC. When I declared my candidacy, my band director was surprised. Mr. P was not the biggest fan of mine because I was in charge of the drum line,

and the drum line was known for lollygagging. In our defense, the band director had a monotone voice. But his disdain toward me felt rooted in something else, though. For example, when I brought my girlfriend to the band hall, he'd say that's forbidden, though boys brought their girls in all the time. I could never please him, so I thought that by earning my spot as drum major,

I'd finally pleased the both of us. And then on to my competition. So there were three spots available, and two out of three were four shoe-ins. So my actual competition was Tyrone, the dancer. He was the best dancer in school, and I was the biggest and the only girl, and Mr. P. hated me.

So I had a lot to prove. In three months, I had years worth of growing to do. So then we go to band camp. My 5.30 a.m. alarm clock hit me like a truck. I had never been up that early, let alone that early to go work out. It was 6 a.m., and all the DMCs had to be at the band hall at 6 a.m. to work out before the rest of the band got there. I remember we had to do our push-ups in unison and do this silly little chant that went like this.

I like it. I love it. I want more of it. Make it hurt. Drum majors make it hurt. Cringe. It was bad. So, as you can imagine, I was exhausted. That was one push-up, by the way. And at 7 a.m., the band members started trickling in, and I already heard them whispering about us DMCs. Germain can do it.

He's the most ripped teenager ever. KD, he's a band favorite. Tyrone dance better than everybody. Nobody was betting on me. Nobody saw it for the queer reject, so I gained a chip on my shoulder. I told myself that whole day, even if you want to quit, don't. So I worked out from 6 a.m. to 4 p.m. I taught the drumline new cadences.

I did drum major twirls and worked out some more. I got right next to people who were ready to give up on their exercises, the same people that were counting me out and told them, you got this. At 4 p.m., all of us DMCs were told. that we had to make up a dance for our first half-time routine. Though we were each other's competition, we had to do this together. So the only person that delighted in this task naturally was Tyrone the dancer, and we were all exhausted, so we kind of just let him make up the whole thing.

At 455, all of us DMCs got into a huddle with Mr. P, and he showed us this dance. Two minutes, he had multiple flips and twirls and two instances where we had to do, the split and come right back up within two seconds. Abnormal. And before any of us could protest, Mr. P was like, great, I love it, let's do it. I was flabbergasted. Who did he think we were? Backup dancers for Bobby Brown. Regardless, we learned the dance, and by the end of that summer, we moved as if we were mirrors of each other. Like, all of it was muscle memory. And that same time frame I went from clown to serious, out of shape to able to run a mile, two left feet to maybe being able to keep up with 80s, Bobby Brown. Day after day, less and less

people, including Mr. P, could count me out. And then came game day. After our first game, it was known that the three drum majors would be chosen. And from the time that school started to the time that we got out from the game, everyone was comparing me entire. On paper, T.B.H, this was an easy decision. I proved myself able to grow, and Tyrone was very convinced that all he had to do was dance. I killed it on the field, all my high kicks and dances. But both of us were asked to stay back by Mr. P. after the game. I want to see each of you dance, he said. And we worked. We exercised for 30 minutes straight, no breaks and no looking at each other. And then after that, we did our dance routine three times in a row on separate corners of the band hall. After the first routine, I gave myself carpet burn on that, like, coarse spit-filled band carpet. Still, I continued. After the second time, I heard, like, a crack when I did the split.

But still, I persisted. After the third time, I was honestly surprised that I even got enough for. from the split. Sweat was coating all of my clothes. I asked simply, why are we doing this? Why don't you grade us on knowledge or ability to lead? And it was frowned upon to ever question Mr. P. If you can't do this, then let me know.

Both of y'all, 40 more push-ups, he said. So then we got to bobbing our heads up and down and doing our chant in unison. I like it, I love it, I want more of it, make it hurt, drum, major, may get hurt. Then we did the dance routine again, and it sounded like the score of a scary movie at this point.

And when I got down to do the split, I heard my own body thump against the ground, so hollow, so hard, so at the end of its whims. I stayed down for a beat, and all I could hear was my own heartbeat ringing in my ears. This is what happens when you're out of shape, said Mr. P. Though he was like two of me. Not a small man.

Regardless, I showed that whole summer that size does not equal fitness. Anybody would be exhausted after multiple rounds of this. He asked me if I could continue, and I tried to catch my breath to say yes, but I guess I took too long because he quickly crowned Tyrone the third spot for a drum major. All of a sudden, I saw nothing but white. To my left were three drum major outfits. waiting on people to fill them. To my right were the white tips of drumsticks.

Up top was a white popcorn ceiling where I looked as tears newly streamed down my face. I left the band hall, and everyone knew what my somber demeanor meant. Devastation colored my face as I got in the car with my mom and she hugged me in silent recognition. So after that, I took a break from band

just to make sense of everything that had happened. Why did I not get picked? why was I never good enough for Mr. P? Why did I spend my whole senior summer on this fruitless endeavor? So after crying, for six days straight, playing a godless amount of Frank Ocean, I came to the realization that I never would have been picked

for a drum major. Tyrone being picked over me had less to do with my ability to dance, lead, or workout, and more to do with who I was. If I would have gotten it, I would have been the first queer, first girl, first big drum major, within a 500 mile radius. Nobody was ready for that. So Mr. P intentionally pushed me until I almost collapsed.

And after the legally appropriate amount of soaking, I ended up going back to band. All my friends were there, and regardless of what Mr. P might say, I knew eventually I'd be a winner. So no, I didn't become the drum major of my high school band, but I did seven months after that big and public rejection, get a scholarship to college, where I learned that I was not a weird thank you.

I learned in college that I was not a weird lesbian band geek. Instead, I was a trans writer. I persisted and I got connected with people who see the value and the things that I contribute. And even today, I keep going because I want the next KB who dares to want to be famous. or in more honest terms to want to be seen, to know that I have them, to know that there are people ready to celebrate their gifts.

And in the end, I'm glad I waited on the acceptance that was waiting on me. I am my own drum major twirling and spitting and split. Well, I'm not splitting. I can't do that no more. But I am crouching down next to myself on days that feel is hard. as those days in band camp, and telling myself happily, you got this. Thank you. K.B. Brookens is the author of three books, including Pretty, winner of the Lambda

Literary Award in Transgender Nonfiction. I asked KB if there was a specific song from Channel Orange that felt like an anthem for that time in their life. They said that Super Rich Kids was a standout. You can find out more about their books and how to keep up with them at The Moth. Up next, a woman sets her sights on country music stardom. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Hi, my name is Lloyd Lockridge, and I'm the host of a new podcast from Odyssey called Family Lour.

In this podcast, I'm going to have people on. to tell unusual and sometimes far-fetched stories about their families. I've heard my whole life that she invented the margarita. And then we're going to investigate those stories and find out how much of it is true. He gets a patent one month before the Wright brothers. Oh my God. Please follow and listen to Family Lore, an Odyssey podcast, available now on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your shows.

This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Chloe Salmon. Our final story takes us to the world of country music. Risi Palmer told it at a main stage at the auditorium theater in Chicago, where we were presented by public radio station WBEZ. Here's Risi, live at the mosque. I just want to grab it. Okay.

I have loved country music my entire life. Every Saturday when I was a little girl, my mom and I would clean our house, listening to Patsy Klein, Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, as well as Aretha Franklin, Shaka Khan, and Whitney Houston because we're black. It was the stories that I fell in love with. These stories reminded me of times where I spent with my family in Georgia. They reminded me of church.

And after my mother passed away when I was seven, it reminded me of her. And so when I was four years old, I decided that I was going to make my own country songs. And so with my Fisher-Price tape player and a pack of cassettes, I set out to make my first album. And after that, I was hooked. When I turned 17, I signed with my first managers, who were both black women as well.

And at 19, I signed my first publishing deal in Nashville. And I just knew that I was going to be the first black superstar of country music, the first black female country star. of country music. And so my very first meeting that I ever had in Nashville was sight unseen. You see, the producer thought that it would be a good idea

for them to go into the office and play the music without them seeing a picture of me, because they wanted an honest, unbiased opinion of the music. And so there I was sitting in a chair outside of the office and everyone's walked by me just completely oblivious, to the fact that I was there. And I could hear everything that was going on in the office. Oh, what a beautiful voice.

Oh, love these songs. I get ready to go in the office, chaos ensues. What are we going to find songs for someone like her? How are we going to find an audience for someone like her? This is the way it went for years in Nashville. I met with every major label in town, Everybody was super curious, sort of interested, but nobody wanted to take the leap. And for a while, I started to feel like it was my fault.

And so my managers and I decided that we needed to find other ways to get my name out there. And so I used to sing commercials for like Barbie and things like that. And then I would busk. And then finally, I would do a little modeling on the side sometimes. and a casting director saw my picture and thought that I would be perfect for a Philly cream cheese commercial. And so I packed my bags and my guitar

and we were flying to L.A. So at the time I lived in Atlanta and anybody that's ever been to Atlanta and if you've ever been to Hartsville-Jackson International Airport, it's basically the club. There are celebrities and athletes just walking around, with impunity. And so a bonnet and sweatpants was absolutely not going to do. And so just imagine

little 20-year-old me and my little mini dress and my knee-high boots, face beat for the gods. And so I had my guitar on my back and I had a bunch of CDs in my back pocket. And I'm walking down the concourse and I see out of the corner of my eye a man impeccably dressed in a beautiful suit with a fedora and a pair of sunglasses. And I immediately knew who he was. It was Terry Lewis of Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam, aka Flight Time. The people that brought us Janet Jackson,

Human League, worked with Prince. And I said to myself, Recy, girl, this is your moment. But I had to be cool. And so I'm walking, and I just smile and nod, and I keep going. And I hear a voice say, excuse me, you play that thing?

Why, yes, I do. What's your name? What kind of music do you play? My name is Risi Palmer, and I'm a country singer. He pauses and pushes the sunglasses down on his nose, and he says, you're a country singer. And I said, yes, sir. Here's a CD.

And he takes the CD, and he looks at it, and he goes, huh, country. Okay, I'm going to listen to this. Nice to meet you, Risi Palmer. And I said, nice to meet you, Terry Lewis. And he goes his way and I go mine. By the time we landed in Los Angeles, there was a voice message from his assistant. He listened to the CD, loved it, and wanted to have a meeting.

So he set the meeting up two days after my audition. So in the meeting, I walk in and he's just as cool and charismatic and just nice as he seems on TV. The music nerd in him recognized the music nerd in me. And so we talked about artists. We talked about songs that we loved. We talked about people that they worked with. He loved the fact that I loved country music, that I knew the artist, I knew the history,

and then I wrote my own songs. It was the first time that I ever was in a meeting that I felt like I wasn't the problem, that I was seen and that I was understood. And I knew I said to myself, something's going to come up this. And it did. The next morning, they called me,

and said they would like to offer me a record deal. So I went home to Atlanta, Philly cream cheeseless, but I had a record deal. And so as soon as I got home, I called everybody that I knew and everybody was so excited, so proud. Y'all, I even went and looked at a Mercedes because I just knew I was going to be rich. I was delusional for about a week.

And then we started the negotiation. And it became extremely clear that although they loved the fact that I loved country music and I wanted to do this and this had been my dream, they saw me more as Janet Jackson, choreography, abs of steel, and Les Reesey with her guitar. And that was a problem. Because you see, I'd been doing this for so long and I'd been wanting to do this for so long. But I was also broke. And there were no other record deals on the table for me. And so I had a big dilemma.

And I thought about it, and I prayed about it, and I cried about it. But I finally came to the conclusion, I can't take this deal. I remember the day like it was yesterday, me and my managers sitting together on speakerphone with our attorney. He could absolutely not believe that I was not going to take the deal. Reese, you realize that there are no other deals like this on the table for you. So if you walk away from this, this may be it. I took a deep breath, and I said, yes, I understand that, but I can't take the deal. Okay.

And so we hung up the phone, and I immediately burst into tears, not sure if I made the right decision or not. A few minutes later, the phone rang, and it was Terry and Jimmy. And they were asking if it was true. and I said, yes, it is true, and I am so grateful for you offering me the deal, but I can't take it. And so they said they understood and wished me well, and that was it. It would be seven years before I signed my first record deal. But I got to put out my first album in 2007, and I became the first black woman in 19 years to be on the Billboard Country Charts. I also got to play the Grand Ole Opry.

I got to talk to Maya Angelou on her radio show. I also received hate mail. I also was told, don't bring her to my radio station because I will never play a black woman. I was also almost escorted off of a stage where a security guard thought that I was trespassing because I couldn't possibly be the person on the marquee. There were times where my record company was arguing about my hair or about who my love interest should be in my videos, whether it should be a white man or a black man, I just wanted Reggie Bush.

And after a while, I just got tired of fighting. And so after two very amazing years, I decided to walk away. And I left that record deal. I left Nashville. I moved to North Carolina. I got married and I had babies. I continued to make music independently and perform, and I always wondered in the back of my mind,

what would have happened had I signed that deal? And then 2020 happened. Not only was it a pandemic, but it was also a time of racial reckoning, and we were dealing with the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd. And suddenly everybody's mind was, on justice and equity

and country music was no different. And so I got tired of sitting and seeing all these think pieces that reduce the black contribution to country music to just five artists when I knew that wasn't true. And so I decided to do something about it and I started

my radio show, Cull me Country Radio with Resey Palmer. It comes on every Saturday on Apple Music. And I decided that this was a place where people could come and have the conversation that I was not allowed to have at the beginning of my career. People come on and talk about what happens to them

and just honest about how they feel about this music and about their place in this music. And it was in doing the show that I found my voice. I found my purpose. And in 2023, I was nominated and won the Songwriters of North America Warrior Award for my work, Color Me Country and my nonprofit, the Color Me Country Artists Grant Fund that gives funds

to artists of color within Country and Americana music. And so, thank you. And so I decided to take my then 12-year-old daughter, who is not impressed with anything that I do ever. And when we got to the awards, y'all, it was a star-studded event. Everybody was there, including J.C. Chazé, who I had a very big crush on him in sync, and he is still fine. But anyway, we sat down at the table, and we started having dinner and just looking around, and I see out of the corner of my eye, two men impeccably dressed with a fedora and sunglasses. It was Terry and Jimmy.

And I looked over it, and they caught my eye, and I caught theirs, and we smiled at each other and nodded. and went through the rest of the awards ceremony. So immediately afterwards, I made a bee line with my daughter over to the table, and I tapped Terry on the shoulder, and I said, we have to stop meeting like this. And he turned around and said, girl, we got to meet like this all the time. And he gave me a big hug, and then Jimmy came over and gave me a big hug,

and he said, congratulations, we are so proud of you. And I just stopped for a second, and I said, you have no idea how much it means to me that you even still remember me. I said, I wanted to tell you this, and I've always wanted to tell you this, but you have no idea what that deal meant to me. You gave me a deal at a time when I was discouraged

and I was doubting myself, and I wasn't even sure that I should continue to do this. And I said, and I just want to thank you, even though I didn't take the deal, thank you for believing in me. And Jimmy looked at me and he said, think of you as the great one that got away. And he said, look at all the things that you have accomplished without taking that deal. He was like, you couldn't have done it if you had, so you made the right choice. I hugged them, and we said our goodbyes, and my daughter and I

went back up to our hotel room in silence. Every once in a while, she would just look over at me, and I'd look at her, and I'm like, what? And she goes, they really offer them. you a record deal? Yes, baby, they did. And you didn't take it? No, baby, I didn't. Do you know how rich we could be right now? I didn't have the heart to tell her

that if I was rich, that I would be childless and living on an island with Lenny Kravitz. I did the mother thing. And I said, yes, baby, I have considered what our life would be and I would still choose this one. Thank you so much. That was Risi Palmer.

She lives in Durham, North Carolina, and says she's many things in addition to being a singer-songwriter, including Child of God, Grace and Nova's mom, maker of sandwiches, proud Durhamite, and a lover of shoes, and Lenny Kravitz. She also runs the Color Me Country Foundation, a nonprofit that gives grants to artists of color in country, Americana, and Roots music. I'll be honest. When I started working on this story with Risi, I was surprised to learn about the, a rich tradition of black people in country music. Where I grew up, country music was big, and the message I took from it was that it didn't look like me and it wasn't for me. I should have known that wasn't the whole story, and I'm glad to have learned otherwise from Risi and her show, Color Me Country. When I asked her what she'd say to me and other black folks and people of color who think the genre isn't for them, she said, don't let the

decades-long branding fool you. This music belongs to us as much as it belongs to anyone. else. We don't have to be beholden to anyone else's criteria for what country is. We are inherently baked into the standard. On that note, Reesie's pick for a song that could be the soundtrack to her story, one of her own, still here. Here's a bit for you to listen to. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. Thank you to our storytellers for sharing with us and to you for listening. We hope you'll join this next time, and I hope you find the perfect soundtrack for whatever this week brings you. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Chloe Salmon, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate producer Emily Couch.

The Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Clucce, Sarah Austin Janice, Jennifer Hickson, Jordanale, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tate. Sousanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Urania. Moss Stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound and Risi Palmer. Podcast music, production support from Davy Sumner. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis.

For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, and to learn all about The Moth, go to our website, the moth.org.