Joanna Pocock’s second full-length book, Greyhound, tells the story of a single journey made and remade. In 2006, after the death of her sister and several miscarriages, Pocock travelled 2,300 miles from Detroit to Los Angeles by bus. She replicates the trip seventeen years later, curious to see how the States have changed and hoping to catch sight of her former self: “A ragged person running away from loss.”

Robert Plant is magnificently well-equipped to shine as a consummate musical survivor: not only has his voice kept its magic, with a range from sensual caress to ecstatic howl, but he’s deeply rooted in timeless music, Scots-Irish and American folk as well as the country blues.

Americana rocker Josh Ritter can write a beautiful song. He’s one of America’s premier wordsmiths of the form. He’s also written two novels, which is no surprise; many of his best songs have narrative edge. He’s equally capable at the music, which he calls “cosmic country”. At his best, it has qualities that elevate the human spirit.

A sticker on the cover of American Dust is says it’s “an ode to the beauty of the American Southwest,” specifically the High Desert area within the wider setting of California's Mojave Desert. North-East of Los Angeles, this region contrasts with the city’s urban and suburban sprawl by incorporating scattered settlements.

This is a weird one: I do try and stay on top of pop culture, but for several years, Ethel Cain completely passed me by. You’d think I would have noticed a gothic bisexual Baptist trans woman achieving great enough success to be championed by Barack Obama, but no – until streaming algorithms put me on to her record Perverts, released earlier this year. 

What a great album – and what a great story to lift the heart in these fetid times. A story that crosses oceans and decades and brings together a Canadian singer-songwriter for once worthy of the label “legend” and a bunch of Bob Harris Emerging Artist Award-winners with a clutch of well-received albums under their belt.

I first had a conversation about Benson Boone without realizing it was him we were talking about. It went something like: “Did you see that horrifying moment at Coachella when Brian May got onstage with some American guy, and no one knew who he was? HOW DO THEY NOT KNOW?!” We berated youth culture, blinked – and suddenly, Boone had released a second album.

If you walked into a bar in the US, say in one of the southern states, and Bonnie Raitt and her band were playing, you’d have the best night of your life. They are the kind of purely American rhythm’n’blues experience, tempered with FM radio balladry, that somehow works best, and perhaps only, on those endless highways and dusty plains.

In those seemingly long-ago times of loneliness and lockdown, artists around the world invited us into their kitchens and living rooms as they sang into their webcams and iPhones, some more successfully than others, doing what they needed to do. The most successful, the one I truly looked forward to, was Mary Chapin Carpenter who, every week, welcomed us into her sun-dappled Virginia farmhouse for a chat and a song.

Lucy Farrell, one quarter of the brilliant, award-winning Anglo-Scots band Furrow Collective, and a solo artist whose stunning debut album, We Are Only Sound, was released in 2023, divides her time between the UK – she’s a native of Kent – and Prince Edward Island, a musically rich parcel of land off Canada’s eastern seaboard. The island is home to the other half of this sublime folk-acoustic double bill, Juno Award-winning songwriter Catherine MacLellan.