Deep Voices 133: Hayden Pedigo

“I’m writing these songs as bread crumbs that I’m dropping on the trail of life”

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For this edition of Deep Voices, my good friend, writer Alex Frank, interviewed the guitar player Hayden Pedigo. I wrote about Pedigo in Deep Voices 109, about the dazzling open landscape of his instrumental songs. Pedigo’s new album, I’ll Be Waving As You Drive Away, is lovely, wistful music. In their conversation, Alex and Pedigo talk about the beauty and the sadness in the songs. Pedigo also made the above accompanying playlist. Some music echoes his own in its own stately beauty, and some is odd, some is poppy, some is shy, and some is sweet. Thanks to both Alex and Hayden - the interview is below.

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Photo by D’Angelo Isaac

I first interviewed Hayden Pedigo about 11 years ago, when he was all of 19, an old soul conjuring whispering guitar instrumentals from his hometown of Amarillo, Texas. In the time since, the essential mystique and modus of his music hasn’t radically changed: there’s the thoughtful, somber, spare plucking of acoustic notes, with an overall country-and-Western sound that’s quiet in its confidence and curious in the way that it’s simultaneously muscular and modest. He has sprinkled different seasonings along the way, adding ambient electronic effects on one album and organs and vocal interludes on another. But the core Pedigo sound remains unshaken — two hands on six or 12 strings.

Still, Pedigo, has never seemed to repeat himself — he uses the straightforwardness of the guitar as a kind of central road map, but he hasn’t been afraid to veer off and take melodically meandering paths. A new album, I’ll Be Waving As You Drive Away, has a weariness — he’s not 19 anymore! — that feels timestamped, which he confirms is true by telling me that creating these songs has been a way of processing some palpable and difficult emotions in his recent life. “Smoked” feels almost mournful, and there’s the transcendent standout, “Houndstooth,” that features violins and sounds like a backing track for the part of a movie where the hero must say goodbye to his loved ones to accomplish a gallant task and save the day.

To risk using a country music cliche, I’ll Be Waving As You Drive Away is an album that wraps around you like worn-in denim, which is another way of saying that — just like the rest of his work these past ten years — it is timeless in all the right ways.

How’d you get into guitar?
My parents got me an acoustic guitar from a store called Hastings. It was like a video/media/CD store that had some cheaper acoustic guitars, and then the next year, I got an electric guitar for Christmas.

Did you get good fast?
Yes and no. I was very eager to learn, and I learned quick, but I plateaued really quick. I wanted to shred when I was 11 or 12, but my left hand just couldn't move fast enough. Luckily, a year or two later, I found John Fahey and Ry Cooder, and I realized that speed actually didn't matter, and you could do a lot more with your right hand — picking — if you couldn't move your left hand fast. So I had a natural knack for guitar, but I was not going to be some shredding prodigy.

What’s it feel like — physically — to play?
It's painful, especially when I play my electric. I'm very thin and bony, and there's a lot of shows where the next morning I have a bruise on my chest from leaning too hard into the guitar. When I'm playing solo, because of my nerves, I'm hanging onto the guitar for dear life, and I'm holding it as close to me as possible, like it's gonna fly away or something.

Do you always get that bad of nerves when you play live?
Yeah, that kept me from playing live for a long time.

You were really so nervous that you just couldn't do it?
I mean, I had really bad shaking hands, and it's a miracle I'm able to play live now. The first tour I did opening for Jenny Lewis could have gone so bad. I remember there was one show in Cleveland where I thought I was gonna have to get up and walk off stage on the first song, because my nerves were so bad. My hands were shaking, and I literally was thinking, like, How do I explain to Jenny that I just ditched my set?

But I closed my eyes and pushed through it. I remember that set being really bad. I nearly lost it on stage, but luckily, I didn't, and it was at that moment I realized that, like, I'm not going to walk off stage. I refuse. It's important to be willing to look dumb for the sake of doing it. I was like, I don't care if people see my hands shaking. I refuse to walk.

A lot of musicians feel a need to reinvent with each new album, but you’ve been pretty consistent over the years. Is that true for this album too?
I think I'm not really ever interested in reinvention. In a weird way I've been kind of moving backwards. I've recently become obsessed with the idea of not getting too caught up on how something's received in the moment, and realizing that, if you make something good, I like to believe that it will eventually get where it needs to be, even if it takes a little longer. In the modern day, the music industry is so geared around narrative. Each record needs to have a dramatic story to get some kind of coverage, which I think can be kind of a dangerous thing, because it's kind of saying it's not enough to make a great record — you need to have some intricate life story to go along with that thing.

I don't have dramatic reinventions at this point, because my albums are written based on the life I've been living, and it's a slow and gradual change. And if you're living a life of slow and gradual change, you can't really have some kind of dramatic reinvention.

Particularly when you’re making songs without lyrics, it’s hard to have a “narrative.”
My method for writing is very much following a feeling. It's just a feeling I have that I don't have words for. I don't know what that feeling is connected to yet necessarily, it's just something I'm tapping into. I'm writing these songs as bread crumbs that I'm dropping on the trail of life somehow to help me find my way out.

How do those feelings come to you? Words? Sensations?
It's never words. I've had people for years tell me my music sounds very lonely. It's always been a thing. And I think a lot that had to do with my upbringing and where I was from — there was always this sense of longing in my music. Especially with this new record. I finished it right when I was moving from Amarillo, Texas, where I'm from. I was dealing with all of the feelings from that. As time has gone on, I've had multiple events happen that deeply relate to this album. And I came to the conclusion that this album is about how we are in a constant state of leaving. It can be leaving your hometown, your family and friends behind, to go do something new or positive in your life. But it's this giant ball of emotions that are good and bad.

Do the songs actually help you process things?
Yes, I think so. I've had so many people at shows come up to me and say, like, “Hey, thanks. Your song or album got me through a really difficult time.” I really appreciated people telling me that, but I maybe hadn't experienced that feeling with my music yet. Now I'm starting to understand why I write songs. I write them so I can have some understanding down the line when I reach roadblocks and hardships — these songs were helping me, setting up clues for myself that I didn't know I needed. I don't need words, and I think I don't even have to tell people. I think people can feel the story. But what's cool is I feel like people can also put their story in this as well. I think there's a lot people can relate to, even without the words.

Do you think these songs are sad?
They're more melancholy than downright sad, because I think they occupy this interesting space between joy and sorrow. I think it's right in the middle of that. All of these emotions happen at once, and none of it ever makes sense. They just all collide together in a very confusing way. But that's kind of the nature of life.

I find your music to be blessedly quiet — I live in Manhattan and when I listen, it feels like I get a little respite from the noise.
Well, I mean, I think that's completely the purpose of these songs. I've always wanted to create a pleasant world for people to enter and feel things that our day to day lives may make it difficult to feel. It's just a little garden or something that you can go to and sit in silence — cry, laugh, smile, whatever. There was a show I played in Philadelphia in 2021 and afterwards, this woman came up to me and said, “Years ago, when I was a child, I lived in the Midwest, and there was a cornfield close to my house, and I had a place in that cornfield I would go to that was like my secret place, to just be by myself and have peace. Your music takes me back to that place.” It was one of the most powerful things anyone had ever told me — this idea of everyone having their secret space. Some have lost that space — a cornfield somewhere, you can't keep that forever. And I like to imagine my music can represent those kinds of spaces that you lose over time. It's really easy to lose those places.

Are you always writing music?
This album I wrote last spring, and since then, I have not written another song. This happens every time. I'll write an album and then take a year and a half off before I write another piece of music. I believe songs are like little gifts, and it takes time to get to that point again. When I finally feel the need to write songs, I really have to give myself space to feel them. I'll pick up the guitar and feel around — it's like fishing. I have to feel the pull on the string. I'm not entirely sure where the songs come from, but I'm very gentle with it, and I don't push my luck. If you're gentle, the guitar will give you what you need. It's like the ‘sword in the stone’ thing — the gentle pulling of the sword. It's not pulling as hard as you can. I don't even like saying “write a song,” because I don't feel like it's writing — it’s receiving.

What does Amarillo sound like?
Wind. Tires on the highway. I mean, it's very brutal and lonely. It's noisy and silent at the same time — sparse, bare. There's a sadness in the sound of Amarillo.

Growing up in Texas, did you hear country music constantly?
You would hear radio country playing. But I was obviously listening to so much experimental music — John Fahey and prog rock and noise, and there was no scene for that in Amarillo. And in so many ways, it helped me a lot, because I had no peers. It was just me, and I was able to form my own artistry. I've always joked that I think I'm the greatest musician to come from Amarillo.

I ask about country because right now the entire music industry feels cosmically pulled towards that sound — the charts are dominated by country and even pop artists are putting out country records. Does pop country — even the songs of your childhood by Garth Brooks or whoever — mean anything to you?
There's some kind of pop country I can listen to that's silly and kind of feels like home. I'm like, Oh, this is, like, what I would hear in a department store. But I can't necessarily say that I'm a big fan of it.

And I've been thinking about this a lot industry-wide, how country music has really infiltrated everything right now. You know, growing up, I always had people tell me that I didn't have an accent at all. I'm trying to be careful not to talk trash, but I get irked because there's a lot of people I hear — even in indie music — where they'll sing and have this twang in their voice. And I'm like, I grew up in Amarillo, Texas, and I don't talk like that. It kinda gets under my skin. I feel like people have this country affectation that's a little — I don't know — suspicious.

I think I make country records in a lowercase way. It’s more in line with the way Terry Allen made records. He had that joke where someone was like, “Do you make country music?” And he said, “Which country?” I mean, I'm from a place. Obviously there’s this Western thing. [But] my experiences aren't country experiences. It's just everyday life.

What do the words I’ll Be Waving As You Drive Away mean to you?
You know, I titled it I'll Be Waving As You Drive Away after an episode of Little House on the Prairie. It feels final to me. When was the last time you saw a good friend who may not be here anymore? Did you get to express the things you wanted to express to them? It all goes back to loss. There's some positive loss in life. There's some negative loss in life. We're always in between. We're always coming and going — there's just not enough time. What do you do with that very limited amount of time? Sometimes you're just lucky if you can say, “Hey, I love you so much.” I’ll Be Waving As You Drive Away is a reminder to always be aware and prepared, because an ending might come faster than you think, and we all want a warm send off. It's a sweet thing.