When I first heard Laura Stevenson, I knew absolutely nothing about her, except that friends had told me she was becoming kind of a big deal on the alternative indie/folk scene. The minute she opened her mouth to sing, I could see why; her crystal-clear vocals, tinged with achy-breaky country sadness and wise-beyond-her-years insight and understanding, made you want to listen, and listen closely, to whatever she had to say.

Having no idea who she was, where she had come from, or what her lyrics were about (my first encounter with her was at a live show in Hoboken), I constructed my own narrative, most of which turned out to be completely wrong. She must be from the South, I assumed, or at least had spent a good deal of time there, and must have grown up deeply steeped in the tradition of singers like Dolly Parton, Tammy Wynette, and (especially) Kitty Wells, all of whom I could have sworn I heard echoing in Laura’s voice.

So much for my keen ear: when I got to meet and talk with Laura, I learned that she’d lived her . . .