The gremlins of the bluegrass world

Big Richard

Bluegrass band Big Richard makes music for the 21st century’s twisted cultural unease. Their Signature Sounds debut Pet, is a fierce, provocative, rejoinder to what troubles them and the world right now, and was recorded live to tape in order to capture the fervor of their live shows.

“Big Richard is so much about our energetic delivery, and so I think it's been really important for us as a group to figure out how to do that for a record,” says mandolin and guitar player Bonnie Sims. And figure it out they did. Pet delivers, successfully translating the supergroup’s live kinetic harmonies and string virtuosity. Unapologetically outrageous and provocative, the band’s name is a wink to the ‘big dick’ energy Big Richard is reclaiming from male bluegrass bands. Since exploding onto the Colorado scene in 2021, the four women have been on a wild ride, slapping as hard as possible on the festival circuit, working up their stamina on nationwide headlining tours, and leaving a wake of die-hard Big Richard Heads across the country swooning for their honest songwriting, chilling vocals, and fiddle-driven barn-burners.

“Our live performances are so raw and so gritty, and I think that our sound never really flourished in that digital landscape.” GRAMMY and Emmy Award-winning cellist Joy Adams says. “[Recording live to tape] we were all in the same room together, very close together, with a lot of mic bleed, etc. And the energy was insane. It felt so good to record this way. Even on the first day, we were like ‘wow, this sounds like our band.’ And to do something that's very real and gritty and has little mistakes in it just feels alive and human.”

They often refer to themselves as the gremlins of the bluegrass world, and the gremlins are: platinum recording artist Bonnie Sims, who rips the mandolin and smells like Snoop Dogg's sock drawer; road dog Eve Panning, who toured extensively with the fiddle band Barrage and has trained her dog to murder on command; bassist Hazel Royer, plucked from the sidewalk in front of Berklee, can probably communicate with crows; and Dr. Joy Adams, who would just rather be skiing.