Lyla Rae Hightower

Lyla Rae Hightower was born in a little nowhere town outside Llano, Texas — the kind of place where the road looks longer on the way out than the way in, and where the cicadas are only drowned out by the Friday-night band warming up at the local saloon. Her mama waited tables there. Her uncle ran sound. Lyla learned half her repertoire sitting under a booth with a Dr Pepper and a spiral notebook, copying lyrics off beer-soaked napkins while the house band rattled the floorboards.

By fifteen she was fronting the county-fair stages; by eighteen she’d out-sung men twice her age with a voice that could swing from smoke-scarred rasp to a full-throttle wail. There’s Joplin grit in there, sure – but it’s filtered through wide-sky Texas twang and a stubborn streak that won’t quit. She’s independent to a fault, allergic to anything manufactured, and she insists on writing at least one verse of every song she sings – even the covers. The stories about her starting bar feuds by accident are mostly true, and the ones that aren’t are close enough.

That’s the truth of Lyla Rae.