Step into Pittsburgh’s growing progressive country music culture

On a chill Friday night in March, Bottlerocket Social Hall becomes a honky-tonk. Past the retro, U-shaped bar, patrons dressed in variations of country western attire — some are all duded up, others don a simple cowboy hat or boots — awkwardly follow an instructor teaching the steps to an ultimate line dancing classic, the 1991 hit “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” by Brooks and Dunn. This is ’90s country night, after all.

The vibe, however, contrasts with the volunteer fire hall weddings, drunken barn parties, and mandatory 4-H camp dances of my rural, redneck youth. The female vocalist of Bindley Hardware Co., the band hosting the event, sings LeAnn Rimes under the glow of a Lynchian red light. A few seasoned dancers add kicky jumps and barrel turns to their routines, as if rehearsing one of the Michael Kidd-choreographed sequences from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Two women in impeccable western-style pant suits hold each other as they do a two-step across the floor.

At one point, bandleader Jon Bindley takes the mic and breaks into a spontaneous, half-remembered rendition of “Only Wanna Be with You” by Hootie and the Blowfish, a decidedly not country song from the ’90s.

The loose, playful, inclusive environment exemplifies a new era for country music in Pittsburgh and beyond, as the genre has become embraced — or, in some cases, re-embraced — by groups usually unrepresented in what has become a predominantly white, politically red scene. In the past decade, artists like Lil Nas X, Orville Peck, Shaboozey, and Beyoncé have made it more accessible to Black and LGBTQ listeners. “The Giver,” a fiddle-and-banjo banger recently released by Chappell Roan, has quickly become a lesbian country anthem.

Annah Darling, a local DJ and event organizer, agrees that the recent shift has made country music more welcoming for newbies and fans who, like herself, previously felt the need to distance themselves from a genre with which they had a strong connection.

“I grew up in a small town [in Michigan], my family ran a little cluttered hardware store, and so, definitely, country music was prevalent where I came from,” she tells Pittsburgh City Paper, “but it was during the pandemic that I started to explore country music more … My grandmother really loved George Strait, and she passed away when I was fairly young, and I was thinking about her. I also think the pandemic was a sad time for people. And I don’t think anyone writes a better sad song. No other genre does it better than country.”

Darling and others have created spaces where anyone, regardless of age, race, or identity, can indulge their love of country music culture. She co-runs Desert Hearts, a country music night, under the moniker Sister Sludge. She also serves as a board member of 412 Step, a queer-leaning weekly line-dance party that usually takes place at Belverdere’s Ultra-Dive.

Unlike Darling, 412 Step leader Ken Ho says that when he discovered the event in its early days, he had no experience with line dancing.

“I went and was wondering, ‘What in the world is going on here, how do people know all these dances?’” Ho, a Pittsburgh transplant from the Washington, D.C. metro area, tells City Paper. “And I guess I got bitten by the bug, where it’s like, I want to learn this, and I want to do what they’re doing.”

Ho admits that 412 Step converted him into loving a genre he once hated, and he wanted to foster a space where others could discover and develop an appreciation for it.

“I just love the stories that are told through country music,” Ho says. “And I think the other piece, too, is other places where you would go to enjoy country music, like country bars or whatever, members of the LGBTQ-plus community may not feel comfortable in many of those spaces. And the fact that we can have a space to replay country music and actually enjoy and seek unusual, interesting artists as well as some mainstream artists is, I think, something that’s really special, too.”

After nearly six years in operation, Ho estimates that 412 Step attracts around 130 dancers a week. Darling says seeing the different types of people come together at 412 Step events has provided a sense of “hope and inspiration.”

“We also do partner dancing, which requires a certain amount of trust and faith in the community, that it’s a place where you can belong and interact with people on that level,” she says. “Everyone dances with everyone, like a 22-year-old gay man with a 60-year-old lesbian. And that’s a really sweet thing, too, that everyone can be so respectful and connect with each other through those differences.”

Beyond Belverdere’s, 412 Step has also engaged crowds at OpenStreets and Pride events, among others.

Similar to 412 Step, Desert Hearts wears its queer heart on its sleeve. The party’s Instagram account describes it as a “queer country night,” with sets showcasing artists like Shania Twain, Reba McEntire, and Dolly Parton. It’s Parton specifically that fellow Desert Hearts organizer Gillian Woof, aka DJ Opal, sees as a unifying force, citing how she appeals to fans from all walks of life.

If Parton is the unifying force, however, the late Toby Keith, whose ultra-patriotic, early-2000s anthems spoke to the worst impulses of American citizens after the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, was the divider.

“Honestly, I would love to do a night that is just country pre-9/11,” Woof tells CP.

Darling, Woof, and third member DJ Desert Rat work to honor the working-class roots of country music by participating in fundraising efforts for striking workers, emphasizing how the effort reflects an original focus of early country music. They have also used their skills to aid the people of East Palestine, Ohio following the Norfolk Southern train disaster.

The return to the genre’s roots contrasts with the ongoing identity crisis affecting mainstream country music. The industry has long since ditched its distinct instrumentation and vivid storytelling for a watered-down pop hybrid style designed for a wider audience. What was once the music of the downtrodden, with songs that took strong anti-establishment stances and addressed the struggles of women and those living in poverty, now leans into a crassly conservative caricature defined by beer, guns, big trucks, “Christian” values, and antisocial behavior disguised as rebellion.

Mainstream country fans have, on a local level, done little to dispel this notorious reputation, as Pittsburgh on multiple occasions had to brace itself for the piles of garbage, porta-potty fights, and drunken havoc at Kenny Chesney and Morgan Wallen concerts.

Pittsburgh musician Jon Bindley sees his band, Bindley Hardware Co., as drawing from the golden age of country with a more traditional sound and swagger. An online description defines them as a “rust-belt Americana band” influenced by classic country, folk, and modern alt-country.

Bindley understands how aspects of country music culture have alienated some people over the decades, describing how the band’s oldest member, pedal steel guitar player Pete Freeman, performed during the rough and rowdy days of the original honky tonk bars.

“He talks about playing places where they used to have cages in front of the stage because people would be throwing beer bottles,” he says.

Bindley, a Pittsburgh native who returned to his hometown after living in Nashville, Tenn., from 2011 to 2014, believes the growing local interest in country music comes with the city’s “vibrant music and arts scenes coming up in general.”

“I think that rising tide means more of everything, and, fortunately, it means an appetite for more country, too,” says Bindley.

He agrees that earlier country music was more diverse and progressive, pointing out that DeFord Bailey, a Black harmonica player, was one of the first members of the Grand Ole Opry.

Bindley says he launched the Bindley Hardware Honky Tonk events in 2018 because he “wanted to create something that was unpretentious and something where dancing was the big focus, and has the feel of a community.” Still, the vibes have to be right, which is why he eschews playing at bigger, flashier venues for “kind of a shitty hall.”

“Anything too nice won’t quite work because it has to have that authenticity to it,” he says.

His efforts, like those of 412 Step and Desert Hearts, serve to create a welcoming alternative to a climate where he says mainstream country music has been used to push a jingoistic agenda of “fear and hate mongering,” adding “Dolly Parton ain’t about that shit.”

“The real, authentic, transcendent thing about music is that it, when done right, is for everybody,” he says.

This article appears in Apr 9-15, 2025.