Zach Taylor
Aug 3, 2026
Hope is a natural storyteller both in song and conversation.
Always have a backup plan. That’s the best way to begin this article.
Around 3:30 on a Thursday afternoon, I stepped off a plane from Kennedy Space Center and hurried straight to Furniture Factory Bar & Grill in Huntsville to meet Bud Gambrell for some scheduled interviews. As fate would have it, I also came away that night with two more interviews for upcoming articles.
I had been gone all week, and I needed to leave Friday afternoon for Levitt AMP in Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. On Friday morning, after waking up, I started washing clothes—and to my surprise, I found myself washing the voice recorder, too. Not my voice recorder, either. Bud’s voice recorder. Oops.
Persistent rain had turned Veterans Park into a mud pit, forcing Levitt AMP inside the Crockett Theatre, where Hope MacGregor would open for Joslyn & The Sweet Compression. I knew almost nothing about Hope, having done only the most basic research before the show. She is a musician originally from the Midwest who has channeled her life experiences into art.
Fortunately, Hope is an open book and a natural storyteller, both in song and in conversation. Between songs, she spoke candidly about her music, military service, college, family, heartbreak, and the decisions that had shaped her life. That, I realized, is where the best songs live: in the choices we make, in what we survive, and in the parts of ourselves we are brave enough to reveal.
By the end of her set, I was enthralled—and elated when I was offered a few minutes to talk with her. There was just one problem: other than what I’d just heard her sing and share with the audience, I had nothing prepared. And I had no voice recorder. Read on to learn more.
*This interview has been lightly edited for length and clarity.
MaM: Your voice has incredible range, but you seem to reserve its full power for particular moments. Why not use all of it all the time?
Hope MacGregor: For that exact reason. Growing up, I did a lot of talent contests at small county fairs all over the Midwest. I remember one young girl who could absolutely flat-foot belt, and that was all she did for her entire performance. My mom leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Hey, baby, make sure you leave them wanting more.”
That girl could out-sing anybody else in the room, but she didn’t win. I think it was because that was all she showed she could do. As I’ve gotten older—hashtag perimenopause—my lower range has really grown. I’m having way more fun playing down in those low ends because I don’t think you hear a lot of women doing that these days. I also don’t think it is fun to listen to someone flat-foot belt the entire time.
As a songwriter, it doesn’t always advance the story. I’m singing my music, and there is a much bigger story I’m trying to tell than, “Look what I can sing.” Even when I sing someone else’s song, I’m trying to make it my own and tell my own story through it. There are times to flat-foot belt. There are times to go low and quiet. People tell me I need to do more runs, and maybe I need to get better about doing more of that, but I don’t know.
MaM: How do you use your voice to serve the story within a song?
Hope: There is the obvious approach. If it is a tenderhearted song, it is a little lower and slower. If I’m going to sing high, it might be in my head voice—a little softer and sweeter. If it is a rocking song, that is the one I’m going to belt on. For me, it is about finding new ways to play with those expectations.
“Screwed” is ultimately a breakup song. Most people hear “breakup song” and think sad, slow, and tenderhearted. I’m going to put a humorous twist on it and give myself a couple of moments to slap you in the face. I’m going to take your heartbreak and make it funny, but also say, “All right, time to move on. We’re done being sad.”
Sometimes songwriters also try to be a little too clever. I had a song on the second album that our drummer was convinced did not need drums. There was an obvious moment where it goes from piano and vocal to full-band rock with a gospel choir. He said, “Do something unexpected. That is what everybody expects.” I said, “I think we do enough stuff differently. This is one where we have to give them what they want.” It needed the drum fill and the full impact.
MaM: You use humor when talking and singing about heartbreak, family, disappointment, and painful experiences. Is humor how our generation learned to deal with those things?
Hope: I think so. We’re in this weird spot. Most of us were raised by baby boomers, who were raised by the Greatest Generation. The Greatest Generation believed you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, did the right thing, worked hard, and succeeded. Our parents’ generation saw that sometimes you can work really hard and still not succeed. We had grandparents who adored us and were those strong, silent types. Our parents were trying to raise us with the inherited wisdom that hard work pays off, while also navigating whether this newer world—latchkey kids, both parents working—was actually working the way people thought it would. A lot of us had to raise ourselves.
I remember vividly the day Columbine happened. The world suddenly got scary very quickly. I remember 9/11, when it became scary again just as fast. Both of my parents were at work, and I was going home to watch Nickelodeon and eat Little Debbies. Humor was Nickelodeon and Disney Channel. Later, we were the Vine generation. I do think humor is how we cope with what is going on in the world because it is the tool we grew up with.
MaM: What music do you associate with that time?
Hope: “Seasons of Love” from the Broadway musical Rent. I was really into musical theater as a kid, and that song was reflective, heartfelt, and about living in the moment because every second is precious. In the show-choir and Broadway world, it was one people turned to as a song of grief. What also sticks with me—not exactly from 9/11, but time compresses—is the Toby Keith and Dixie Chicks conflict.
I went to law school after I got out of the Army, and I wrote my thesis on how rifts in country music prolonged the Global War on Terror. It was 45 pages. It is not a light read. I remember videos of radio stations steamrolling copies of the Chicks’ albums, refusing to play them, and the congressional hearings about blackballing them. For me, it became my generation’s protest music. I was a rebel because I was not getting rid of my copy of Fly or refusing to listen to “Cowboy Take Me Away.” It bred a little rebel spirit in me. Toby Keith was going to do what Toby Keith was going to do, and I was still going to listen to the Chicks.
MaM: You referred to your mother and father several times from the stage. How does your music fit into your family’s legacy?
Hope: I’m in a weird spot in life. Vulnerable moment: I’m a 37-year-old woman, and I don’t have children. I’ve gone through a lot of stages of grief over that and found a lot of acceptance. I was completely single for five years—not a spot of land on the horizon. During that time, I had to wrestle with the possibility that I might never be a mom. I didn’t grow up playing mom. I never really dreamed about being one. The first time I remember seriously wondering whether I wanted to be a mom was about a year and a half into my marriage. For me, music is my legacy. I don’t get two kids and a golden retriever to pass all these lessons down through. I get music.
By the grace of God, I have friends and family who have made me an aunt to their kids, and I have very special relationships with a handful of children. I would lay down on railroad tracks for them. I’m grateful that their parents have made time and space for me to be important to a few kids on planet Earth. But my music is the only way I have to share what my family gave me: strength, a sense of humor, a tender heart, cleverness, and wisdom. It also lets me share what I’ve been through and what my parents passed down to me. It is the vehicle I get, so I’m going to use it.
MaM: You are getting bigger audiences, better stages, and better opportunities. What does the next year look like, and what is your definition of success?
Hope: The next year is not super planned out. I’m at a weird juncture where I’m getting great opportunities—bigger audiences, better stages, and better pay. Not to be gross about it, but it is better. At the same time, a year ago I promised my band I would never make us play a certain place again. Now we don’t have a full-band gig booked for September, and I’m wondering whether I should reach out to that place again. It was not especially fun, but it does pay.
We have a run of shows out to Colorado in September, and I’m still booking them, which sounds crazy because it is only a month away. I have an EP coming in September, and I’ll be playing AmericanaFest in Nashville. Bigger opportunities are opening doors. I also played the outdoor plaza stage at the Grand Ole Opry on Monday, which is a huge thing—but nobody was there. On my best day—and this is not every day—I can say I already got there.
A few months ago, I took a van full of little girls from church to lunch at a Mexican restaurant. They all said, “Put your music on. Put your music on.” They requested “Dog Dishes Laundry" and all eight girls in the back of the van knew every word. For the rest of their lives, those girls are going to know that song. That in and of itself is success. Are you kidding me?
MaM: How has the hard road changed the way you think about audiences?
Hope: I’m grateful for the hard road because it taught me how to do this the right way and how to have the right mindset. I have played for nobody, and I have played for thousands of people. I’ll be completely honest: a crowd like this, where I can see people, see the smiles and laughter, and hear one voice singing back—sometimes that is much more fun than a massive crowd.
MaM: “Sloppy Seconds” is very direct and draws from experiences in your military life and marriage. When you put something that personal into the world, do you reconsider how vulnerable you are willing to be?
Hope: Growing up on country music—from “Stand by Your Man” to “Fancy,” and even in more recent songs—I became tired of the way women are so often cast in the other-woman role. I’m a self-possessed woman. I’m not interested in anybody else’s man. My husband thought being married meant he could have other girlfriends. I did not think that. I frequently encountered women who knew he was married, and I could not understand the attraction. I found it repulsive, and I knew I was not the only woman who felt that way. With that song, it wasn’t so much, “I’m opening myself up to a vulnerable place.” It was, “I know there are other women who find married men repulsive. Where are my sisters?” You want to connect with the people who speak the way you do. There is far more enjoyment in finding those people.
MaM: Tell me about the new work you are releasing.
Hope: I just released a single called “Burn the Witches.” That is the song I was most afraid might not land. I try not to write political music or political protest music, but it is probably as close as I’ve ever gotten. It is a standalone single. I also have an EP coming in September called Vinyls and Vices. I swore I was not going to write any more music about my ex-husband, but the well is just so deep. When a friend came to me with an idea for a song, I thought, “Well, we’ll go back for another bucketful.”
I was single for five years, and I did a lot of healing on my own. But there is only so much healing I can do from a traumatic relationship until I’m in the next relationship. There are only so many buttons I can push for myself. I don’t think relationships solve it. For me, this relationship has exposed the things I have yet to heal. I had released my second album, and this wonderful man showed up with a bouquet of flowers. My first thought was, “What the hell did he do?”
I had never been given flowers from a place of love. I had only been given them from a place of, “Oh, I’m sorry.” That made me realize I still had more work to do and more ways to heal. The EP works through more of my history, some of his history, and then arrives at, “Here we are in love.” The last track is called “Waiting for You.” I guess it is the process of coming out of trauma and into love.
For me, this felt like the perfect place to end the article—not simply because it gave Hope a chance to talk about what comes next, but because of that final line. Less than forty minutes earlier, we had never met or spoken. With nothing prepared beyond what I’d heard from the stage, our conversation moved from vocal choices and humor to generational trauma, betrayal, healing, and the strange way love can expose wounds we thought had already closed. Moments like that require two people willing to take a risk: one willing to ask, and one willing to answer. We arrived there honestly and organically—and it never would have happened without a backup plan.
*all photos by Hannah M. Gore
HANNAH GORE PHOTOGRAPHY: A CREATIVE COLLECTIVE (@hannahmgorephoto) • Instagram photos and videos
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