“I’m gay so I can’t do the guitar solo,” quips Sam Buck.
A grin plays across his face as the unmistakable jangle of Tim McGraw’s “I Like It, I Love It” wafts through the room. Members of the audience chuckle knowingly — the tall, bearded musician could absolutely shred it if he wanted to, but on this night, fun trumps virtuosity.
Buck stands under the soft glow of Tiffany-style fixtures, his guitar slung casually over his shoulders and his brown cowboy hat casting a shadow over his black denim jacket. Behind him, silver tinsel sparkles, a Nashville-glam backdrop to the intimate stage at Permanent Records Roadhouse, a cozy bar-cum-record store in Glassell Park. He’s kicking off the KFM Karaoke Country Revue, a monthly celebration where honky-tonk culture meets the queer community to toast, twang and tumble through songs like old friends in a Garth Brooks ballad.
“What I love about this show is that it’s like Goldilocks — it’s never just right,” Buck says before announcing the night’s singers.
This isn’t just a showcase; it’s a haven. A place where country music, with all its contradictions and complexities, embraces its messiest, queerest, most joyful self. Trans, nonbinary, queer, gay, cis and straight performers all take the stage with the same goal: to make space to celebrate country music for those who aren’t usually embraced by its stubbornly conservative circles.
Over its two-year run, KFM, named after Buck’s podcast KFM Country Radio, has drawn talent like Julianna Barwick, Dougie Poole and Jae Matthews of electronic duo Boy Harsher. One of the night’s guests, Amber Coffman, the former co-frontperson of the Brooklyn-based indie band Dirty Projectors, stirs the crowd with her rendition of “Hard Candy Christmas,” a Dolly Parton classic from 1978, which she officially covered in 2020.
L.A.-based singer Sedona, wearing a vintage T-shirt that says “Rodeo Girls,” performs a rocking version of Bonnie Raitt’s “Angel From Montgomery.” And Loren Kramar, an up-and-coming orchestral singer-songwriter, smolders through Little Big Town’s “Girl Crush.”
The microphone isn’t only for seasoned performers; however, Buck ensures that the show runs smoothly by curating the lineup and requiring everyone to rehearse beforehand. The setup feels like karaoke, with Buck cueing backing tracks, but there is no lyrics screen to lean on. “Bad karaoke can be so rough if someone’s wasted or they don’t know the song,” Buck says. “[KFM performers] have to learn the song, and there is some care that needs to go into it.”
For example, comedian John Early belts out the Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces,” prancing about dramatically to choreographed moves, while Nicholas Braun from HBO’s “Succession” watches from the audience.
Other shows have featured comedians like Kate Berlant and Casey Jane Ellison. Longtime KFM regulars like Chloe Coover and Maddie Phinney, hosts of the popular perfume podcast “Nose Candy,” bring their own fabulous flair — Phinney leaves a trail of Céline’s sophisticated Black Tie perfume, and Coover is dressed in a full-length ball gown while she sings NewSong’s fascinatingly sentimental Christian country ballad “The Christmas Shoes.” Artist Erin Bagley takes on Fleetwood Mac’s 1977 country-rock “Silver Springs.” And Buck’s partner, JT Friedman, leads a raucous rendition of Alan Jackson’s “Honky Tonk Christmas” while passing out candy canes from a stocking.
Rosie Ruel, a hopeful pop star who sunlights as an energy worker and a real estate agent, belts out the bombastic bullfighting song “El Toro Relajo” (The Toublesome Bull), that both floors the audience and underscores a tenet of KFM: that the genre’s lines are meant to be toed. Mariachi is really just Mexican country music, Ruel later tells me.
Mary Rachel Kostrova, owner of the vintage eye-wear boutique Eyefi, delivers a sultry performance of Melissa Etheridge’s “I’m the Only One,” her voice dripping with raw emotion. Growing up in Georgia, Kostrova witnessed country music’s polarizing presence — ubiquitous, yet embraced only by those unafraid to claim it openly. Among her peers, she recalls the familiar chestnut about listening to all genres but rap and country. A wry smile forms on her face. “And now a lot of people are like, ‘I only listen to rap and country,’” she says.
“Country is in such an interesting place,” muses Buck, who is playing a show with Mercedes Kilmer (the singer-songwriter daughter of Val) at Zebulon on Feb. 9. Pop stars like Beyoncé and Post Malone are experimenting with the genre, while country’s own Kacey Musgraves and Taylor Swift drift closer to pop. Meanwhile, the industry is cautiously diversifying, but the support is uneven. “There’s not any mainstream gay musician,” says Buck. “I am not sure there ever will be.”
Buck’s journey into the genre is its own kind of outlaw story. Born and raised in coastal Massachusetts — a place far removed from the South’s storied hollers — he grew up feeling like an outsider for being a Miranda Lambert fan. “I’m a Yankee through and through,” he says. “But anyone from a rural place knows that country doesn’t have to come from the Deep South. In terms of stolen country valor, I’ve probably stolen more than most.”
KFM began as a pandemic-era podcast. Buck spins country records, tells meandering stories and indulges in sharp gossip about county elite. “I have to be careful,” he jokes. “If I talk about [so-and-so’s] ex-cop husband and his disgusting bow-tie pasta, I don’t want that getting back to her, just in case I end up playing a show with her.” He doesn’t shy away from skewering controversial figures like right-wing influencer Brittany Aldean (“She only believes in evil things,” he says), but the podcast’s charm lies in its mix of irreverence and authentic reverence for country music.
For Buck, who also works as an artist (and recently showcased paintings of architecturally significant L.A. homes at the historic Echo Park restaurant Taix), the appeal of the KFM Karaoke Country Revue — the next one takes place Jan. 23 — lies in its intimacy and chaos. “It’s messy, it’s beautiful, it’s small,” he says. “People feel like they connect with each other here. And in a time when everything’s about getting bigger and louder, I think small things are good.”
And as the night rolls on — voices rising, drinks flowing and silver tinsel shimmering under the lights — Buck reflects on the strange universality of country music. “The more time goes on, the more I realize that everywhere is country. Especially Los Angeles.”
