Oklahoma-bred songwriter Kalyn Fay has a voice that commands rapt attention, whether filling a theater or piercing the din of a dive bar. It’s a tenor timbre a first-time listener once aptly described as “butterscotch,” all rich and velveteen, bold, singular.
Fay’s been writing and recording her own music for as long as she's had a story to tell. She's lived more than her share of life: She's loved and lost, voraciously pursued higher education, questioned her faith, walked the line between her upbringing and her Cherokee roots, and figured out how to process and express all that through her art. She’s traveled. She’s come back home. She’s left again.
All of this is evident when she sings. Fay seems at her most comfortable when her own voice carries her story and moves it forward. Her candid lyrics reflect with a measured sorrow; they know when to say thank you, goodbye, or nothing at all. Her melodies make space for others, including an extensive collective of trusted musical collaborators from her hometown, but she will hold onto a word here and suddenly cut one off there, whenever the time is right.
When Kalyn Fay sings, you’ll hear her confessions and acceptance, vulnerability, hard-fought lessons, and measured determination. The narrative, the life lived, is hers; the warmth of her voice entrusts her story to those who will listen.