Every once in a while, a song arrives that carries not just melody and words but lived experience, strength, and a kind of ancestral resonance. Good and True by Mary Berth Orr, with guitarist Greg Scheer, is one such piece. Written and recorded in the wake of an extraordinary moment in her personal life—barely six weeks postpartum—the song was born out of resilience and intimacy. It also finds its place within Zachary Rumley’s documentary A Redux Renaissance, which explores the battle between the warmth of dynamic range recording and the polished homogeneity of radio-driven production. The context alone makes Good and True fascinating, but the song itself surpasses that, offering a folk meditation that is both raw and luminous, steeped in tradition yet entirely personal.
At its heart, Good and True is a testament to the power of creation—in every sense of the word. Orr composed horn parts while caring for her newborn son, crafting the piece in 15-minute intervals with baby Kallum strapped to her chest. That image, of music being born alongside new life, is woven into the fabric of the track itself. You can hear it in the song’s pacing, its breathing space, its quiet patience. There is no rush here; instead, the music seems to flow with the rhythm of maternal care and discovery. The interplay of horn and voice elevates the track beyond a typical folk arrangement, turning it into something ceremonial, almost sacred. The horns do not simply decorate the piece—they serve as an extension of Orr’s voice, amplifying the emotional core and carrying forward the story she tells.
The inspiration for the song comes from the birthing song of the Dagara Tribe, as described by the late writer and teacher Sobonfu Somé. This connection to ritual and tradition is not incidental—it’s the spiritual backbone of the track. In many ways, Good and True feels less like a song you “listen to” and more like a song you “enter into.” Its folk roots are evident, but the delivery carries a transcendent quality, bridging the personal with the communal. The listener becomes a participant in Orr’s journey, carried along by the blending of voice and horn into something that feels at once ancient and newly alive.
Greg Scheer’s guitar provides the steady hand that grounds the piece, allowing Orr’s vocals and horn lines to rise and fall with grace. His playing is understated but essential, acting as a canvas on which the colours of the song can spread. Together, Scheer and Orr create an atmosphere that feels organic, unpolished in the best possible way—true to the ethos of the documentary that frames its creation. In a time when folk often risk becoming too polished or self-conscious, Good and True reminds us of the genre’s original purpose: to carry human stories with honesty and vulnerability.
Ultimately, Good and True is a lived expression of endurance, creativity, and maternal love, infused with cultural echoes that make it timeless. It stands as a deeply personal narrative and a universal one, touching on the cycles of birth, resilience, and storytelling that connect us all. Mary Berth Orr has offered a piece of herself, and in doing so, she has created something that resonates with authenticity. Folk music at its best is about more than craft—it’s about truth. Good and True delivers exactly that: a song that is, in every sense, both good and true.
