August Ponthier Embraces the Slow Burn

Queer adolescence rarely arrives on schedule, often manifesting itself in one’s twenties. For August Ponthier, their slow-burn journey fell into lockstep with the formulation of their debut studio album, Everywhere Isn’t Texas. Ponthier, born and raised in the endless suburban sprawl of North Texas—with a brief stint studying at the acclaimed jazz program at the University of North Texas in Denton along the way—found themself at something of a crossroads. Having left their home state for queerer pastures in New York, the singer-songwriter was grappling with their relationship both with gender and the state they first called home. The album, conceived and recorded through the course of this journey and comprising several of the singles released over this six-year period, takes on a special pertinence considering a few factors: Ponthier’s coming out as non-binary late last year (and the updated name along with it), their unceremonious exit from Interscope in 2024, and the current state of affairs in the Lone Star State.

Everywhere Isn’t Texas serves as an extension of Ponthier’s existing musical and cinematic universe, which they affectionately dub ‘Nowhereland’. The latest visual addition (spawned through the title track’s music video) to this narrative is Ponthier, green-skinned and rouge-lipped, ambling through iconic Texas sights—laser-tag arcades, boxing rings, and tight commercial kitchens montage alongside country-style dancehalls and the ever-expanding Austin skyline. For an artist whose musical language delves closer to country-pop (albeit laced with swelling cinematic instrumentation and alt-rock percussives) than any other genre, the visual contrast is colorfully striking.

Now a few months past the release of Everywhere Isn’t Texas, Ponthier is well along a spate of shows supporting Of Monsters and Men, culminating in San Antonio in early October. While Everywhere Isn’t Texas (and Ponthier’s discography at large) engages in full-spectrum cinematic soundscapes, Ponthier has opted for a more pared-back sound and presentation for this run—besides obvious cost reductions and logistical ease, a simplified format more accurately reflects the songwriting process behind the set list. “I love full-band shows and I love doing something high energy with lots of different sounds accompanying the songs,“ Ponthier notes. “But at the end of the day, all of these songs were written [with] just me and a guitar or piano. And lyrically, that’s the most important thing that I want to get across. I feel like people, especially in the amazing crowds of Lord Huron or Of Monsters and Men, they really love songwriting. For people to really lock into the songwriting part is so meaningful to me.“

The simplified approach, deprived of frills and distractions, has another perk: crowd connection. “I used to think the scariest thing I could do was talk to the audience, but now it’s actually a source of comfort!“ Ponthier glows, emphasizing their newfound spontaneity on stage. “I talk to the audience more, I plan less of what I’m going to say—and I think there’s more magic and connection in those moments.“

That commitment to patient, values-first artistry is an ethos Ponthier credits largely to mentor Brandi Carlile. “Being in her orbit has taught me that it may take a longer time to be exactly the kind of artist you want to be and have the career you want to have, but it is worth it to wait,“ Ponthier reflects, noting that the slow burn of building a loyal fan base is critical in enabling an artist to self-determine. “It took her a while to get where she is! She doesn’t have to compromise on any of her values. She can be an activist and that’s not at odds with who she is at all—she gives back to the next generation.“

It is a perspective Ponthier carries directly to their own crowds. As a queer individual raised in the South, Ponthier understands the crucial role their shows play in bringing a sense of warmth and belonging to places which perhaps lack the engrained and accessible sense of queer community one can find in major metroplexes such as New York City. “I really want people to watch my show and realize there are not just two paths,“ they declare, spinning an analogy of a viewer in Texas conflicted on the absolutism of Texan identity; there is an ever-present conservative rhetoric that queerness and Texanism are mutually exclusive. Ponthier wants crowds to walk away with a more layered understanding, with the idea that “Actually, August really embodies what it means to be a Texan, even though they are a non-binary person; even though they make country music; but they are progressive.“ In conversations surrounding gender minorities in the state, such nuanced deliberation isn’t exactly a common occurrence. Often, queer and trans youth can only turn to online communities and tight local circles to find a sense of belonging or to see themselves represented. Ponthier, on the other hand, provides an opportunity to see this nuance displayed on stage, in full technicolor.

Ponthier is acutely aware of this reality and leverages every bit of the opportunity to exact positive change. They actively nourish a deep and fruitful relationship with TENT (Transgender Education Network of Texas), a prominent nonprofit advocacy network which directly combats gender-discriminatory legislation in courtrooms, legislative sessions, and local spaces across the state. It’s critical: last year, Texan lawmakers continued their relentless assault on human rights through the introduction of over one hundred and twenty bills targeting transgender citizens. “I try to have TENT at as many shows as I can, and if they can’t come I talk about them at every performance,“ Ponthier notes; they hand out stickers, literature, or any material on hand to bolster the group’s efforts.

That outreach hits home everywhere they go. “Regardless of whether or not we’re playing in places that have a higher population of trans people or lower population of trans people,“ Ponthier begins, a warm smile growing as they recollect, “we’re touring in some places—you know, Montana or Wyoming—that you don’t think of first when you think of trans healthcare. There are always trans people or parents of trans people in that audience that come up to me and tell me that Everywhere Isn’t Texas resonates with them very much.“

Even amidst the constant movement and emotional weight of these tour interactions, Ponthier’s creative appetite remains all-consuming. “I think it’s impossible for me to take a break,“ they admit. “I’m always thinking about songs, no matter where I am. I could literally be in my green room steaming an outfit and I’ll get an idea for a chorus and pull out my phone to do a voice note really quick.“ Like any twenty-first-century solution, there are times they have to resort to more analog methods. “Sometimes when my phone is dead I have to hum them in my head until I can find a charger, which is torture.“

For Ponthier, that relentless output isn’t just about making music—it serves as a primary tool for navigating complex personal truths and family dynamics. “I think the gift that songwriting has given me is the ability to talk about things that I find really hard to talk about in person. For example, ’Bloodline.’ I would have been too scared to put out a song like that for fear it was going to hurt my mom’s feelings. But since it has come out, it has facilitated a really great conversation about what being a parent is, and autonomy.“ Ponthier finds this dynamic—broaching difficult topics and in turn bearing fruitful conversations from them—applies across their entire discography. “For any of the songs, they’re supposed to spark conversations! They become songs because I have to say something about it, but I don’t always know how to do it in the hardest way you can: which is just bringing it up.“

Navigating label shifts, personal growth, and the vulnerability of sharing raw, politically pertinent conversations publicly has ultimately brought Ponthier a hard-won sense of peace. If they were granted the opportunity to speak to their younger self today, the message would be concise: “Everything you think is going to kill you is not going to kill you.”

Everywhere Isn’t Texas is out now.