Huskybeth
velvet voice, steel spine, sequins optional
Born somewhere between a dusty outback roadhouse and a velvet-curtained theatre bar, Huskybeth wasn’t discovered — she arrived, like a thunderclap in a hush. No one’s quite sure where she came from, but when she sings, it feels like she's been here forever — and just got back from somewhere far more interesting.
Her voice? Like molasses sliding over gravel. Imagine Patsy Cline slow-dancing with Amy Winehouse in a New Orleans speakeasy while Edith Piaf pours the whisky. She croons country ballads that make bikers cry, jazz standards that raise eyebrows, and cabaret numbers that would make the Moulin Rouge blush — all with a wink, a twist, and a note that cuts straight to the heart.
Her influences read like a mixtape made in a smoky dream: the sly wit and feather-light phrasing of Blossom Dearie, the punk-laced cool of Blondie, the bruised elegance of Billie Holiday, and the gloriously offbeat theatricality of Lene Lovich. From the soul-deep gospel fire of Mavis Staples to the earthy, magnetic calm of Lizz Wright, the velvet-drenched mystery of Cassandra Wilson, and the melancholic poetics of Nick Drake, Huskybeth draws from voices that feel eternal yet electrifyingly raw. She doesn’t just wear her influences — she repurposes them like vintage couture: tailored, fearless, and unmistakably her own.
Blindfolded or not, Huskybeth sees straight through the BS. Her visual aesthetic is retro noir meets gold-laced rebellion — the kind of artist who could rock up to a rodeo in sequins and leave on the back of a Harley. Always halfway between “diva” and “your dangerously charming girlfriend with a flask in her purse.”
The name? “Huskybeth” was coined during a tipsy open mic night in Broken Hill, when a country MC forgot her real name and introduced her as “that husky one... Beth somethin’.” The name stuck. So did the voice.