Lifestyle
This country karaoke night in L.A. is a rootin', tootin' hootenanny with a queer twist
“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.
Rosie Ruell sings “El Toro Relajo” at Karaoke Country Revue.
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.
Attendees cheer performers at Karaoke Country Revue at Permanent Records Roadhouse.
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.
Comedian John Early, who starred on the HBO Max show “Search Party,” belts out the Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces.”
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.
Sam Buck gives Maddie Phinney a birthday present after Phinney sang Squeeze’s “Tempted” at the Karaoke Country Revue.
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.”
JT Friedman, right, talks with Chloe Coover after Coover’s performance.
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.”
Students walk on the Stanford University campus on March 14, 2019, in Stanford, Calif.
Ben Margot/AP
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Ben Margot/AP
When Theo Baker arrived at Stanford University a few years ago, he joined the student newspaper, following the path of his journalist parents, Peter Baker, a White House correspondent for The New York Times, and Susan Glasser, a writer for The New Yorker.
Through his reporting as a student journalist, he eventually broke a story about manipulated data in Stanford President Marc Tessier-Lavigne’s neuroscience research that helped lead to the university president’s resignation.
Theo Baker’s book, How to Rule the World: An Education in Power at Stanford University was released May 19. In it, Baker describes Stanford as a place where proximity to Silicon Valley gives rise to a parallel system of influence, recruitment and money, with investors looking to identify promising students almost as soon as they arrive on campus.
He told Morning Edition host Steve Inskeep there was “a sort of Stanford inside Stanford,” where elite students are drawn into an “alternate reality” of excess and access to cut corners.
In the interview, he discusses how Stanford is not just a university but also a pipeline where status and power can matter as much as ideas.
We reached out to Stanford University for comment and have not heard back.
Listen to the interview by clicking play on the blue box above.
The scoreboard shows the results of the women’s singles final match between Iga Swiatek of Poland and Amanda Anisimova of the U.S. at the Wimbledon Tennis Championships in London, Saturday, July 12, 2025.
Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP
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Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP
Fifteen points in tennis? Nice. Thirty, 40 — even better. Advantage — that sounds good. “Love” — that also must be great, right? Well, not quite.
As the French Open rolls on and Serena Williams has announced her return to the sport, maybe you’ve been paying a little more attention to tennis. The sport’s scoring system is notably distinct, and can sometimes be hard to grasp for newcomers. But even tennis aficionados might not know why, or how, “love” became the unmistakable callout for zero points. For this installment of NPR’s Word of the Week, we’re exploring how a word that signifies trailing behind got such a sweet name.
“Love” comes from the heart — or an egg?
It’s hard to pinpoint when the first tennis ball went over the net. Tennis is a derivative of lots of other sports, such as “jeu de paume,” a handball game played in France, said JT Buzanga, the collections manager at the International Tennis Hall of Fame museum.
But tennis became a patented, official sport in 1874, said Steve Flink, a journalist whose tennis coverage got him inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame. It has retained its unique, mysterious scoring system ever since.
“By and large, the original system has held up almost entirely,” Flink said.
The use of “love” goes back to the late 18th century, said Jesse Sheidlower, a lexicographer. But it was used earlier than that in card games such as whist and bridge. Before the term made its way to tennis, the sport favored plain old “nothing,” or “nil,” he said.
Why love in the first place, though? Historians don’t really know for sure, but there are a few theories.
The French could have something to do with it. Some historians believe “love” derives from “l’oeuf,” which means “the egg” in French. Because eggs are shaped like zeros, terms such as “goose egg” and “duck’s egg” have been used in other contexts to mean zero, Sheidlower said.
It’s also possible English speakers mispronounced l’oeuf as “love.” But Sheidlower isn’t convinced that’s the answer.
“It’s the French equivalent of an English expression. But since that expression doesn’t appear in French, the French word wouldn’t have been used,” he said.
To be sure, France has had a lot of influence on tennis culture, Buzanga said. For example, “deuce” or a game tied at 40 points, comes from the French word for “two”: “deux.” But he prefers another prominent theory: that “love” comes from the idiom “for the love of the game.” Even if a player hasn’t scored, it doesn’t matter, because their heart is in it. It’s the theory Sheidlower said is the most plausible, because the idiom was used by the English before tennis was popularized.
Another variation of the “love of the game” theory is that the word could have come from the Dutch “lof,” or “honor” — or the Latin “amare,” meaning “to love,” Flink said.
But if tennis’ “love” doesn’t come from a French word, the theory at least has a French sensibility.
“I think the ‘for the love of the game’ is kind of romantic,” Buzanga said.
“Love” probably isn’t going anywhere
Tennis used to be a sport of leisure. The style of play has changed a lot over the years; players are more athletic and competitive, for instance, Flink said. But the rules of the sport are more steadfast, he said.
“There’s this incredible, enduring respect for tradition in tennis,” he said. “Changes are not made easily.”
There has been one major change in modern history: the tie-break. Matches can go on and on because players have to score two consecutive points to break a deuce, or by two games to break a tied set. But the onset of television meant matches would have to get shorter if the sport wanted to capture a larger audience, Flink said.
Change even came for “love.” An alternative sprouted up in the 1970s, and is still used today: “bagel,” named for its zero shape, Sheidlower said. Novices may say “zero,” and insiders will understand what they mean, but they “will needle them about it,” Flink said.
But “love” still prevails.
“People kind of like it,” Flink said. “It’s different. Why say zero when you can say love?”
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