B-Side Guys

Kitty Coen traffics in swamp fever dreams. Her second album Conversations with the Moon arrives eighteen months after HELLCAT‘s “Western witch rock” reclaimed terms like “hellcat” and “witch” as badges of power rather than insults. Where that debut confronted external judgment head-on—addressing everyone told they were “too feminine” or “too butch,” “too pop” or “not pop enough”—this follow-up turns inward, documenting late-night isolation when the only audience is celestial. The Nashville-based artist, born in Missouri and raised in Texas, continues refusing easy categorization, fusing southern gothic storytelling, alt-country grit, and indie-folk intimacy into twelve tracks that function more like film than playlist.

Coen describes the record as “Tim Burton-esque take on country,” and that framing clarifies her aesthetic project immediately. She’s not modernizing traditional country or adding edge to Americana—she’s creating parallel universe where these genres always existed alongside gothic horror and cult cinema. The references she invokes aren’t casual: True Blood‘s sweaty southern nights, American Horror Story: Coven‘s witchy women, the eerie intimacy of Sharp Objects and True Detective, the feral power of Jennifer’s Body, the cult glamour of The Love Witch, the haunting Americana of The Skeleton Key and The Witch. These aren’t aspirational comparisons—they’re the cultural ecosystem Conversations with the Moon inhabits naturally.

“tell my mother” opens the album establishing immediate tension between intimacy and distance, personal confession and public declaration. Coen’s vocal approach throughout the record cuts between these modes—sometimes whispering secrets, sometimes announcing truths loud enough to rattle windows. That dynamic range keeps the thirty-eight minutes feeling varied despite consistent atmospheric commitment. She’s not chasing radio singles or attempting crossover appeal; she’s building immersive world for listeners willing to step inside.

“coca!ne jacket” and “illinois royalty” continue constructing that world through specific regional and cultural markers. Coen, who calls herself a “disco cowgirl,” understands geography as emotional territory rather than just physical location. Illinois royalty suggests aristocracy in unexpected places, elevating what might get dismissed as flyover country into something mythic. The exclamation point in “coca!ne jacket” signals her refusal to soften or sanitize—she’s documenting what exists rather than what should exist, embracing the darkness that makes southern gothic actually gothic.

“bright eyes” and “virginia is for lovers” offer brief respite before the title track arrives. “conversations with the moon” functions as thesis statement, documenting those nights when human connection fails and you address celestial bodies instead. Coen explains: “This record came from those nights when you feel like the only thing listening back is the moon. It’s about isolation, connection, and building a world you can step into when the real one feels too heavy.” That world-building impulse separates her from artists simply writing confessional songs—she’s constructing alternate reality that operates by different rules, where communication with the moon makes perfect sense.

“grave dancin’” arrived as focus track and experienced viral TikTok moment, proving Coen’s aesthetic translates to short-form video without dilution. The track drives hard, embracing the darkness its title suggests without becoming parody. Dancing on graves could read as cartoonish goth posturing, but Coen grounds it in genuine defiance—celebrating what you’ve survived, what you’ve outlasted, who you’ve become despite attempts to bury you. The song connects directly to HELLCAT‘s reclamation project, transforming terms meant as insults into sources of power.

“tonight,” “strawberry,” and “growing pains” form the album’s emotional center, balancing immediate urgency against accumulated experience. Coen’s songwriting throughout Conversations with the Moon benefits from the four years she’s spent developing her voice since beginning her music career. Her debut album showed an artist fully formed but still discovering range; this sophomore effort demonstrates confidence to vary approach without losing coherent identity. She knows when to push hard and when to pull back, creating dynamic arc across the tracklist.

“the drugs don’t work” addresses altered consciousness and its limitations—the point when substances stop providing escape or relief and just become mechanical habit. The title echoes the Verve’s 1997 single but approaches similar territory from different angle, filtering disillusionment through Coen’s particular southern gothic lens. Where Richard Ashcroft’s version dripped with Britpop melancholy, Coen’s take (assuming it addresses similar themes) emerges from swampier, more haunted landscape.

“memphis man” closes the album grounding everything in specific southern location. Memphis carries particular weight in American music history—birthplace of rock and roll, home of Stax Records and Sun Studio, city where musical genres bled into each other before anyone worried about categorization. Coen ending her album here suggests claiming lineage, positioning herself within tradition even as she bends it into new shapes. The Memphis man could be specific person or general archetype, romantic interest or cautionary tale. The ambiguity matters less than the sense of place it establishes.

What distinguishes Conversations with the Moon from typical country-adjacent releases is Coen’s total commitment to aesthetic vision. She’s not adding gothic elements as flavoring or adopting southern imagery for commercial appeal—she genuinely inhabits this intersection of genres and cultural references. Her earlier work reclaiming “witch” and “hellcat” as empowered identities rather than insults came from reading extensively about witch hunts and how the church weaponized those terms against women who threatened patriarchal authority. That historical engagement informs her current work even when not explicitly referenced.

Coen has built her career without waiting for permission, cultivating fiercely loyal online following through larger-than-life visuals and uncompromising artistic vision. Born from her own unfiltered and unabridged self-expression, her music connects with listeners who feel equally caught between conventional categories. The “disco cowgirl” who creates “Western witch rock” now offers “cinematic, Tim Burton-esque country”—these aren’t marketing slogans but accurate descriptions of an artist who genuinely synthesizes seemingly incompatible elements into cohesive whole.

Conversations with the Moon succeeds as statement album, the kind of record that establishes artist as fully realized creative force rather than promising talent. Coen’s not here to blend into Country’s wallpaper—she’s tearing that wallpaper down and painting something new. For listeners caught somewhere between saloon and séance, between the material and mystical, this album offers sanctuary and celebration. Hypnotic, breathtaking, unforgettable—exactly what happens when an artist refuses to fit in boxes and instead builds entire worlds.