Anne House Perspective on What Momma Always Said

I’m Anne House — a soulful vocalist, storyteller, and technical support specialist who believes that music and empathy belong in every room. I blend acoustic country, folk, and rock influences with lived experience, turning grief, grit, and gratitude into songs that feel like shared breath. I’m based in North Texas, where community isn’t just a buzzword—it’s the heartbeat behind everything I do.

I write and perform songs that carry love through loss, and I build spaces—online and in person—where vulnerability feels safe. My latest single, What Momma Always Said, was born from the trips back and forth to Nashville in the early part of 2024 until she passed away in April. It’s the first song I built from scratch, and it taught me that sometimes lyrics arrive like echoes from the people we miss most.

Outside of music, I’ve led technical support teams in high-pressure environments, trained others to lead with empathy, and helped communities navigate crisis with clarity and care. Whether I’m troubleshooting a network or writing a chorus, I’m always listening for what’s underneath.

What Momma Always Said is a conversation with grief, memory, and the woman who shaped my voice long before I knew I had one. I grew up on country music, singing along to the classics with my dad in the kitchen, in the car, and anywhere life felt a little too heavy. Those melodies became a kind of emotional shorthand between us—comfort, humor, wisdom, and love wrapped in twang and truth. My mom listened and did what she could to foster that in me for a VERY long time, giving me the foundation to do this. 

This song is my way of walking through the stages of grief with her still beside me. It’s the first track I built from the ground up, and every lyric carries the weight of what I couldn’t say while she was here. It’s classic country in style, but deeply personal in spirit—rooted in the kind of storytelling that doesn’t flinch from loss, but finds light in the remembering.

I think my earliest consistent memory is an album my parents gave me for Christmas one year - it was a Greatest Country Hits type album and it had King of the Road by Roger Miller on it. I think I was about 9 or 10 maybe? I'm not sure. Anyway, ..........

I’ve always felt like a performer. From singing in the church choir as a kid to belting out a cappella tunes with the Society for Creative Anachronism in my twenties, music has always been a way I connected—with others and with myself.

In late 2018, something shifted. The company I worked for offered a buyout, and with my kids grown, I felt a tug I couldn’t ignore. It was my turn. I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t at least try. I ran the numbers, mapped out the risks, and submitted my name. Turns out I was considered “essential personnel,” so they declined my request.

But I went for it anyway.

In 2019, I started showing up at open mic nights—nervous, excited, and determined. I wasn’t chasing fame; I was chasing truth. I wanted to sing songs that felt like lived experience. In 2024, I began writing my own music, and everything changed.

Classic country, really

My performance partner started out playing metal music on electric guitar and together we have a passion for mashups. What started out a classic and 90's country has evolved into our own version of Americana that includes blues, country, rock and a bit of alternative.

With What Momma Always Said, the path of grief and memories I followed in the days leading up to and the months after my mother's passing is 

With Looking at Stardust, I created an anthem to perseverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. 

The next few songs cover the love my husband and I share, and the the feeling of the universe not paying attention to my needs and desires. 

Keala Settle and Lizzo - we'd call it The Full Volume Tour – Because we’re not turning down for anyone!

Right now, I'm listening to the Chris Stapleton station on SiriusXM Radio anytime I get into the car. Like willie Nelson, he's an overnight success after 30 years. His style is a bridge - He connects old-school country with modern Americana, making space for soul, rock, and blues to coexist in one voice. In thinking about musical kinship, he’s somewhere between Otis Redding, Waylon Jennings, and Bonnie Raitt.

My vocals carry emotional clarity and warmth. I don’t just sing—I narrate. I invite listeners into the story, into the ache, the joy, the quiet moments that speak louder than words. There’s a soulful ache in my delivery, but it’s wrapped in empathy and human connection. I blend acoustic soul, folk, and rock with a storyteller’s heart, and my music often feels like a front porch conversation—intimate, honest, and unafraid of silence.

My writing is textured and humanized. I weave gratitude, grief, and humor into my songs, turning adversity into connection. Looking at Stardust and What Momma Always Said are proof that my pen is just as powerful as my voice. I lead with heart. Whether it’s a live show or a webseries preview, I try to create space for vulnerability and shared experience. My performances feel like a communal exhale—where people can breathe, feel, and maybe even heal a little.

I’m the sky after it clears—still powerful, but full of light and reflection. I honor emotion in every note, and my delivery is uniquely mine: warm, witty, and woven with community.

Patsy Cline - inimitable and larger than life!

Just like a parent says that they love all their children equally, I love all the songs I've created and are creating - each for their own reason

That's a hard one. And in typical Geminii fashion, I have to say that it changes from day to day. Right now, it would be .......well, I actually can't choose just three!

Part of me would say rather like Jessica Lange's performance of Sweet Dreams in the movie of the same name and Susan Boyle's performance in AGT of Wild Horses. The other part would say Stevie Nicks performances in her tour of 2023

Right now, it's Teddy Swims. That'll change

Driving down I-40 towards Nashville in the early hours of the morning

I want people to feel the reality of life, the humanity we all experience, and the joy of overcoming!

Lizzo. Jennarie. KealaSettle. Katie Kadan. Megan Blue. Sarah Potenza.

I carry the legacy of women who’ve challenged narrow definitions of beauty, genre, and belonging. But I’m not here to imitate. I’m here to expand.

My music blends acoustic soul, folk, and country with storytelling that’s rooted in lived experience—grief, grit, gratitude, and the kind of humor that makes vulnerability feel safe. I write songs that carry love through loss, and I perform them in ways that invite community, not just applause. I’m not chasing flash. I’m chasing resonance.

I’m building spaces—through songs like What Momma Always Said and Looking at Stardust—where people can feel seen, heard, and held. Where plus-sized women aren’t just represented, but centered. Where emotional intelligence is a strength, not a side note. Where authenticity isn’t a trend—it’s the whole damn point.

I’m not just adding my voice to the genre. I’m reshaping the room it’s heard in.

Am I happy? Can I pay my bills? Do I get to see Penelope the doggo and Pippin the kitteh once a day? 

If the answer is yes, I'm a success!

One evening when I was at what is now The George Tavern here in Denison, a girl brought me a note:

Best night ever!

In the span of just 14 months, I lost two jobs.

In November 2023, my long-time position—one I’d held for 19 years—was eliminated. By January 2024, I landed a new role at a local software company, hoping to regain some stability. But by December, that position was gone too. As I write this, I’m still out of work. And I haven’t had a gig in months.

The scariest part? I cashed out my 401(k). Not to cover the mortgage. Not to keep the lights on. I used a portion of it to bring Looking at Stardust to life.

Could I have used that money for bills, car payments, groceries? Absolutely. But I didn’t. I chose the song. I chose the story. I chose to bet on something that felt bigger than survival—something that might help others feel seen, even as I was struggling to stay afloat.

It was terrifying. And it was worth it.

Face-to-face in an unpaid way.

I’ve always been a little prone to word-fumbles, but one of the maintenance medications I take for a chronic condition has a sneaky side effect: it can make you lose words. Not ideal for a singer-songwriter.

One night, mid-performance, it happened. I blanked. Completely forgot the lyrics to a song I’ve sung at every single gig. It’s one of my staples—muscle memory, heart memory, all of it. And yet… poof. Gone.

I stood there, blinking at the mic, trying to will the words back into existence. The audience was kind, but inside I was mortified. It felt like my brain had betrayed me in the middle of something sacred.

I’ve learned to laugh about it now (mostly). But in that moment? Pure panic. And a humbling reminder that even the songs closest to us can slip away sometimes.

Authentic

Brave

Uplifting

Absolutely—I do! As of this writing, our fledgling band is finding its rhythm, and I’m right there with them every time we rehearse. I also sing weekly with my church choir, and I try to make it to as many open mics with my friends as I can. Community keeps me sharp, inspired, and accountable.

When I was younger, my practise was more rigid—scales before every rehearsal, vocal drills before every performance. These days, it’s more intuitive and ritual-based. I start with a hot cup of lemon-ginger or chamomile tea, then ease into a 15-minute warmup. I also craft my set list with intention, ordering songs to play off the different textures and tones my voice can offer.

Practise isn’t just about repetition anymore—it’s about presence, preparation, and honoring the voice I have today.

I’d change how artists are compensated—plain and simple. Today’s music industry does very little to pay the people who actually create the music, unless you happen to be one of the biggest names in the world. For independent artists like me, the system often feels stacked against sustainability.

Streaming platforms pay fractions of a cent per play. Venues expect performers to bring their own audience and sometimes even cover their own costs. Licensing and sync opportunities are gatekept. And while fans are generous with their support, the infrastructure rarely reflects that generosity back to the artist.

I’ve poured my heart, time, and even my retirement savings into projects like Looking at Stardust—not because I expected a financial windfall, but because I believe in the power of music to connect and heal. Still, it shouldn’t take that kind of personal risk just to be heard.

If I could change the industry, I’d build a model that values emotional labor, creative risk, and community impact. I’d make sure artists—especially those who don’t fit the mainstream mold—can thrive without sacrificing their authenticity or financial stability. Because music isn’t just content. It’s culture. And the people creating it deserve to be treated like the heartbeat of the industry—not the afterthought.

I have worked in restaurants, childcare, Technical Support and now music

I’ve always had a soft spot for history—especially the Middle Ages and food history. I’ve been part of The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) for years, and while it hasn’t directly shaped my songwriting, it’s absolutely influenced how I think about storytelling, community, and the rituals that bind us. There’s something powerful about stepping into another time period, sharing meals, music, and traditions that remind us we’re part of something bigger than ourselves. That sense of connection and reverence for lived experience definitely echoes through my music, even if it’s not medieval in style.

Sociology, though—that’s where the lyrical magic happens. I’m a chronic people-watcher. I notice the way folks lean in when they’re vulnerable, the quiet gestures that speak louder than words, the tension and tenderness in everyday interactions. That kind of observation fuels my writing. It helps me craft songs that feel emotionally grounded and human, because they’re drawn from real moments, real relationships, and real messiness.

Whether I’m watching a couple navigate silence across a diner booth or reflecting on how food traditions carry grief and joy across generations, these passions help me write with empathy. They remind me that music isn’t just melody—it’s memory, sociology, and soul.