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SPICEWOOD, TX- The first time I pressed play on Ken Pomeroy’s Spotify page, the track that welcomed me in was “Wolf In Sheep’s Clothes.” The song flows gently, like a creek you don’t mind getting lost beside, but it was one particular lyric that stuck with me: “The clouds are moving faster than I want them to, so you slow ’em down.” It’s not even the hook—just a passing line. But that single lyric managed to stop me in my tracks. There’s something profoundly tender in that image. The kind of line that lingers.
That’s the thing about Ken Pomeroy’s music—it doesn’t shout. It doesn’t demand attention. It simply settles into the space it’s given, making everything feel softer, more bearable. So when I saw she was scheduled to perform at Luck Reunion this year, I made it a point to be there, camera gear in hand, curious to see how that kind of softness translates to a live setting.
She didn’t perform “Wolf In Sheep’s Clothes”—or at least, I don’t remember hearing it—but that hardly mattered. Her set was like stepping into the sonic equivalent of a sun-warmed quilt. Amid the dusty charm of Luck’s pastoral surroundings, Pomeroy’s performance felt like a salve. Her voice, so unassuming yet emotionally tuned-in, blended effortlessly with the open-air acoustics and attentive hush of the audience.
There were moments during her set when I nearly forgot I was working. I found myself fantasizing about laying all of my camera gear down on the grass, closing my eyes, and just drifting off. Not because I was tired—but because her music creates a space where rest feels not just possible, but welcomed.
That’s something I’ve come to admire deeply about Pomeroy. Her songs don’t rely on studio tricks or bombastic builds. She’s not trying to dominate the room. Instead, she offers songs like shared secrets. Her melodies are understated, her delivery so honest it borders on reverent. It’s no wonder her music has found its way onto a few of my personal sleep and unwind playlists—though “background music” feels like an unfair descriptor. This is music that earns your trust before asking for your attention.
Live, that subtlety held. Whether she was fingerpicking through a slow-burn ballad or singing lines that barely rose above a whisper, there was a hush in the crowd that can only come from being truly moved. You don’t get that kind of silence unless something real is happening.
In a festival full of raucous sets and high-octane moments, Ken Pomeroy offered a rare kind of stillness. And somehow, that felt just as powerful—maybe more. For a brief window in the middle of Luck Reunion, I stopped worrying about camera angles and lighting. I just listened. And in that stillness, I remembered what makes music so vital in the first place.
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