Theresa Romero’s Green World Within
Butte’s newest album, This world is green, and I always forget, came to Theresa Romero once she realized staying would cost her more than leaving. In doing so, she sacrificed her cozy husk and found expansion beyond it.
In June 2024, Rene Duplantier of Slow Rosary asked Romero if Butte (pronounced “byoot”) would go on one last tour before Duplantier moved away to Seattle. In Romero’s words, “I don’t love planning tours, but I’ll do anything for Rene.” So they played five shows in six days across Asheville, Atlanta, Bloomington (Indiana), Chicago, and Louisville.
Soaking near-naked in a creek in Asheville, she felt her whole person. The one who usually snuck around to smoke a cigarette, and prioritized everyone else’s comfort, stretched her arms out in the space of her own life. Each drag felt like shedding something that was never hers to carry. This moment later would become her single “Bop.”
The first time I saw Butte perform was in December 2025. Strange Daisy Records hosted a free Christmas show at Siberia. I remember that bill being stacked with great bands like BRUCEY, Kelly Duplex, and The Self-Help Tapes, but Butte stood out to me. There was something raw and feral about how the drums slammed and the guitar wailed. It made a packed, free show suddenly feel empty, a kind of solitude that promises safety from a sharp world. There was a warmth to Romero’s voice that felt like commiseration—but with what, I wouldn’t know until it was my turn.
At 4 a.m. on March 23, Romero and I took a ride across Lake Pontchartrain and saw sun edges burn away the night’s blue. In LaPlace, we met up with a video production crew, Mitch Whales and Derek Zimmer, along with actors KC Wren, Dreux Gerard, and Shane Avrard. Together we drove to the nearest kayak launch site and took in the morning dew, watching thick fog roll over the swamp as a lilac sky peeled back into pinks and oranges.
I’ll do my best not to spoil the video before release, but for a shot, we waded into the cold water, a reenactment of a procession into renewal, echoing Romero’s experience in the creek in Asheville.
In Franklin, Louisiana, Romero was doing coastal repair work along a nine-mile river. She felt relief in nature and the frustration of forgetting the beauty of the external world, and said to her coworker, “This world is green, and I always forget.” At the time, she felt guilt, choosing to see the muted negative during a trying period. She realizes now that we all forget the good and vivacity in the face of loss.
Grief is a guest best looked in the eyes. Offer it welcome, pull up a chair, and invite it to speak. This process is a natural part of the emotional ecosystem. What dies within us isn’t just lost, and where something once stood is now space. The decay is our life’s nutrients, fueling its needs to recreate and repair itself. Romero felt the world reflected in her own. A place where things die, bereaving, then things grow through the swell of decay. Washed clean by the cool swamp water, born anew.
On April 10, Rick Nelson recorded Butte’s live performance at the release show at Marigny Studios. This was an idea she borrowed from one of her favorite bands, U2. The space was large enough to house pianos, a full band, and a crowd of 100. Couches lounged around the perimeter of the studio, and people slowly piled in. They filled the space shoulder-to-shoulder, some sitting on the floor in front of the bands, others standing along the wall.
Alternative-folk artist hemlock opened the night with a message of solidarity, a call for community action to protect our neighbors from ICE, and for the freedom of Palestine. They sang quivering songs, at one point inviting friends to join them in the spotlight to sing a song. After setting the stage for Butte, they thanked us for coming together and for our continued support.
After a few cigarettes outside, Butte went on—Romero on guitar and lead vocals, Avery Legendre on bass, Lee Garcia on drums, Adam Keil on rhythm guitar, and Brad Bartee on keyboard and backing vocals. This show felt different from my first Butte experience. The drums were more intentional and sparse in delivery, the keyboard offering shaky synth support, the layering of Romero’s soft vocals and Bartee’s vocals sounding like a saved voicemail being played back slowly. It felt like a place where dust settles, a dulled hatchet buried in a forgotten location. The new space between an exhaled sore ribcage. The audience listened intently as the band played, and the room expanded and contracted. Somewhere between exhaustion and elation, Romero closed out her night with friends—whole, fulfilled, and dressed in green.
For more info, check out butteband.bandcamp.com or @thebandbutte on Instagram.
Top photo by Colby Baldwin: Theresa Romero in her home studio
Bottom photo by Mitch Wells
