Nick Juno knows how to tell a powerful story.

The folk singer-songwriter, historian, and storyteller is driven by curiosity and a desire to understand, express, and connect with listeners.

“I want to know something,” said Juno, who lives in Metro Detroit. “I want to say something; I want to feel something. And I want the listener to feel something, too.”

Whether he’s writing and singing about women working in cigar factories or calling for the release of a wrongly imprisoned activist, Juno’s songs hit an emotional and thoughtful mark.

“I’m a topical folk singer with songs often inspired by front-page headlines, historical events, museums, or personal stories shared by everyday people,” he said.

“My music, whether personal or historical, aims to honor the power of storytelling and connect people to both the past and present.”

His engaging stories and songs are best heard in intimate settings, like coffeehouses, taverns, small theaters, and house concerts.

“House concerts are a favorite setting at this stage of my career,” said Juno, who hails from Flint and has been writing and performing since the early ‘80s.

“Intimate and conversational spaces allow me to set up songs, tell their stories, and create memorable, meaningful events with listeners up close.”

I recently spoke with Juno about select songs from his catalog and his upcoming plans.

Q: The Metro Detroit music scene has a strong sense of community. How do you and other musicians contribute to its collaborative spirit?

A: This is a great music scene in [Metro] Detroit; people help each other. We help each other get shows, we try to help spread the word, and we help each other with equipment or something we need. We provide general support—the esprit de corps—and it’s the spirit or the idea of helping each other.

We’re not really in competition with each other as musicians or creators. [We’re] in competition with [people watching] Hulu and Netflix and getting [them] off the couch. We’re trying to get people out, so we all help each other and try to encourage [people to attend shows], but it’s a busy world out there. For people who come to live shows, that means a lot.

Q: Your songs explore different eras of local history that are educational and engaging. How does the history of Detroit and Michigan inspire you as a songwriter?

A: That’s what I’m going for, and I don’t really set out to write any song in particular. Something will pique my interest, and then I’m all over it. With the cigar factory, I thought, “What? They used to make cigars in Detroit?”

It was over a couple of hundred years that they did that. It was huge, and that blew my mind. And then I remember a story about a grandmother coming down from Northern Michigan, and that sewed it all together and put a face to it. And that wasn’t the only thing people did. Can you imagine sending your children off to do work and having them send money back home because times were hard? People lived hard lives.

Q: Your songs also have a strong emotional quality to them, and they often include themes of hope and survival from the perspectives of different people. How do you channel different people and their emotions through your songwriting?

A: I look at it from a different angle and things that are more topical. One of the first songs I learned back in the ‘80s was “Banks of the Ohio,” and it’s been downhill ever since. I know it’s a murder ballad, and I love the story, but I’m gonna throw my hat in the ring for the personal stuff and the sad stuff. I’m the trying-to-get-stuff-across guy.

I’m not too proud to say that I get very emotional about some of these songs. And I’ve been on stage crying with tears coming down my face because I actually feel it. With a lot of my songs, I’m trying to sing them like I’m that guy or I’m that girl—I’m there and I’m in it.

Q: “Onaway-I-O” was written in 2024 for The Acoustic Guitar Project and in partnership with Detroit’s Greater Impact House. How was the song born from that project?

A: I went down to Greater Impact House and [Greater Alexander] gave me the guitar for the week. We were talking about the house and how he had found a 100-year-old picture of a lady. At that time, I didn’t know what I was going to write about. I wanted to write something old, I had this guitar for the week, I saw that picture, and I was driving around Detroit.

I started thinking about it, and that’s what sparked it. I started thinking about the cigar and the grandmother’s story. At one time, there were dozens and dozens of cigar companies [in Detroit] … and I started digging back into it like a library kid does. And then I learned about the strike and the difficult working conditions. Then the whole idea fell together.

I wanted to make it sound old, and there’s an old folk tradition of singing, “West Virgin-I-A, Californ-I-O … .” That whole idea of changing it into “Onaway-I-O,” I wanted to make it that drone so it keeps coming back around by singing, “I should have never left Onaway-I-O.” And you can almost feel it coming back around because that’s the pattern.

Q: “Onaway-I-O” tells the tale of a grandmother coming from Northern Michigan to work in a cigar factory in Detroit. What was it like to write that song from the grandmother’s perspective?

A: It captures her longing for home, the hardships and struggles she faces, and her involvement in a significant strike that leaves an indelible mark on her life. The song is performed by weaving together history, place, and the voices of working women in Detroit’s cigar factories.

In the song, I sing from her perspective, “I used to walk along the Ocqueoc in the summer where the gentle waters flow / Last night I dreamt I was on a riverbend / I should have never left Onaway-I-O.”

Q: “96 Empty School Desks” examines a 1924 Highland Park tragedy of children being killed while crossing the street near a Ford manufacturing plant. How did those tragic losses inspire this song?

A: Nearly 100 schoolchildren were killed while crossing the street at a time when traffic laws and signals were still new. The city’s answer was to install underground pedestrian crosswalks, and the remnants of some of those can still be seen to this very day. The song is a reflection on loss, growth, societal change, and the protection of future generations.

One of the song’s verses strongly reflects those sentiments: “The city was growing, multiplying year by year / In the music of the moment, blaring horns and grinding gears / Children risking life and limb just trying to get to school / How could the wheels of prosperity turn out to be so cruel.”

Q: “Leonard Peltier Is Still Serving Time” is a call for justice for the long-imprisoned Native American activist, who was convicted of murdering two FBI agents in a June 1975 shooting on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. What did Leonard Peltier think of this song when you shared it with him?

A: I’m glad to say the song has become historically irrelevant—Leonard Peltier has finally been released. It’s a powerful moment to witness a song outlive its purpose in the best possible way. [In May,] Leonard Peltier called me, talked to me, and thanked me personally for the song. I was absolutely floored. I’m so glad that he’s out of prison and he’s a free man.

In the song, I sing, “Isn’t justice meant to make amends / Or is justice sometimes just revenge / Don’t you think he’s been there long enough / It’s time to set him free.”

Q: “Another Old New Year Again” reflects on the passage of time and the end of a chapter. How does this track help you find closure with each passing year?

A: It’s the idea of “Should old acquaintance be forgot / As the hands go spinning around the clock / Hold on to your hat if it’s all that you got / It’s another old New Year again.” It’s about how time is coming around like that, and as we get older, it just whips right through.

Q: “What Was I Looking For?” deals with aging and losing one’s memory. How did conversations with family and friends lead you to write it?

A: It’s based on talking to my mom and dad, who are in their 90s, but also another older friend who once told me something about getting old. He said, “The less you can remember, the less there is to forget,” and it made me so sad thinking about that.

Q: “The Ballad of Old Piebald” is your newest song, which is inspired by an old trail tale. How did hearing a story from cowboy country spark this song?

A: It’s the type of story that’s passed from mouth to ear by those who’ve worked the land and know the weight of goodbye. When a cowboy dies, it’s said that sometimes his ashes are tied to the saddle horn of a trusted horse, who is then turned loose to run the open prairie one last time. This ballad honors that tradition. It’s for every soul who rode the high country, who kept a sharp edge on their pocket knife, and who now rides on in spirit beneath the stars.

Also, piebald describes the markings of a horse … kind of like a pinto or something like that, or a paint. It’s traditionally a ranch stock horse that cowboys would be well familiar with.

Q: You’ve performed in a variety of live settings. How do you create an intimate show experience at different-sized venues?

A: Over the years, I’ve had a couple of big shows in a big room somewhere. Mostly, I perform in smaller rooms—coffeehouses, house concerts, or theaters. I remember seeing Bono and U2 in the early days and then seeing them at the Pontiac Silverdome. Bono plays the room the same way, and he played like he was in the Silverdome in the early days. He’s playing to the back of the house, and he’s going to leave it all there.

And I thought, “I don’t care if it’s 10 people or 100 people. I’d rather have 10 people who will listen and engage.” It’s so great to be part of that and share that storyteller bond that goes back to the days of the cavemen around a campfire. Humans want to tell stories. We’re pattern-seeking mammals who want to understand the world around us and want to relive and retell important things in our lives. That’s why we love music, books, movies, and art.

I don’t know who it was—it might have been Ernest Hemingway or Mark Twain—who said, “If your writing doesn’t move you, it won’t move the listener or the reader.” And that’s the thing I want to try to connect to: being there, telling the story, getting into it, sharing that moment, and hoping it comes across.

Q: You’re planning to develop a series of videos with local songwriters called Salt of Detroit: 180 Seconds and a Song. What do you have in mind for it?

A: I’ve put that on hold logistically, but I’m still working on it. You can make a great 30-minute or 45-minute taped interview with a great band or somebody, and people flip right through it and don’t even listen to it. I thought, “What if you just took it and boiled it down to one song and three minutes?”

I’m going to test that to see if I can get people to watch some or all of that. There are so many great people to talk to, and I’ve got them lined up. It’s just a matter of doing it logistically. The idea is: “Tell me about one song, its impact, and why you wrote it,” along with having good lighting and sound, and then having a link to the song afterward.

Q: What’s up next for you?

A: As far as writing stuff, sometimes I come up with ideas and work things around. I’ve been doing a lot of practicing, like rudimentary guitar playing, and waiting for the next thing. That’s kind of how I operate.

I play about once a month, but I’m always trying to help others and bounce [social media] posts around [online]. I really want to help support other people.  I’m excited right now because some great young people are coming up.