Songs for the Silenced: Mary Kutter on Music, Healing, and Home

By VOICE-TRIBUNE • Photos provided

Mary Kutter has always had a gift for turning real-life heartache into something beautiful. The Kentucky native’s songs are inspired by small town stories, family history, and the kind of truths that hit close to home. Her newest single, “The Devil Wore a Lab Coat,” is one of her most personal yet, a raw and emotional reflection on the opioid crisis that has touched so many lives in rural communities like hers. In this conversation, Mary opens up about the moments that inspired the song, the people who keep her grounded, and why she believes music should speak for those who often go unheard.

VT: “The Devil Wore a Lab Coat” tackles the impact of Big Pharma on rural Kentucky. What inspired you to write this particular song, and how close is it to your personal story or community?

MK: This song came from a real place. I’ve seen firsthand how this crisis hit small towns like mine—folks who spent their lives working hard, going to the doctor for a little pain, and getting handed something they didn’t know would change everything. It spread like wildfire. Before long, half the people you knew were either taking something, recovering from it, or burying someone they loved because of it.

I didn’t write it to stir the pot —I wrote it to be honest. Because in a lot of places where the coal jobs dried up, the pills came in and filled that hole. And the worst part is, it wasn’t by accident. It was allowed to happen. This isn’t just my story—it’s the story of a lot of families around here. I just wanted to give it a voice. If singing about it helps even one person feel seen or understood, then I did what I came to do.

VT: You’ve written hits for other artists, but you also write music for yourself. How does your creative process differ when you’re writing for your own voice versus someone else’s?

MK: When I write for others, I’m stepping into their boots—thinking about their story, their style, what makes their heart tick. But when I write for myself, it’s like pulling straight from my bloodstream. I’m not worried about polish or perfection—just truth. It’s more raw, more rooted. And if it scares me a little to sing it, I know I’m on the right track.

VT: Growing up in Kentucky has clearly shaped your music. Can you share a memory or experience from your upbringing that still echoes in your songwriting today?

MK: One of the most powerful memories I carry is from church in my tiny hometown. I’d sit in the pew and listen to the whole congregation sing together—no microphones, no fancy theatrics, just a bunch of everyday folks lifting up the same melody. There was something so beautiful about that unity. We didn’t all have the same voice, but we were all singing the same song. That feeling of togetherness stuck with me. I may not write worship music, but I do try to write songs that bring people together—songs that remind us we’re not alone in what we’re going through. That’s the kind of connection I chase every time I sit down to write.

VT: Your charitable work through The Righteous Redneck Robinhood Fund is incredible. What moment or experience led you to start giving back in such a hands-on way?

MK: I come from a long line of folks who didn’t have much, but they’d give you the shirt off their back if you needed it. I grew up watching neighbors take care of each other without ever needing a reason, just because it was the right thing to do. That kind of heart sticks with you.

When my music started making a little noise, I felt this deep responsibility to not just take up space, but to give back. I wrote a song called Devil’s Money about my great granddaddy, who was a bootlegger. He used that outlaw money to build a church—literally turned moonshine into pews and stained glass. In the second verse, I sing: “Using outlaw cash for pews and stained glass, like a righteous redneck Robinhood.”

That line became the heart of this whole thing. The Righteous Redneck Robinhood Fund is built on that idea—none of us are perfect, but we can still do good. I just want to use whatever God’s given me—my story, my platform, my voice—to help others.

VT: How do the communities you serve, like halfway houses and underprivileged schools, influence your perspective as an artist and as a human being?

MK: It changes everything. When you sit across from someone in a halfway house who’s fighting like hell to start over—or you walk into a classroom where a child lights up just because you listened—it humbles you real quick. Those moments remind me that the world doesn’t need more stars, it needs more light.

It makes me want to write songs that mean something. Songs that say, "I see you, and you’re not alone." The people in those places don’t just shape my music—they shape my heart. And if showing up, listening, or singing a song gives someone a little more hope in their day, then I know I’m doing what I’m meant to do.

VT: Your music often deals with hard truths and social issues. Do you ever worry about how those messages will be received, or do you see it as your responsibility to speak up?

MK: I’d rather ruffle feathers than stay silent. Music is the most powerful truth-teller we’ve got, and if I’m blessed with a microphone, I better use it wisely. I don’t write songs to be liked—I write them to be felt. If a lyric stings a little, maybe that’s because it’s hitting something real. And if I lose a few listeners being honest? I’ll live with that. I can’t live with biting my tongue.

VT: Is there a particular fan interaction or message you’ve received that reminded you why you do what you do?

MK: There have been a few moments that have just stopped me in my tracks. After a show in Ohio, someone came up to me with tears in their eyes and said they’d been sober for four years—but they couldn’t stop thinking about all the time they'd lost to addiction. They told me “The Devil Wore a Lab Coat” put words to something they’d carried for years. I’ll never forget the look in their eyes.

I’ve seen parents posting videos with that song—sharing photos of children they’ve lost to overdoses. It’s gut-wrenching, and it reminds me that this isn’t just music. It’s real life.

Even songs I haven’t released yet—like one I posted about domestic abuse—seem to find the people who need them. A woman commented that she’d left her abuser that same day and stumbled across the song. She said it felt like a God thing. 

Moments like those remind me that songs can do more than entertain—they can comfort, they can convict, and sometimes, they can help someone take the first step toward healing. That’s the kind of music I want to make.

VT: With your new single, what do you hope listeners walk away with after hearing “The Devil Wore a Lab Coat”?

MK: I hope it makes them feel seen. I hope it lights a fire in their gut. And I hope it reminds folks that rural voices, small towns, and working-class pain deserve to be heard, not overlooked. At the end of the day, I just want the truth to echo louder than the silence.