What exactly is art; who defines it; who makes it, and where in Atlanta do poets, thespians, and artists congregate and create? We’ll use this space to catch up with a few for a few…some you may know; others we hope you’ll be pleased to make their acquaintance.
When I was 16 years old, I experienced my first musical renaissance. Back then, you didn’t go to Apple or Amazon to buy music; you’d head to the mall to Camelot Music to browse, flip through the album covers, check out the cool guy or girl behind the counter, listen to their playlist of the latest releases and, maybe, buy. I was at Camelot when I first heard the strains of an unforgettable synthesizer solo with a reggae beat, then drums—so timeless that LL Cool J sampled it in “Doing It Well” over a decade later. Then, a contralto repeating “My Jamaican Guy,” and by her third iteration, I was obsessed. Grace Jones and her album, Living My Life, became art to my ears, consciousness, and a defining moment in my youth.
By the time I left for college, I had Grace Jones albums, cassettes, a life-size poster, and my favorite button of all time—that I had to rescue from my college boyfriend’s cigar treasure box after it had gone missing (but that’s a different Take 5.) Grace Jones was the soundtrack of my youth—my inner bad girl and bold spirit. But it took another pivotal moment to drive home her significance in my life.
One day, I was walking the Beltline and remembered Prince’s Piano and a Microphone tour was playing at the Fox that night. I found a ticket, placed it in the “shopping cart,” and then took it out because I was trying to save money. By the time I finished my walk after ruminating over it, I had changed my mind and returned to my shopping cart, and the ticket was gone. But I cheered up and declared I’d travel to see him perform on his next tour. Well, most Atlantans already know the deeply regrettable mistake I made on that day—April 14, 2016—because exactly one week later, Prince had died unexpectedly. And I learned a different coming-of-age lesson, so to speak—don’t leave anything you’ll regret later in your shopping cart.
My point is that music serves as a great equalizer: it becomes the soundtrack of our youth, a record of our emotions, a pivotal life lesson, or as in the case of Megan Volpert, markers in our coming-of-age DNA. In her new book, Why Alanis Morissette Matters (University of Texas Press), Volpert examines the artistic journey of Alanis Morissette and discusses how her album Jagged Little Pill influenced her at the age of 14. Volpert highlights the themes and insights found in Morissette’s creative life—emphasizing that 30 years later, she continues to offer valuable lessons and ideas that can resonate with teenagers in 2025.
Volpert is an interdisciplinary thinker, writer, teacher, and healer — teaching at Kennesaw State and Reinhardt Universities. She also does intuitive tarot and scent work primarily at Seed to Star in Decatur and Stillwell’s Emporium in Stone Mountain. Volpert, a 20-year Decatur resident, when not enjoying the quiet of her home, hangs out around the two rock shops where she works, enjoying the communities built there and using the services of the other healers that share those spaces. Check out Volpert discussing her Morissette renaissance below.
Tell us about your book, Why Alanis Morisette Matters, its origin, and your research. What did you discover surprising about her or yourself in the process?
When I was a teenager, the radio was where I found my poets. I’ve always been interested in writing about music from a literary and philosophical perspective. As time goes by, I’ve ended up writing a lot of music books—about Tom Petty, Bruce Springsteen, Warhol’s influence on The Velvet Underground—and reviewed very many music books for PopMatters. A while back, I reviewed Tanya Pearson’s debut book about Marianne Faithfull and really enjoyed it, as well as the Music Matters series from University of Texas Press of which it was a part. So, Tanya gave me a good shove and I sent them a short list of musicians I thought might be a good fit for the mission of the press as well as my own fandom—mostly women in rock. Alanis was top of my list, and after I sent them two sample chapters, it was a done deal.
I’m a voracious researcher, so I just collected everything and then unhinged my jaw. But seriously, there are hardly any books on Alanis, so the main work was reading every interview and a bunch of reviews. I read everything she’s ever published anywhere, and I also made a playlist of literally every version of every song she has and listened to that on loop for about a year and a half. The most surprising discovery was one I hit upon almost immediately: she and I are both Highly Sensitive People. The first chapter of the book focuses on this. About fifteen percent of individuals of any species are highly sensitive. You can start thinking about whether you might be by taking this little quiz.
I took the quiz—I’m not quite highly sensitive, but not far from it—and it sent me down an interesting aside about the connection between HSPs vs. empaths. So, how did Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill album influence you—was there a specific song on that album that connected you to her?
The book’s epigraph is a quotation from “Right Through You” and the first single that charted from the album in summer of 1995 was “You Oughta Know,” but as the book moves track by track through the entire album, I end up making a larger case that the heart of Jagged Little Pill is “You Learn.” Each song on JLP continues to resonate with me at different moments throughout my life, in fresh ways as I get older. Lately, I find myself having a real soft spot for “Not the Doctor.” A main point of the book though is that the beauty and power of her voice doesn’t stop at JLP. Whatever it is you love about that album has grown deep roots and fresh leaves that we can trace across all her subsequent work, both musically and in other projects like her podcast, advice column, charitable causes, forewords for books, and so on.
In the book, you referenced Morissette’s lyrics, “Oh hello Mr. Man / You didn’t think I’d come back / You didn’t think I’d show up with my army / And this ammunition on my back,” from “Right Through You” and how they’d been at the top of your epigraph list since you were in high school? Can you share its significance for you?
When I was fifteen, I clung to it as a simple revenge fantasy. In my twenties, my appetite for vengeance got supplanted by something closer to Taylor Swift’s notion of “Karma.” In my thirties, when I had amassed an army of several thousand students who had passed through my classroom, I began to see these lines for their patience and organic sense of community building. Now in my forties, having pretty much gone full punk monk, it reminds me that everything comes back, moves in waves, finds its cycles. There are always moments when it is useful to speak truth to power, and in this way, 2025 looks a lot like 1995 to me. The significance of the epigraph is that it offers a little prayer that my book may be part of our ammunition, part of the legacy of strategies Alanis gave us to keep Mr. Man from getting us down.
You compared Morrissette to Antigone—if you had to compare yourself to someone in Greek mythology, who would it be and why?
I’m partial to Medusa. Also Cassandra. And Nyx. Or any of the women who run in packs—the Amazons, the Sirens, the Fates, the Furies, and so on. Why? They’re all punk feminists. They’re all witches. But generally, I feel more called to Eastern mythologies. In Indian texts, I’m investing time studying all the forms of Kali, and in Chinese texts, I admire Feng Po Po, who is the goddess of the wind. All of these women have a strong sense of justice.
By the way, I took a different online quiz to see who I might be in Greek Mythology, and it was Perseus. I’m not sure I agree, but apologies to Medusa. Having said that, you were a tenth-grade English teacher for many years. If I remember 15, it was an angst-filled time for me. How does that translate in the 21st century? When you reflect on your 14-year-old self-discovery of Morissette, what makes her music relevant to teens now?
That’s an easy one! Alanis was first. Ask Olivia Rodrigo if her musicianship would be possible without the influence of Alanis. Ask Billie Eilish what her albums would sound like if she’d never heard Alanis. Ask Lana Del Rey who paved her way. Ask Taylor Swift. Ask P!nk. Go back to the source, kids. Here’s a quote from English professor Sara Marcus that I use in the book to think about the transmutation of feminist ideology through generations of music: “Some women are never going to access Bikini Kill, but they’re aware of Hole. Some women aren’t aware of Hole, but they’re listening to Alanis Morissette. Now we’re at a third-generation degraded copy, and at the same time, there’s an embrace of anger and obscenity that does something for people. Even the Spice Girls are like a fourth-generation degraded copy from Riot Grrrl.”
Check out Volpert’s playlist, which includes a Stevie Nicks song that is pertinent because her next soiree—”just a short walk from Alanis,” she says—is co-editing White Winged Doves: A Stevie Nicks Poetry Anthology with our own Collin Kelley, the executive editor of Rough Draft Atlanta. It will be published by Madville Publshing in spring 2026.
Connect with Volpert on Instagram: @meganvolpert. She will also be in conversation with Alix Olson on Friday, April 18 at 7 p.m. at The Book Bird in Avondale. You can register for this free event here.
