The world is ending, and rent is due. The empire is crumbling, and you’re late refilling your meds. War is ceaseless, pandemics go unchecked, billionaires poison the well water and cops abduct neighbors while wildfires burn… but here at the hot dog stand, relief and joy are yours for five buck ninety-nine.

This is PEASANTS REVOLT, the latest album from trans folksinger Creekbed Carter Hogan. Playing the part of court jester in the halls of a dying empire, Hogan croons, hollers, and grins in the face of despair as we feast together on one last humble supper before everything falls apart.

A rollicking medieval-Americana manuscript, Hogan’s new work anchors itself in transitions. PEASANTS REVOLT was written living and moving between the North and the South; sung by a body both pre- and post-trans affirming healthcare; and recorded during a time of genocide, federal occupation, and workers’ uprisings. Decorating its margins are influences spanning time and medium. Here, 14th century king-killer ballads sit next to Appalachian strike songs. Labor and union songs find kinship with Ethiopian jazz records. Hogan’s work echoes with historical struggle, too, from the Haitian Revolution to the struggle for trans rights to the surreal futurism of Rio Grande Valley writer Fernando A. Flores. This album takes the entwinement of the personal and the political seriously, a path often walked by everyone from Hazel Dickens and John Prine to ANOHNI. The 10 tracks of PEASANTS REVOLT are themselves endlessly transitioning, hinging on mid-song shifts and building into wildfires that crackle and sputter with the courage of momentum and catchy hooks. By centering this work so deeply in the tumult of change, Hogan illuminates all of capitalism’s attempts to isolate us — and the power that we regain when we refuse to face our lives and our selves alone.