There’s a seemingly inconsequential moment toward the end of Margo Price’s memoir, Maybe We’ll Make It, that sums up the 250 pages before it. It’s 2015 and the singer-songwriter is determined to spend her day off from a stressful tour poolside, with a bottle of tequila, at a hotel too nice for her struggling band to actually stay at. The group protests sneaking in before her fiddle player, Kristin Weber, speaks up. “Don’t y’all get it?” she asks. “Margo is going to do what Margo wants, and that’s just that.”
