Familiar or not with the music of American country-rocker Margo Price, anyone who fraternises with musicians must surely know a Margo Price. Someone who draws people into their orbit through equal parts talent and charm – as opposed to connections, or general heavy-handedness – and makes the more arduous and frustrating parts of the industry seem worth the headache. On finishing Maybe We’ll Make It, the 39-year-old’s memoir, I felt like I’d been listening to the reminiscences of a friend.

Illinois-raised Price moved to Nashville in her late teens with an imprecise ambition to play music. The city’s legendary country industry is both inspiring and ruthless: if one has any desire for autonomy over their sound and image, ‘making it’ is close to impossible. So it goes for Price, who for a long time muddles by on a cycle of crap jobs, dud gigs and nights on the sesh.

The musician’s pre-breakthrough era comprises events ranging from the mundane to the unbearably tragic when one of her children dies shortly after birth. Mid-2010s interest from Jack White’s Third Man label proves the catalyst for success, with the last seven years wrapped up in about 20 pages (of 270 total). Price seems to consider the journey more evocative than the destination, and on the strength of Maybe We’ll Make It – a highly readable autobiography – there’s little cause to argue. Oh yes, and her records are terrific too.