Before the Quebe Sisters concert, my friend and I, with cups of tea in our hand, tried to figure out how to correctly pronounce the trio’s name before the concert.

“Kweebie?”

“Qweb?”

“Kwaybie?”

None of our proclamations proved true (it’s pronounced kway-bee), and when one of the sisters introduced herself in a clear Texan accent on Sunday night, I was in shock again — “they’re southern?” I thought, realizing I need to start doing my research before attending events. These surprises, though, were the best part of the show. My favorite moment followed shortly after the Quebe Sisters stepped on stage, when their voices hummed in perfect, indistinguishable unison.

Bouncing between pop-southern fiddling and gentle vocal harmonics, it was hard not to want to dance to a song about, well, a love dying.

“Hey, it’s just a sad goin’ away party for a dream I’m tellin’ goodbye.”

Near me, I could feel another audience member’s feet tapping the auditorium’s bleachers, rumbling my chair and the beat of the next song.

From high up, each Quebe sister looked small, but the sound and confidence they projected were loud.

“It’s pure country,” one sister said. “Even though it’s sad, it still sounds happy!”

Which was true — every song they played was distinctly sad in some way, but sounded upbeat and delighted when translated with the fiddles in their hands. They were “smile through the sadness” songs. If I were to paint a picture of what this style of music were to look like, I’d paint a portrait of the sun peeking from the landscape of an overcast Juneau, not unlike what I watched the morning before the concert.

That morning, I slogged my hiking boots across the downtown boardwalk, trying hard not to slip on the ice and sleet-coated wood beneath me. At the end, I sat down in what I claim is “the best spot in Juneau that doesn’t require real exercise to get to” — the platform jutting from out of the boardwalk made for the boardwalk’s safety ladder. I watched as beams of light began to crawl from behind the rainclouds and onto the Gastineau Channel.

Often, Juneau also looks sad — especially in the wintertime, when you compare the season to its rambunctious summer alter ego — but nothing could be further from the truth. It’s part of the reason why I like to describe Alaska as the “South of the North” to other Americans: we’re a Southern cliché hidden in the far corner of the world’s map. It’s lively here, even when seasonal depression kicks in and it seems like a bore, there’s still some light that makes it a little happier.

Even on that Sunday, as I sat chewing the bit of sad news sitting in my stomach, sky gazing from the boardwalk kept me calm. Later in the day, watching the Quebe Sisters alongside a few friends brought me back to my wits, even if I still felt dejected.

One of the last songs the sisters performed was a jumpy, fast-tempoed swing song that was hard sitting still to.

“Millions of hearts have been broken,” they sang, warning those of us in the audience not to say “I love you” unless we meant it.

“It’s a sin to tell a lie!” they continued, and even though the message there was deep, their words were graced with the joy the Quebe Sisters brought onto the stage. I try to do what they did with their music with my life.

Life is pure country. Even though it can be sad, it can still sound happy.

• Tasha Elizarde is a recent high school graduate living in Juneau. Contact her at Tasha.elizarde@gmail.com.