Listening to Benjamin Finger’s latest is to do so with kid gloves, afraid the slightest mishandling or heavy breath will shatter the one and only copy of Listen to My Nerves Hum. It’s the still reverb of footsteps echoing in a museum, where every piece seems so well curated and painstakingly built that to disturb their resting place is to belittle the art. But that isn’t the goal of Benjamin Finger as dainty as his compositions may seem. Art is about participation, smearing the blood and guts onto the canvas or molding and casting with soft hands that will become rock. You need to listen over and over again but the feeling of scarcity will pass, to be replaced by sanctuary. You will begin to curl inside the grooves, caress the beautiful cover art, and be inspired. The album is no longer a stale exhibit hall but a bristling, interactive composition that cries out for your own flourishes and embellishments taken from your life. You will cook to these docile strains. You will clean with the sway of the airy spaces. Though great care should be taken to protect your copy of Listen to My Nerves Hum for just 300 exist, it’s meant to be lived in and not protected by bulletproof glass inside a sterilized bubble.
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