Crooked Fingers / Strand of Oaks
Mississippi Studios; Portland, OR
I had seen Tim Showalter perform as Strand of Oaks not three months ago; all by his lonesome, he’d managed to create something singular and revelatory. This time, he’d come armed with a full band, or almost full; no drummer, instead a machine whose volume sometimes threatened to overtake that of the three men on stage. There were instances, however, where it felt very much like a rock show. Showalter’s visage is one of stoner metal glory daze, and the music approached a soft sort of sludge. “These songs are sad as shit,” he deadpanned. “Deal with it.” It was indeed quite heartbreaking. Strand of Oaks’ medieval-meets-metapersonal sound is totally unique and captivating, and whatever record Showalter puts out next will probably be a doozy.
It was sad songs we’d come for, and Crooked Fingers delivered, Eric Bachmann himself having adopted the full-band practice for the current tour, the honey-throated Liz Durrett again accompanying him on vocals and guitar. I cannot express how utterly perfect their two voices sound together without resorting to some sort of inappropriate metaphor, so I will leave it at that. While this performance lacked the quiet magic that made Bachmann’s MFNW outing so truly special, the new band laid into some honest-to-gawd grooves. Forlorn white guy folk never sounded so hearty.
I don’t recall specific details due to being some beers deep, and I only took a couple notes because come on, I’ll remember, but I will say that Crooked Fingers is onto something good these days. If you don’t yet have it, please buy Breaks in the Armor for your health. It’s music made by a middle-aged former indie rock icon with the body of a linebacker, dagger-sharp music made by and for drinking and heartbreak, by and for Eric Bachmann and his head and heart and buddies. But it’s alright if you listen, too. And you probably should, because it’s pretty wonderful stuff.