Crooked Fingers, Azure Ray, and May Day Pigeon
Village Underground, New York (April 13, 2001)
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Crooked Fingers
Village Underground, New York
April 13, 2001 |
Around 8 p.m. I walked down the steps of the Village Underground, into their thoroughly non-conducive performance space. Omaha's May Day Pigeon, made up of singer/guitarist Ted Stevens (of Lullaby For The Working Class and Cursive) and drummer/guitarist Patrick Oaks, sat in chairs on the stage and sonically introduced themselves to the crowd. Stevens' fantastic voice was able to convey barrels of emotion in a sensitive blend of vocal forcefulness and near whispers, even though the sparsely filled audience was unfamiliar with the songs. He and Oaks played a fine set of rootsy, quiet rock music that sounded like a substantially stripped down version of the quiet, folk/orchestral arrangements of Lullaby For The Working Class.
May Day Pigeon's quiet set flowed nicely into Azure Ray's lulling, ethereal guitar-sample-keyboard-and-voice arrangements. Drawing mainly from last year's self-titled debut album on Warm, vocalist/guitarists Orenda Fink and Maria Taylor blended their uniquely pure voices to paint sauntering songs of desire and loss. "Sleep" emerged as a standout in the Athens, Ga.-based band's set thanks to its poppy immediacy.
Despite the pleasantness of the first two bands, I remained weary as I awaited the arrival of Crooked Fingers. Maybe lead singer/songwriter/guitarist and sometime banjo player Eric Bachmann (Archers Of Loaf) read Christgau's not so kind words and wanted to prove him wrong. Probably not, but the band's performance was nothing short of extraordinary.
For the first time all night, the audience stood as the three members of Crooked Fingers filled the cramped stage. And by the second song, we had all been captured in a web of music so intense and fantastic, that there was no chance of breaking free without expressed permission. "Devil's Train" (from this year's Bring On The Snakes) ensnared the entire crowd with a chugging snare beat and uptempo stand-up bass line. Over the top of this rocking rhythm section, Bachmann poured the smile on his face in the delivery of each cutting lyric and every plucked guitar note. The music came to life in a way that no recording could ever hope to capture.
The fantastic energy continued on through songs like "Rotting Strip" during which Bachmann's voice altered between a smooth alto like Semisonic's Dan Wilson and the gravely baritone of Tom Waits. The thumping snare drum rolls gave the song a Civil War battle cry feel that further added to the immediacy and intensity. Later, the group broke into "Under Pressure," which was the finest David Bowie cover I have heard since Nirvana tried their hand at "The Man Who Sold The World."
And then, one of the most amazing things I have ever seen occurred. The three men of Crooked Fingers descended, with their instruments in tow, from the platform of the stage into the middle of the crowd. Bachmann was literally a foot and a half away from me as his unmic-ed, throaty voice sung atop of a banjo and a stand-up bass line. As they performed in a small circle surrounded by the audience, the songs sounded more like they belonged on the porch of a West Virginia coal mining town in the 1930s than in a New York City rock club. And that is the ultimate testament to the honesty and intimacy that Crooked Fingers created, even as they morphed Prince's "When You Were Mine" into some odd concoction of the fire and brimstone revivalism of Jonathan Edwards and Johnny Rotten.
Crooked Fingers returned to the stage and the floor again before ending their set. And as I sit before my computer screen at 2 a.m. in an attempt to convey some of its greatness (before I forget it), I can honestly write that I have never been so impressed with a band's ability to turn songs that sound good on a recording into a truly spectacular stage performance. I only wish that Robert Christgau could have seen it.
A.K. GOLD | A.K. Gold lives in Washington, D.C., where she slaves away for a non-profit organization and constantly compares everything to New York City or Chicago. She's earned her "cred" as a college radio and pre-1960 country music DJ, committed indie label street teamer, sporadic zinemaker/contributor, retired mail-order filler and occasional freelance writer. From time to time, she publishes Anecdotal Evidence, a per zine that will some day be considered for the National Book Award, or possibly not. If you want to buy a copy, or desire to write to her for some other reason, email criticgirl@hotmail.com.