Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Mike Gentry
It's never anything we like to do, nor do we recommend it to anyone else for it's not a good or sure way to get to know anyone, but if you go to one of the Finn Riggins' Internet homes and you peruse their biographical material -- you know, just to find out a little more about the people making the sounds - you'll find that a little something is made about the three-piece's work ethic and where they spend their time when they're not humping it out on the road. It's said that Cameron Bouiss (drums, vocals), Lisa Simpson (guitars, keys, drums, vocals) and Eric Gilbert (keys, synths, guitar, vocals) - the three former University of Idaho music school buddies - play close to a 250 shows a year and spend the remainder of their time in near-isolation, out in the dense forest, on a mountain range, in a cabin they rent together, working on their music and such. There are all kinds of reasons that people choose to do such things and there are all different kinds of ways that such an environment begins to act on those people during the time spent secluded and cut off, aside from the distractions that they tote along with them. People can be tired of other people. People can need a good cleansing, some time to ponder and to try and grasp at some of the straws that they've been wrestling with. People can become crazy and people can become wiser when faced with such a living space (a space where everything you're surrounded by is living and breathing loudly), away from nearly everything - in a day and age when it's getting harder and harder to actually be away from anything, much less everything. It's something to think about what starts to take over in a heart, in a mind, in a soul, when they've reached the outskirts of the known and of the safe, where the further you press inward, the more you are recognizably on your own. It's when the clear channel or wavelength that you have inside - most often undetected or unheard - starts spitting fuzzy crackles and then disconnects entirely and the white noise that takes over is your nerves and your new salvation. Finn Riggins music is, to a great extent, uncontaminated. It's thought stripped of overwrought consideration - though such a statement does not imply that it's thought undercooked or void of serious consideration - and offered as messages as is and messages of urgent prospect. They are messages, that if they were lovers, they would be lovers who hadn't seen each other for a long time and couldn't get their clothing off fast enough. They are messages that exit the mouth with intellect and passion, but without process or preservatives. They are crunchy and raw and they interact with you as they go in. They are the greatest signs that more living is required, that nothing in the people who make them is anywhere close to being deceased or finished. Bouiss, Simpson and Gilbert all give us their uninterrupted misgivings, their concerns and celebrations - sometimes in the form of an instrumental - and they give them to us in flammable form.