Cut Apart, Pieced Together Again: The Handcrafted Music of Truman Finnell
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Ask anyone, and they’ll probably agree that being online constantly isn’t good for you: it’s all too easy to waste hours scrolling and switching from app to app. However, there are a few things that make the internet worth it, especially if you’re a music nerd like me. One of those things is exposure to artists and musicians so underground it’s by pure luck that you ever come across them. That’s how I discovered Truman Finnell, a creative based in Portland, Oregon. My bandmate sent me Truman’s profile on Instagram to show me his brilliant collage art. I was immediately drawn to his work, but as I scrolled his page, I noticed he also made music. ‘Cool,’ I thought and made a mental note to check him out later. Later came around, and I put on his most recent album, Fischer + Agnes, to discover that it was incredible. I was enchanted. Truman’s music is much like his artwork: a collage of magical riffs, toy-instrument synths, and fuzzed-out guitars that create a rich landscape full of depth and secrets.
And it begins to tear, by Truman Finnell
Prior to releasing his two albums, Truman started to compose his dream world with a series of delicately evocative singles. His earliest song, “Carpet Patterns,” was released in 2020, and this track proves from the very beginning that Truman’s art and music are inexorably linked. A variety of samples, instruments, and textures pull the listener in like Alice through Truman’s looking glass – we are in Wonderland, and every song is a delightfully eerie creation. Haunting imagery adorns the dioramas of his songs: in “The Black of the Geese,” Truman quavers through layers of his own voice, “Go out ye fisherman, I’ve strung five hearts to a fractured ring tied twice to trees appendages.” We, as the listener, are hesitant – scared, even – to step into the scene, but cannot stop ourselves from looking.
Finnell’s first full-length album from 2021, The Mountains and the Lake, is a haunting ode to sadness - wistful vocals reminiscent of Sufjan Stevens grace tracks with heartfelt acoustic guitar and warm layers of synth. Truman has created a melancholic yet cozy record that feels like staying home on a snow day with a mug of tea that somehow never gets cold. “Milktooth,” my favorite track on the album, is a bizarre experience that reminds me of how it feels to wake up at 2 am, half-dreaming and fully disoriented. The track begins with eerily distorted vocals, and as it progresses, things feel more and more like a dream as pitch-bending lends instability and a sense of dread: “Little train / slithering snake / shed your scales / in the union station / and I will try mine / in the hollering woods / of Abruzzi Italy” screams Truman, over rhythm so thunderous and eager that it trips over itself in a surge of emotion. Later in the album, he examines grief and remorse in “Bill.” On the song, Bill, Finnell’s uncle, asks him, “Nephew, don’t you think of me so often? Or / was my impression but as deep dug as my coffin? / Aren’t the roots below / just a reflection of the branches above? / Don’t the nightingale / sound a bit like the mourning dove?”
Pressed Between Pages Unread, by Truman Finnell
Truman continues to tenderly construct a delicate collage on his next album, 2022’s Fischer + Agnes, soaking his soundscape with darker hues and gentle riffs that skip across the ear. If his first album felt like staying in, this one feels like having the courage to step out the front door and take a walk in the woods. “Shaved Head” is an aching and painful breath as Truman murmurs softly to himself,
The mirror that held the self begins to melt
beneath the cleaners constellation
that I spread in hopes to disinfect
the oils from my fingers gathered
thick enough to linger through the
mornings measured nothing
once they’re preened
of all their smudges.
I’m reminded of the seminal scene from The Royal Tenenbaums where Luke Wilson faces himself in a mirror and, stricken with heartbreak, shaves his head while Elliott Smith plays in the background. While much of this album is calm and dark, the final track, “Pliers,” is reminiscent of the indie scene of the 2000s. The song is instrumentally exuberant like Regina Spektor and full of heavy pain like Bon Iver. “I know there’s a night like a key / on a ring you rely on to guide your thumb / to the right one to get you inside the house / And the pull that you felt for a life overrun by the songs that you hum never left / It sits chirping on your office desk.” We are left wondering, ‘Is this song about me? What night is my own key on a ring?’ while lush strings shimmer around us and fade into darkness.
To bring his discography current, Truman ushers in springtime with his latest song, “Palm of Thorns,” a gorgeous single in anticipation of an EP to be released later in 2024. Compared to his previous work, “Palm of Thorns” feels more experimental and avant-garde. Truman paints a picture of a lonely orchard, misty and damp, backed by the ambiance of crashing waves and murmuring frogs. “In the garden the apple is starting to move on its own / fallen, writhing with larvae / now clusters of mammals approach but don’t dare to push snout to the fruit, / bring a flame to its candle.” We are not alone here, for in the next breath, another joins us in the orchard: “But you / with drool on your face / and a bushel of apples pressed into your waist / just laughed […].” As I listen, it feels as though I’m watching cloudy memories through a View-Master, moving from snapshot to snapshot with erratic fingers. While the song begins with sparse instrumentation, it quickly builds through layers of synth and guitar, and Truman’s signature skramz vocals lend searing beauty to this melancholy landscape. I am loath to abandon the orchard, but dusk is upon us, and we must leave the figures here in silence.
While I can’t always travel to the forest or the rocky coasts of the Pacific Northwest, Truman Finnell’s music is the next best escape. It will transport you to a quiet meadow, spotted with mossy groves of redwoods and deep, damp shadows. Wander through his elaborate collages of sound and part the branches to spot spirits of the forest, dancing in groves strung with bleeding hearts and haunted by the call of the mourning dove. Magic is real, and it lives forever here.
Britta Joseph is a musician and artist who, when she isn’t listening to records or deep-diving emo archives on the internet, enjoys writing poetry, reading existential literature, and a good iced matcha. You can find her on Instagram @brittajoes.
