Growling and crooning, muttering about lost love, brimstone, and the glorious view from the underside of a rusty world-order, Owen holds the rhythm on mandolin and foot percussion. To his left, Bobby stretches bass notes into lyrical vines that vibrate somewhere north of your liver and flower unexpectedly at night. This is the kind of roots music that grows through the cracks in a West Philly sidewalk and drinks its rainwater laced with motor oil.

Formerly known as Driftwood Soldier, the duo now make music as Makeshift Hammer: sometimes as a two-piece, sometimes as eight limbs of a many-headed collective, always as fellow travelers through an imperfect world, telling each other stories throughout the long night.