Eric Bachmann burns from the inside out. It’s a slow, persistent burn, invoking in him a response as innate as any other human action: He makes music because, quite simply, that’s all that there is. It damages his health and compromises his relationships. It has led him to seek out other answers. But instead of opting for a straighter path, he revitalizes his craft time and again, constantly evolving as a musician, finding in himself the darkest moments, those unforgiving elements that comprise the most profound of artistic accomplishments. His words are often plaintive and searching, commenting on human experience, old parables, broken souls, his own stoic discontent. His compositions have been anchored in Americana, the roots of an Appalachian upbringing. But even though he’s remained reflexive and brooding, he also looks outward to welcome distant flavors of the wider world, rendering his an art that is honest and, ultimately, uncompromising.

If you don’t know who Eric Bachmann is by name, you probably know one of his projects: Archers of Loaf, Barry Black, or Crooked Fingers.

The first time I met him was back in February of 2007. I was with a friend who was interviewing him for a documentary being made about the rise of indie rock, and we caught up with him before his supporting set to talk about his first band, Archers of Loaf, an off-kilter noise rock outfit that helped usher in the underground college radio movement of the early ’90s. Bachmann seemed slightly befuddled that we had driven an hour to talk to him about something that, in his words, he “could barely remember,” but nonetheless we sat outside in the smoking area and conversed about a chapter in his life that he has long since shut, a time that was merely an introduction to what has become a long and storied musical career.

His set that night was to promote his recent solo release, a stripped-down record called To the Races. As he sat alone on the theater stage with his guitar, cast in a warm hue of light, he projected to the silent, seated crowd some of the most affecting music I’d heard—so different from his early, noisy roots—and, immediately afterwards, I bought a CD from him with the wholehearted realization that this is the kind of musician I want to give my money to.

You could see the appreciation in his eyes. And also that burn.

Bachmann, the frontman and principal songwriter of Archers of Loaf, was a saxophone major turned English student that went to Appalachian State before moving to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Archers of Loaf hit the local scene and then spread out and permeated the core of what was going on in underground American rock, peeking out into the mainstream long enough to reject an offer from Madonna’s Maverick Records, securing a bastion of DIY ethics that never tipped in the other (more commercial) favor. The Archers of Loaf ended up putting out a handful of albums before breaking up in 1998, never really catapulting out of that college radio territory, a choice that helped set a precedent for indie ethics that has resounding impact still today.

After the Archers broke up, Bachmann remained a working musician. To date, he’s released nearly a dozen albums under three different monikers, including his own name and Barry Black, but his main project became Crooked Fingers, a quieter, darker, more poignant collection of material, lush and affecting and moody.

He has never, and probably will not ever, become a part of the mainstream musical landscape.

It’s not only the quality of his catalog that remains consistently excellent, but his work ethic and dedication has earned him the kind of accolades that are contingent on a somewhat esoteric legion of fans. In a day and age where the music industry as we know it is crumpling and everyone with a song in their head has the capability to make it heard should they desire, it is steadfast discipline and unwavering focus on his craft that makes Bachmann a quietly heroic musician.

On the eve of the release of his newest Crooked Fingers album, Forfeit/Fortune, he spoke to us about the entirety of his career and that relentless burn that keeps him making music.

Crawdaddy!: Let’s talk about the new record. What made you want to go back and make another Crooked Fingers record and not do another Eric Bachmann album?

Eric Bachmann: Well, the Eric Bachmann record was kinda accidental… it just sort of happened, because of certain circumstances with where I was. It was more of an interruption than a change. I ended up living in my van, writing about 13 or 14 songs that became To the Races. And it was almost like a sidetrack. So everything about that was unintentional.

Crawdaddy!: The stripped-down approach was something that complemented your songwriting very well. Seems like your fans and reviewers agree.

Bachmann: I am happy as one can be with something they make. I don’t know if I’m ever completely happy with the record I make, but I do just think it was sort of this thing that happened, and it wasn’t contrived, and in that sense I think it was an accurate documentation of where I was at the time.

I think some people could perceive that when you make a record you’re trying to make this perfect thing, that you’re trying to make a statement of some kind, and for me, really, it’s about documenting where I am at a specific time, ya know? It enables me to finish something. And if you can take the weight off of it, it’s a larger finish. If it was always this important thing you were trying to do, then you put too much pressure on yourself and can’t get anything done. It’s hard to think about it in terms of how it’s received or whatever when you sorta die on this thing [laughs].

As I get older, I almost try not to read reviews. I just feel like the older I get the less I give a shit. To some degree, that’s creatively quite healthy. Maybe I should have been more indifferent when I was younger, in my 20s or whatever, but now if I read a review on Pitchfork or whatever, I just don’t care. I just think ‘whaatt?’ It doesn’t matter to me that much. You know you have to do another one. What are they going to do, say you suck? That’s it. That’s what you got. It’s not going to keep you from doing it.