Case Oats, Henry True
Johnny Brenda’s
1201 Frankford Ave.
Philadelphia
May 10, 2026
One of my mom’s favorite words, and most-often-used positive adjectives, is “fabulous” – usually “fab” for short. The weather? “It’s so fab today.” The pool? “Fabulous day for the pool.” That one bar that has her favorite margaritas? Well, they’re fab too. It was Mother’s Day and I was thinking about her and how she always tells me I’m a fabulous writer (but is generally too busy being fabulous to read my pieces, bless her heart) so in honor of her, for this recap of the Case Oats show at Johnny Brenda’s, the operative word is fab, because that’s how mi madre would have described their set, marg in hand.
The Chicago band is in the earliest stage of a two-week tour in support of last year’s Last Missouri Exit, though they’ve seemingly already got a bunch of new songs ready to workshop on stage. They just played a couple shows, in Ohio and New York, without fiddler Scott Daniels – last seen (by me) backing up Greg Freeman in late January at Ukie Club – before linking up here in Philly, and boy am I glad for it: Daniels was transcendent throughout the Case Oats set, with a BLAZING solo on a fabulous new song I think was called “Closer," played in A-flat, of all the unfriendly fiddle keys (the Suzuki method works, folks!). Daniels added dimension to what was already a locked-in, seriously sizzling – dare I say, fab? – four-piece band: singer-guitarist Casey Walker, drummer Spencer Tweedy, guitarist Max Subar and bassist Jason Ashworth played with obvious empathy and close listening. (“These are my best friends in the world, and I’m so lucky I get to play music with them,” Walker said before their last song, and truly, it was evident in the music, their chemistry natural, unforced and obvious.) Tweedy in particular is a revelatory drummer: you could listen to only his playing and imagine the entire song around his parts, his touch imbued with the fingerprints of songwriter brain, with great dynamic control and a frenetic-yet-pocketed, active, flickering style – he seemingly had five or six distinct ways of hitting each drum, each cymbal, making a stripped-down kit sound vast through what he can conjure from it.
The whole band played with that sort of – to borrow some choice words from a Chicago literary classic – fineness and accuracy of detail, stuffing the nooks and crannies of their arrangements artfully, with pointillistic information worth savoring. And as if that weren’t enough, four-part harmonies! Subar, Ashworth and Tweedy backed up Walker warmly, and she was clearly in her element, singing with aplomb whether strumming her old sunburst Gibson or swaying with the mic off the stand, reminding me of Cat Power at her most soulful. (Shouts out to the sound engineers at Johnny Brenda's, as usual.) A set-closing, six-minute-plus new song, I think called “Wonderful” – might I suggest an alternate, mom-centric version, perhaps called “Fabulous” – was a true barnburner that could have justifiably been three times as long, a propulsive, gradually-building ripper that gave me chills, Walker’s singing giving way to a shout, repeating over and over: “I still / Dream wonderful things!” the band leaning into the insistent, intentional still of it all, wringing the rag to the very last drop.
