Brooklyn based, O’Death’s live show is certainly a spectacle. If you have never been lucky enough to experience this, here is what to expect: a stage full of drunken men treating their instruments like rag dolls. There will be spitting and cursing -- possibly a rumble. You cannot help but be afraid. These dudes can kick your ass.
And these dudes kick ass too. Meshing genres that should mix like oil and water, they alter the elements enough to somehow create a wonderfully original sound. You will notice yourself stomping your feet to the country, bluegrass influences of the band. And you will also notice yourself shoving people to honor the punk rock of the group.
Yeah, you read that correct. Country-punk. Shit, isn’t this just what the world needs?
The problem is, the world will most likely turn a deaf ear. I’m listening though. And you should too.
Seen live, you are almost forced to join in with the bands antics. Shots of cheap whiskey will magically appear in front of you; you will get in a fistfight. The next morning after you pull the few crumpled ones remaining from your pocket and go buy a six-pack, you’ll wonder how that new CD, Head Home will ever translate to the studio. The energy would be gone, you think. The sheer rock n’ roll-ness of scruffy, shirtless men falling about on stage would never show up on a record. But you give it a try anyway. You pop in the album just as you pop open a beer.
The record opens with the eerie “Down to Rest”. Immediately you picture the hippie chick with the dreadlocks spinning in circles in your room and the hillbilly with the silly gums telling you that every song is his favorite. It’s like a live DVD for your brain.
And wait, there is another surprise waiting for you. If you are deficient of imagination, the songs are still good enough that the lacking of the on-stage insanity is OK. Think Neil Young on crack.
So, if you haven’t seen the band live, you will still enjoy the record. Each song has a troubled-youth-moves-from-small-town-USA-to-challenge-the-big-city vibe. Singer, Greg Jamie’s voice wobbles and moans about devils and rejects.
The mellow plucking of the banjo on “Travellin’ Man” and the speed-country of “All the World” both anger and confuse with it’s repeated refrain “I hope all the world is dead”.
Although it’s doubtful that O’Death will kick your ass, it’s understandable to be frightened. That is what O’Death wants – to show you the scary world through their eyes. And drink some beers along the way.
|