Murder By Death ooze hard-man, tattooed, cowboy charm. They’re not as dirty as I’d imagined (although it’s pretty dark, and after being in the Barfly for an hour or so, everybody’s dirty) but every bit as manly. They look exactly like cigarette and alcohol ravaged young men should – beards, sideburns, check shirts, earrings, all the gear.
They hail from Indiana and, I imagine, are hard drinking under-achievers. They don’t give a shit, of course, because they’re pissed, hopefully, but they’ve two albums out already in the U.S see, while their pending third long-player, In Bocca Al Lupo, will be the first on general release in England from March.
Three albums right, that’s like six years of hard toil with very little international reward, which, on this performance, is gob-smacking. Their sound is immense. Three dudes play the drums and geetars whilst petite female Sarah Balliet’s attractive hacking at her cello makes up a whisky-drenched, wild west sound pounding below the impressively lithe Adam Turla’s tales of jail break, lost love, alien invasions and the apocalypse. Indiana, it seems, gives one plenty of time to ponder.
I was cynical at first, big time, because there’s a real Johnny Cash-ness to Turla’s voice. “Deliberate, surely” - was my initial reaction. “These blood-sucking bastards are milking the world-weary Americana vibe,” was the immediate follow-up. But I think perhaps I’ll put aside my barbaric loyalty after this live show. His voice is monstrous and true and after all, MBD are all about the loyalty. To friends, family, fans, anyone on a wavelength: “I know there’s better brothers/but you’re the only one that’s mine,” they boom on new single Brother. Their craft is in storytelling, and they create blood-smattered, sweaty, sand-worn-boots-in-a-saloon-bar yarns. Clint Eastwood wouldn’t be out of place in the crowd; The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is on repeat on the tour bus.
This, of course, is probably bullshit. Clint Eastwood, believe it or not, isn’t actually a cowboy, but when it matters, you trust him. Perhaps MBD drink Smirnoff Ice and watch romantic comedies, but the point is, like the greats, like Cash, Dylan and Waits, they tell stories that are believable. Yes I can believe that Turla’s brother was in jail, why the hell not? I’m being hasty and presumptuous lumping them in with those three, perhaps the three greatest of all song-writers, but they are of similar ilk, and it’s a damn fine ilk.
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