Murder By Death hail from Bloomington, Indiana, United States; and they look amazing. Frontman Adam Turla is sporting the best sideburns in rock whilst wearing a jacketless, pin-striped three-piece suit. Cool as fuck. Drummer, Dagan Thogerson, looks like Steveo from Jackass in a flat hat, and bassist Matt Armstrong is wearing black, and chain smoking, in a strictly non-smoking venue. Awesome. There’s also a funky female on cello – more about her later.
Sound-wise, they’ve two things that set them apart from others of their ilk: said cello, and Turla’s doom riddled and heart wrenching story-telling – vaguely reminiscent of Waits and Dylan at their image invoking best thy are. This being so, you’d think they’d make an effort to highlight them both. You’d think.
No problems with the cello, played like a weapon by Sarah Balliet, the dainty counterpart to the three burly dudes aside her. The vocals though, jeez. Tonight, it’s as if any old clumsy wordsmith is up there, not the imaginative, world-weary, whiskey soaked troubadour/rocker that Turla normally is.
They’re solid without the lyrics for sure, and their more chorus-laden rocky numbers, ‘Boy Decide’ par example, kick ass. But solidity is bullshit, anyone can do solid and these hard drinkin’, tough talkin’ scrappers know it. It’s left to the one-man-and-his-guitar showstopper ‘Shiola’ to do the man justice: “She sleeps in comfort in my arms/she is plain but she is mine… Is it wrong to love a family of ghosts?” he croons in the best Johnny Cash impression that exists right now.
Album highlights ‘Brother’ and ‘Sometimes The Line Walks You’ (more Cash homage) are cascading, rollicking, demonised rock ‘n’ roll tunes played right, but you need the words to fully engage.
Thank God for Balliet then, yielding her cello as if she means to do harm. So jagged are her movements that she appears like a puppet on a string, a mechanised doll or a dark angel. She’s a beautiful torturess playing with your heart strings whilst the rest of the band beats the living shit out of you and spits Budweiser in your face. She’s so damn entrancing that you don’t even realise your own misfortune until your bleeding and stinking of piss; and even then, you just don’t care. You just feel kinda warm and stupid.
Murder By Death, when (not if) they get the sound right, will soon be ripping up a saloon near you… I suggest you get involved.
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