Death From Above 1979 - ‘You’re A Woman, I’m A Machine’ (679)
23 Feb 2005
pulverising duo from canada slay us with the release of their debut-lp. it's f**king monstrous, we tells ya; release - '05.
Death From Above 1979: one of the most engulfing live talents of recent years - witnessing a performance by the Canadian duo is akin to rebirth; affirmation of the genius you've encountered, yet at the expense of dumping all you've come to expect. Louder than bombs, they number just two, but their decibel-count is far less relenting. If one cautionary note could be levelled during the encounter, it'd be the lack of tunes.
This is where 'You're A Woman, I'm A Machine', the debut album, comes in - the brattish hybrid spawn of Deftones, Lightning Bolt and The Chemical Brothers, enveloping a two-pronged, yet multi-faceted talent that couldn't have been achieved in any other decade up to press. It's their chance to prove they're able to pen compositions up there with the best of them and not hide behind the shards of feedback.
Which they can. DFA1979 write anthems for the disgruntled, for the sexually perverse. Riffs, exerted under the dextrous girth of distorted, digitised bass, aren't merely infectious here - they're violent: tribal-like and a call-to-arms. Take single 'Romantic Rights' - the catchiest thing herein - and its disco-rock stomp; positively contagious, yet ultimately terrifying. It's not just the foundation-shaking bluster and neon bounce that excites us about Death From Above 1979 - it's the sheer magnitude and balls of it.
And, again, yes, there are just two of them. God bless the studio environment then. It makes them sound like an army - 'You're A Woman...' is multi-tracked, sonic heaven, filthy and turgid when it needs to be, but with hoarse and raw, sore vocals that lift it up. Opener 'Turn It Out' pulverises and churns with razor-sharp, crushing drums and darting metal riffage, Chino Moreno vocals and squeaky, four-string bits wherever there's space in between. Add the electro spark of 'Go Home, Get Down', White Stripes-locked-in-a-cellar paranoia of 'Blood On Our Hands', sped-up blues of 'Little Girl' and the self-explanatory, bongos-based 'Sexy Results', and it's a compulsive catalogue for years so young. Still don't get the three-second secret-track, though.
Versatile enough to defy their humble set-up, too intense to sit still, and addled with dreams of robot pop, Death From Above 1979 are the splendid, sordid future you've been yearning for. Just don't stand too close to the speakers; it'll last longer that way.