O’Death - Head Home (City Slang)
4/5
By: Chris O'Toole
An album made from broken glass and dried blood. The sort of thing you wake up next morning and try and forget, a modern country-rock record (and I don't mean that as an insult), a cathartic run through decades of tradition in a few minutes, banjo drive, jug band recalling, ironic scene styled posturing good times. O'Death are a country band from the city; a modern amalgamation of influence, irony and style. They create hysterical, overwrought country stomps, with a tinge of irony and spoonful of melancholy regret. Their second album, Head Home, is at once an apology and a threat; the band seem to want to dance to forget their troubles, but no matter how fast they play, or how fast they run, there seems to be no escape from their blues.
While they are from New York, there is one genuine Southern musician in the ensemble; drummer David Rogers-Berry from South Carolina. The state has also contributed Iron & Wine and Band of Horses to the contemporary rock cannon of late, and this is the sole source of cultural heritage the group draw upon. The rest of O'Death hail from the city and imitate the sound of the country; third hand and stolen from books and films. At this distance, holed up in north London, its impossible to tell the two apart, but there are too many influences stirred into the bathtub moonshine for this to be authentic campfire country rock. Nonetheless, vocalist Greg Jamie and his troop perform admirably, grafting influence onto talent to create an evil, stylised hybrid of anachronistic country and modern rock.
'Down to Rest', sounds akin to Jim James if he had recorded anywhere except in a deep-south silo. The reverb is on vacation, but the grainy, aching authenticity is there. The banjo-lead stomp accompanying sounds like the score to a more introverted moment of a David Lynch movie, off-kilter like a misfiring projector; you have to squint to make out the disturbing images on the screen. There is also a feeling of fun, despite the ghoulish content, as if at the drop of a straw hat the group could break out into a speed-fuelled hoedown. In fact, in the opening bars of 'Adelita', that is exactly what does happen, with the banjo of Gabe Darling coming to the fore in order to lead a home made whiskey driven square-dance; the floor is covered in broken bottles and feet are bleeding, but nobody will notice till the sun comes up.
'Allie Mae Reynolds' is a tongue in cheek out-and-out country track; chase music for the hard streets of suburbia. The drum kit of rusty old tin cans, cymbals with bites taken out of them and motorbike chains is put too good use, being smashed about the room like a beaten housewife by her gin soak husband. Whoops are replaced by curdling screams as the track gathers pace, like a freight train speeding out of control, losing one wheel at a time. It's verging on cliché, but, like Gogol Bordello, there is enough impish charm and novelty to keep the listener interested for a while. 'O Lee O' returns to the affected, damaged vocals of the country-bumpkin turned hip urbanite, leading another clattering, howling chorus of the faithful, but the tone is mournful; lost out in the desert plains of Central Park, literally minutes from home.
'Travelin' Man' suggests the groups New York origins, sounding more like Jeffery Lewis than Dock Boggs, putting aside the sneering, drunken malevolence of the majority of the album, for a passing attempt at heartfelt sincerity. It calls to mind pretending not to be drunk when you crawl into bed with your gal in order to secure what you want from her, whilst all the time knowing your not going to remember a single second of it; up to you whether you believe them or not. The track is also the entrance to the more subdued second half of the album. The banjo still calls out frantically and the rickety guitars are still strummed with vigour, but everything is mixed down as a slow burning sobriety takes hold. 'Only Daughter' has a more plaintive tone, harmonies and a sense of regret, while gothic spirituality dominates 'Jesus Look Down'. 'All The World' picks things right back up, seemingly a competition to who can play fastest with the prize being the girl in the gingham dress, for one night only.
The album seems to have been recorded in one night of drunken fervour; a whirlwind of ideas laced together, while speeding in the back of a car. Splinter wood reconstructed to appear new, dangerous shards sticking out demonstrate the insincerity, but the approximation is close to accurate. Far from being from the southern states of America, the group are a modern reworking of what they think it sounds like. It seems they would be beaten savagely and lynched by genuine southern folk, scared by their raucous racket and out of town ways. But 'Head Home' is a frantic collection, entertaining if not mesmerizing, insincere but no less believable because of it, a modern twist on old styles and endless blues.
Stream three tracks from 'Head Home' HERE.
Your Feedback
Login to post your comment