Murder By Death

I don’t know a whole lot about Indiana, the state Murder By Death call home, but if the subject matter of their songs is anything to go by it’s a place to be avoided by lily-livered sorts such as myself. Adam Turla – tall, striking, gruff of voice – sings of violence and whiskey, brotherly love spread across a single paramour, and delivers all manner of other more-than-slightly left-of-centre regalings. Possibly – sometimes specifics are lost to the turbulent atmosphere, clarity forsaken for crackling amplification that could pop an ear drum a mile away. He coughs and splutters explanations between songs, songs characterised by a venomous streak uncommon in such bands – those that look so world-wearily rustic that you’re certain nothing more than mid-tempo Americana strums and brushes are to come at you, loosely and unhurried.

Nothing so polite ever creeps its way from Murder By Death. Like their name wasn’t a large-enough clue, this is a bloody, visceral experience; it’s the sound of Two Gallants’ murderous lamentations shrink-wrapped by Tim Kasher and shipped to a Korean film studio, ready for implementation in some 18-certificate flick or other. Something about revenge, you know the sort of picture we’re suggesting here…

Sarah Balliet wraps herself around a cello, but this is no classical recital: she slices at her instrument’s strings as if wielding a sword above a fallen mortal enemy, each downward arch of arm and flick of wrist and twitch of fingers bringing her closer to victory. She will overcome this obstacle, with energy to spare; later she’ll explode this excess bent over a keyboard, her moaning keys expanding creakily chaotic compositions that know not if they’re the work of hardened punk-rockers or archaic country folk with x-percent proof blood and beady eyes dirtied by an endless prairie of decay and desolation.

It’s all so unpredictable in its execution, this set of jerky arrangements that often begin with a semblance of calm only to erupt and splinter into a thousand razor-sharp shards of hostility and confrontation; the front row knows not whether to nod along politely so as to avoid any physical face-to-facers with those before them, go wild as if in the most brilliantly convulsing mosh pit, or simply get the hell out of Dodge. DiS, stood rocking on toes at the venue’s rear, simply cowers when a glare comes its way. Duck and cover – it’s the best course of action when any other option could lead to an Indiana handshake. We don’t know what that is, mind – we might’ve just made it up, but it sure sounds nasty.

Not that Murder By Death seem as such, nasty, come their departure – guitars may lie exhausted, drum skins hammered into slackness, but each participant wears a mask of friendliness; the cello sits upright, proud to have survived the onslaught its master inflicted upon it, while she denies the whole thing. Smiles spread from left to right, across the faces of the four-piece, domino style; it’s unnerving. Click, clack, bang, slap: over and off to another show, another collection of eyes and ears and souls to threaten and throats to press a blade against. Metaphorically, of course.

Right?