O’Death’s simmering take on punked up country music might have come off like a one trick pony if they weren’t so effective at riding the trick through an hour plus set. They also seem to bring along a crowd of devotees, who moshed and lipsynched alongside, in turn doing their part to drive greenhouse temperatures at Glasslands alarmingly towards tropical. (I’m afraid of the festering swamp this Williamsburg warehouse space will become in July.)
The band often carried its melodies on dense layers of vocal harmony that managed to do battle with the decibels they generated on their instruments. Fiddler Bob Pycior kept thick, crunchy lines flowing above the mix, with the rest of the band ceaselessly pushing the 32oz steak rhythms along (on banjo, bass, guitar and drum.) Their 16oz steak-sized rhythms. The drummer needed a motor fuel IV drip just to make it through the set.
Can you really fake hick this good?