Modern Life Is War
Witness

Once I passed through Barstow, a small town of twenty thousand souls in the middle of nowhere in San Bernardino County. A rather impressive stagnation, surrounded by the first dusty hints of desert, a fleeting and transitory place, where you mostly hope to stop only for gas and not stay for an extended period. A small town where your first desire must be, by necessity, to build your life elsewhere, maybe further south, in Los Angeles, in search of the California dream. So, why this introduction? To introduce you to Marshalltown, Iowa. A place set in the agricultural-industrial Midwest, made of endless straight roads and plains that blend into the most vacuous nothingness, expanses broken only by Des Moines and little else. And yet, from there, in a place that might be insignificant to most, they were born: Modern Life Is War. Capable of forever placing on maps, not only geographical ones, an anonymous little town. Five kids who grew up together, a family, you might say. Since they were young, trying to put together bands, playing in a rundown club rather than going to a squat for fun, immersed in the music they love. And they adore hardcore punk, the tough kind, and when they decide to bring Modern Life Is War to life, they go further, they redefine it, they update it, very simply, they create their winning formula. And we are all witnesses to it, Witness indeed, year of grace 2005.

So, do you remember the California dream I mentioned before? You will find many dreams here, all shattered, like glass violently breaking on the ground. Sharp shards that cannot be pieced back together. It’s the scenario of a disillusioned middle class, recounted with extreme clarity by that storyteller Jeffrey Eaton, in a deadly mix of introspective references, where the tormented personality of someone who feels like they’re walking a thin line, about to snap, emerges, and who feels the need to scream their weaknesses and resentments towards a gray world with all the energy in their body. It's a shattering shockwave that grows as the vinyl spins on the home setup. You can imagine the sunset of a monotonous day, maybe even a rainy one, with a lousy salary and the unbearable weight of staying tied to Marshalltown, in an unbearable equilibrium, seeing burnt-out generations, aware of being the next to succumb to that fate. Or maybe not, it could be different. And Jeffrey frankly tells you “So what the fuck you are going to do, kid?”, but he doesn’t stop there, he’s a flood of rage that sweeps away everything in its path. He picks up references from graphic novels (Martin Atchet) along the way to bring to light the sense of marginalization one can suffer, with impetuous abrasiveness he brings to light wars that are not only within the soul, but are damn real and take away neighbors, grown alongside you, like John & Jimmy. Invented characters? Real facts? Ask him, everything is in function of fighting the anomie and annihilation of one's own personality.

A limbo that involves Jeffrey’s companions in adventure, a drama where melody tries to surface in a wall of sound made of distortions that grow harsher until they reach unbearable climaxes, which somehow must explode. And they do, oh yes, they do. There is ample space for more intimate and reflective moments, but when Modern Life Is War decides it’s time to hit the accelerator toward those melancholic symptoms, there’s no room left for anyone else. They try to see the light, to seek hope in the streets of Marshalltown, and the most concrete testimony (it all comes back) can only be the one experienced on their own skin, that keeps your eyes wide open at night. A sense of insecurity reiterated by this continuous whirlwind and visceral alternation between enlightening openings and bone-breaking assaults. A speed that is expertly dosed and calibrated to perfection, appearing right at the moment to hit you directly in the stomach. The crescendos are always marked by an impeccable Jeffrey Eaton, who keeps the reins of the show firmly, aware of having precious allies like Matt, John, Chris, and Tyler in the anxieties that are bringing the sword of Damocles ever closer to the heads of our protagonists. No margin for error, the mechanism is well-oiled and works incessantly.

The nostalgic flow quickly comes to an end, it seems like a little snapshot, a perfect freeze-frame, not at all glittering, but tremendously truthful, like the 1896 photograph placed there on the cover by Jacob Bannon, depicting Main Street in Marshalltown. It’s clear from the presentation: we are Modern Life Is War and we are from here. We don’t hide it, indeed, we tell you with all the passion that flows through our veins. We don’t care if you don’t recognize yourself in our words, but this is who we are, without filters. Sincere and raw. Wrapped in a reality that seems like an endless cold winter, we try to react, to say our piece, to create something that can change the cards on the table. One last desperate hand,

because We’re all D.E.A.D. R.A.M.O.N.E.S.