America.
A dilapidated establishment on the edge of the desert. Shadows stretching at the feet of a few solitary, dry, and gnarled bushes. And the rest is sand. Soil. Dust.
A sparse group of men with dark, thick skin made insensitive by decades of violent rays pass chewed-up cigars, awkwardly passing the time exchanging a few gruff words.
Under the neon sign that lights up one letter yes and three no, they relish the smell of moldy wood and glasses of Bourbon. Unkempt beards, clinking glasses, the aroma of tobacco, and yellowed fingers. Street life.
Dust. Dust. Dust.
This is "Head Home". An album, Newyorkese in date, which has absolutely nothing trendy or technological. Another fine disc that absorbs all the visceral nature of the typical, vivid American sound and will inevitably find its place under the New Weird America genre, currently distinctly overcrowded.
Listening to O'Death for the first time, the image of a group of over-40 fanatics with cheeks permanently flushed by pints of Rouge American haunted me constantly. Instead, the subjects in question are five guys, fanatics indeed, but twenty something, just at the dawn of their careers. They formed in 2003 and began performing in New York for a series of gigs from which they recorded a short live CD-R, Carl Nemelka Family Photographs. "Head Home" is their second album dated 2007.
Old acoustic guitars, banjos, and omnipresent violins reinforce arid, crooked, and precarious melodies "sung" by a nasal, scratched voice, prematurely worn out by whiskey and cigarettes of the inebriated singer. O'Death kicks off with a bristly, ghostly, and chaotic Alt Country, enthusiastic strumming of ukuleles, and euphoric, drunken choruses that will rarely soften, on occasions of nostalgic and bittersweet acoustic ballads (Jesus Look Down, Travellin' Man).
They tease the palate with the rasping pleas of "Down To Rest", rowdy rustic rhymes (Busted Old Church), the western stride of Lee, and two rough Punk rides with balls but no electric guitar (All The World, Allie Mae Reynolds), fully satisfying it with the beautiful "Adelita" and "Only Daughter", twilight chants that explode into percussive delirium, unorganized shouts, and plates cheerfully clattered haphazardly and episodes distinctly Violent Femmes (Nathaniel). And while our folks launch into another of their rough, exquisitely rural frenzies, Dock Boggs clearly emerges from his corner, continually referenced by these five kids who "distort" his already inherently dirty and awkward music, tormenting it with drunken choruses, tormented violin strings, and a deliberately rowdy spirit.
The typical sounds of American tradition exaggerated to excess, demonically Hillbilly, the high alcohol content of Punk, dirt roads and solitude. And an old man is left alone outside the bar. He is turned towards the horizon, his skin wrinkled, and deep lines hiding years of abandonments, departures, wanderings, and returns. His eyes narrowed to slits to shield from the fiery, dusty sun.
"I'm not ashamed of who I am, although I'm just a travellin' man. I've got nobody left to call me friend."
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