O'Death @ The New Party Club, April 2006

The New Party Club might not have a compelling name, and with just two bands listed on the flyer we found on live journal last week, for an event said to span 7.5 hours, we weren't really sure how to hit it. Turns out 11pm was perfect. If I could spell the name of the young woman who greeted us charmingly at the door, who runs the space, I would type it right now. The ground level studio was spacious, and lined with about five doors leading to bedrooms. There was a comfortable living room atmosphere--because it kind of is their living room--but classy with black cloth-draped tables and candles set around the performance area, plenty of hors dervs, and a recesed bar that served beer, wine, rum, and the strongest sangria ever made. It was warm, and steeped with cloves, which just enhanced the potency.

But to get to the point: We arrived just in time for O' Death to play, who I was hoping to see. I had become familiar with their music via myspace, but this was the first show for me. They apparently play frequently throughout the city, and I'll now be sure to follow them.

The band exists in this communal paradox of charasmatic symbolism. Aside from mentioning their name a couple of times, they were comfortably indifferent to the crowd throught the set. But their confidence and skill made them accesible nonetheless. The songs' balladic emotional narratives came across, though it was rare to make out the words. Their friends and few fans who had made it to the party knew the words well, but it was like seeing a punk band that you don't know and everyone's singing but you; you don't understand a thing but you still get it. There were no song explanations, no dawdling; just songs. Great songs after great songs.

The main singer, who plays guitar, kicks off rounds for the banjo and fiddle players, and drummer. The latter two didn't have microphones, but could be heard just fine, thank you. The musicianship on the part of these three players is impressive when singled out, but serves the whole unflinchingly. The drummer played louder than I imagine anyone has ever heard for bluegrass. By the third song his shirt was off, and he began standing up consistently, evidently in order to hit the drums harder. The fiddler got sweaty too, and it wasnt really even that warm in the place.

The recordings are different because you can understand everything; and maybe the words are easier to make out at larger-venue shows. But seeing them here was like sitting down for a story told in a foreign language, in which everything one needs to hear is somehow communicated.

-Dave