I’ve recently stumbled across some alarming news: There are new forefathers of punk rock. Apparently, their very existence had been unbeknownst to all of us until the recent advent of a reunion of sorts. Just last week I had so callously proclaimed all such “events” as half-empty-drivel, but a recent show at The Monkey House in Winooski, Vermont, Death came back to life.

There will be a lot of angry “authentically punk” fans who will declare that fore fathering-choosing isn’t retroactive. These people are probably Lester Bangs-impersonators whose collective pursuit of edgy-cool-hipster-decadence comes across as hyper-trite, and rehearsed nonsensical sludge is laden across underachieving music blogs the world over. In fact, many of these individuals will probably have claimed to have heard about Death before news broke of their brief existence, and even have an extensive knowledge of their menacingly relevant catalogue, which is hardly as possible as they would lead on.

The fact of the matter is, the band in question sounds like a blistering version of the Ramones if Iggy Pop had come into the studio and lead them through a slew of tunes dedicated to more than three-chord synergy. It only takes one listen to get sucked in, and I guarantee all members of The Clash (if all were still alive) would fall in love with Death, a band that rocks just as hard, and sounds equally invigorating, fresh and addictive.

Music, particular of the punk rock variety, is supposed to sound life changing. Let’s be real, it certainly isn’t as such, but there are a select few bands that have created a catalogue of music that shatter previous boundaries and broaden the sonic-horizons of their listeners. Each year we are inundated with a whole gamete of new artists who largely recycle the tried-and-true templates created by those who came before them. Though there are occasionally exceptional groundbreakers among them, so many new acts make a very good living off of mimicking their heroes.

Is this right? Does this pass as art? It doesn’t matter. This is simply the way it is.

Remember the turn of the century? The surging slew of “The” bands that collectively hounded us with a “retro sound” that brought rock “back” to the forefront of popular music? It hadn’t really gone anywhere, but this is what rock-journalists do: They concoct stories about the looming death of a particular sound, and feverishly promote rock groups that remind them of music that used to be important.

This is what’s great about Death. Their songs simply deliver the essence of all the potential a true rock composition can have. There is no hint of posing. No trite pretentiousness. No unnecessary fourth refrain. No thrift-clothes-laden Williamsburg photo sessions.

I may be hypocritical for hounding Rolling Stone, or Spin for making good bands seem exceptional just because they “revived” an art-form that was down to its last blistering guitar solo, by giving you reason after reason to give Death a try. I don’t care. I’m not that smart.. What I do know is that when you hear something that gives you goosebumps, it’s absolutely necessary to spread the word.

So, before you “rock purists” go slinging your MacBook-concocted stones at the relevance of Death, listen to … For the World to See as soon as possible. I dare you to try and slight how important their music sounds. In an era where you can buy your “punk look” at Target, Death brings life back to the genre. Deal with it.

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Categories: Features, The Dago Dish
Tags: Death