A Few Quick Notes From A Murder City Devils Gig + 12 Songs
After years of being a fan, I finally saw the Murder City Devils for the first time last night in San Diego, and it was every bit as disastrous as I had hoped it would be. We’ll start with their singer, Spencer Moody.
Spencer is something of a human mic stand, i.e. when he isn’t ripping his vocal chords to shreds, red-faced with the veins in his forehead bulging, he prefers to keep the mic where he knows he won’t lose it: in his mouth. The resulting sound is a sort of guttural whale song that lingers for most of the set.
Their guitarist Dann Gallucci mostly wandered around the stage, entering and exiting songs at his own leisure with no regard for musical cues. Didn’t bother with tuning, either.
Many rock drummers go by a dependable loud, quiet, loud formula that tends to keep things dynamic (think Dave Grohl, The Pixies’ David Lovering). But Coady Willis offers a much simpler alternative: Loud, louder, louder still.
The keyboardist and bass player may have been the only sonically-dependable members. But then again the venue botched the mix so badly, it was honestly hard to tell.
After Spencer closed the set with a 15 minute tequila-soda fueled-rant about discovering Iggy Pop’s Metallic K.O. as a child, everyone began to slowly shuffle past the bar and out the door, and I heard more than a few blasé remarks about the bands performance:
“...looks like ol’ Spencer went from Rum to Whiskey a few too many times again…”
“...is that actually how their records sound?”
“... That was simultaneously the best and worst show I’ve ever seen.”
I understood the cynicism. We had all just payed $50 to see - dare I say - a “legacy act”, and by all technical accounts, the show was an absolute trainwreck. But what were they expecting? A cover band?
I for one felt like I had gotten my money’s worth. I thoroughly enjoyed the entire evening, even the hilariously-disastrous rendition of Patti Smith’s “Pissing in a River.” If they had been any tighter, more well-rehearsed, or contained in their energy, I would’ve felt cheated. After all, the Murder City Devils represent a dying breed of rock and roll that thrives on the edge of disaster, even if that means losing the tempo and/or missing a few notes from time to time. And there’s something to be said about that. —Jackson Todd
