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Just… Because… We’re old… And gray… Doesn’t… Mean… We’ll go… Away…
Just. Because. We’re old. And gray. Doesn’t. Mean. We’ll go. Away.
JUST BECAUSE WE’RE OLD AND GRAY, DOESN’T MEAN WE’LL GO AWAY
I’m certain Sir James Plotkin and His Lordship Alan Dubin did not intend to offer up such a relatable album for folks like me when they released the crumbling debut from Old Lady Drivers back in 1988, but as an up-and-coming starting forward for The Olds myself, I can say that I’ve found a fresh perspective on the record as I drift ever closer to actually becoming the full codger version of “Total Hag,” or an actual “Supermarket Monstrosity.” This prospect remains funny to me, but the amusement is… Steeped in more insight. Yes, thankfully I’m still a fair distance away from scaring / scarring children just by dragging myself across the cereal aisle, but there’s a newfound awareness of kismet afoot. Main point: Is it funny getting older? Yes, in a number of unexpected ways it is, but it’s funny in a way that can only be fully understood by those fated to endure it.
How about fun? Is it fun getting older? No, not fucking really, because “with age comes wisdom” is only part of the equation, Oscar Wilde, you dapper GD shitpoet. Sure, with age comes wisdom, but in tow is dragged all manner of other special treasures: Exhaustion, pain (metaphysical and literal), doomed distress and an unavoidable sense of decline, all of which is governable, but by hell does it all ever lurk menacingly around so many corners.
So, what the bonk does this have to do with Deadform and their debut, Entrenched In Hell? Sisters and brothers and cousins and aunties and uncs of all that’s loud and proud, the line between insult and celebration when it comes to talking about elders in extreme music is finer than a gnat’s eyelash, and I’m really not sure I’m doing any damned favors by going about it this way. On the other hand, 1) I sometimes can’t help but relate to albums on a very personal level, and 2) I can’t argue with you right now because I spent 4 hours in a stadium comfortably sitting in the sun and watching a playoff baseball game while drinking beer, so I am absolutely exhausted. [elder salute]
Let’s begin with this: Deadform is a band made up of three venerated veterans of the underground punk, metal, crust and sludge realm, and instead of opting for the route so many other seasoned vets in this sphere waltz down these days—desperately gripping a valued name and infusing fresh blood via a couple hired young guns—they have decided to convene under a new banner with just themselves to draw inspiration from their previous primary endeavors: Dystopia, Stormcrow and Laudanum. The result? Surprise! A sludgy form of crusty metal that—and this next point requires doublay emphasis—does not sound like it’s made by tired old men, but it absolutely does throw double middle fingers to most anything that might be considered ‘modern’ for our genre today. For fuck’s sake, there’s a song that focuses on the Heaven’s Gate cult here. Hey, all time favorite cult fuckedness, for sure, and still relevant in the way that it continues to underscore the dangers of mass brainwashing, but not exactly the cult that gets the most headlines in the year of our Lard, Twenty Twenty Four. So, yes, there’s a unique sense of ‘through an old-hand’s eyes’ as the record relates to themes of war, plague and any number of other time-honored miseries, but it’s a comfortable distance from the more fashionable and weirdly precise approach many modern punk-plated metal bands opt for today.
Again, the band’s crux is built on a near lifetime spent hurling thick noise in oily underground clubs in front of modest, highly perspired crowds, and that comes through inside these very tidy 30 minutes, as every song has that erupting ‘live in the studio’ feel where punchy drums, grëëëaaazy bass and a satisfyingly turbulent and (perhaps surprisingly) chunky guitar regularly get punctured by craggy, cantankerous barking. It’s a fairly straightforward affair, too, but Deadform does a great job of dressing the corners with an extension of Laudanum’s regular use of noise / industrial elements that lend a dark and distinct Killing Joke / Godfleshy feel to the album’s underbelly. There’s no fucking slick studio trickery, either, which makes it clear that this is the sort of material that would transfer particularly well to the stage, though you’d probably have to live pretty close to the West Coast to ever hope to experience it. (Who the fuck over 40 wants to sleep in a van while traveling 2500 miles to play for drink tickets—crazy peoples, that’s whomst. Bless their hearts.) I will say, however, that it might be worth the journey to the lawless streets of Oakland just to have your head clubbed to powder by the riff that hits halfway through “The Exit”; it’s the greasiest, durtiest, hurliest riff of 2024, without a hitch, and that ain’t bad for a hunk of grizzled vets responsible for a near endless supply of crumbling riffs over the last three decades or so.
Yes, I agree that an argument can be made (and easily won) for firing me directly into a brick wall from a cannon for even dragging age into the equation for this write-up, and the band would probably fucking hate me for doing so. It’s a matter I can’t help but think about, though, given the fact that I continue to gracefully shamble into the role of ‘guy who shows up to the dirty heavy metal show and immediately inspires half the crowd to wonder if I’m there to complain about the noise’. Amazingly enough, however, I am not actually trying to say a record like Entrenched In Hell is made by grumpy old punks solely for grumpy old punks, and that anyone outside of that restriction will find it hard to connect with the record. To be totally honest, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that these dudes made this album 100% for themselves. You know… To vent. To have fun venting their anger in a loud, grimy, notably un-melodic manner. Just because we hit 45 or 50 doesn’t mean we suddenly see ourselves as Wilford Brimley in Cocoon, for fuck’s sake. We’re still angry, we still need outlets for that anger, and we’re really not the sorts that do so by standing around and yelling at people who shoot off fireworks after 10pm. We wanna fucking rage.
Just because our rage has aged, doesn’t mean it’s less deranged.
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TWO WAYS TO PLAY:
You are pretty much Dead on.. don’t care if anyone likes this record…but We are proud of it… Eventually we’ll be dead and no one will care.. hopefully sooner than later .. but we love doing music and Scotty actually believes in us enough to do a record. As well as all the people involved. Your review means a lot to me.. you are right.. I’m getting old but just fire in my belly isn’t going away and has to be exercised. Luckily I have people I care about around me to help that happen. Cheers. Dino sommese
Love o.l.d…lo flux tube was a good record as well