Seattle Subsonic

Viva Murder City

February 12th, 2009

In an effort to extend our coverage of the Murder City Devils to levels of absurdity, I’ll too give my take on Wednesday’s MCD show. (Grendel gave his already; perhaps misterlevitan can later tell us about tonight’s show.)

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In recent interviews leading up to the latest MCD reunion (their 4th in four years), frontman Spencer Moody stated that he doesn’t really like reunion concerts in general, and that he “just fucking dread(s) the fact…that (he’s) going to have to listen to these songs over and over again to try to relearn them.” Given that the celebrated boozehound punk group has formulated and played in some capacity every year since 2006, in addition to their decidedly jovial antics on stage last night (2/11) at the Showbox, you’d be forgiven for not believing his professed ambivalence. (He later conceded, however, that once he returned to the MCD catalog, the songs did become fun again.)

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I was fortunate enough to catch the Block Party set back in ’06, but much like the beer that soaks their songs, my liquor-stained memory of that experience is hazy at best. I stayed relatively sober last night and let the wave of moshers enjoy their time in the pit. The main floor was a constant flux of leapers and undulating waves of motion, arms raised in unison, with shouts and cat calls aplenty. Fights broke out and douchebags were removed. Much of the crowd was overtly hammered. It felt like a Murder City Devils show.

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The MCDs are a unique band in size and sound—you don’t see many 6-member growly, gloom-punk bands—and each member exuded his or her respective persona effortlessly. Moody, amidst his smiles and sheepish inter-song gratitude, wielded his mic stand like a raging king’s scepter and constantly gagged himself with the microphone. Guitarist Nate Manny, looking dapper in a grey fedora, executed the scissor kick numerously and flawlessly. Coady Willis played hungrily behind his Tommy Lee-esque drum throne, crashing his elevated cymbals and thunder toms. Dann Gallucci sported bug eyes and a maniacal smile while alternating between rowdy hops to-and-fro, laughing and hugging (!) mid-song with keyboardist Leslie Hardy, and taunting the crowd from the edge of the stage (guitar neck extended…natch). Hardy sounded a bit rusty, however, and spent more time talking to the band’s “manager” than actually playing. She did smoke several cigarettes on stage, though.

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And then there’s the bassist. The menacing, sinister bass lines played vigorously by Derek Fudesco simply define the haunting bombast of the MCD’s explosive angst. From “It’s In My Heart” to “Murder City Riot” to “Dancin’ Shoes” to “18 Wheels”—all of which were played last night—he’s the propeller that put their records on the map. Yes, Moody’s gravelly trauma is unmistakable, Hardy’s organ distinctive, the guitars squalling, and the drums superior, but Fudesco brought it all together. And the more I think about it, the more I’m amazed at how he’s defined nearly three generations of Seattle music (you could argue two, I suppose). All three of his bands—the MCDs, Pretty Girls Make Graves, the Cave Singers—have known critical success in its respective “music scene” context. He should be treasured somehow. Thankfully, Murder City lives on.

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[See the set list (sans encore)]

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Past Lives were invited to play the second slot last night, and even though it was the fifth time I’d seen them, I still can’t get enough of their music. Guitarist Devin Welch—you’ve heard me say before—is one of my current favorites, and his collection of axes keeps growing. Brandishing three different versions on this night, he played around with several of their tunes, allowing major and minor revisions throughout. One song I hadn’t heard before was the very first one: it featured a few impressive changes and had a psychobilly, surf punk feel to it. Excellent stuff, excellent band.