At Neumo's We Saw Two Gallants Murder By Death

Actually, we heard Murder by Death (myspace) first, then Two Gallants (myspace). Both are remarkable for what we're going to inventively call "the new lyricism" -- a two-fisted Carver-esque stylistic concern for narrative produced by a mutant strain of whisky-slugging Decemberists from the wrong side of the tracks.

Murder by Death, out of Bloomington, Indiana, has a song on their third album, In bocca al lupo, called "Sometimes the Line Walks You" -- which gives you some idea of their range, the album title a reference to Dante's Inferno and the track title as Cash as they come. More critical gushing at Absolute Punk, Blogcritics, DecoyMusic.

Live, the foursome is short on banter: raspy baritone Adam Turla may give a song a short preface, and then he and Sarah Balliet (cello, keyboard), Alex Schrodt (drums), and Matt Armstrong (bass) play like they're digging their way out of a mine. The sound is Tom Waits, the Pogues, and Johnny Cash in a blender, and couldn't be more at home than in a club like Neumo's.

Two Gallants, from San Francisco, are the darling of artsy critics everywhere: Pitchfork, NME, PopMatters -- anyone pleased at knowing they got their name from James Joyce's The Dubliners. Their new album, What the Toll Tells, follows up their first album The Throes.

The first thing that struck us about Two Gallants (other than that, like Murder by Death, they could have spent more time picking a name) was Adam Stephens' distressed tenor rag of a voice, snapping and straining. (Parents Shane McGowan and Rod Stewart must be very proud.) Where Murder by Death's folk punk is dusted with heartland dirt, Two Gallants sound like Dylan by the Bay. With just Stephens on guitar and harmonica, and Tyson Vogel apparently growing out of his drumset, they create a startlingly full sound. The crowd seemed to be Two Gallants fans, especially, ready to sing along with every fractured misadventure.

In closing, we want to pause for a moment to tell the good people at Neumo's that our ears do not go up to 12. Ouch, fuckers. What the hell.