"If you hate people, you'll like Deathwank" - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #222

We need Deathwank, not because they approach a Cure for What Ails Us, they don’t, they are ugly and cluttered and tired and disposable, their shock is numb and their crassness even larger than their ear-splitting racket. Deathwank play the music we deserve. It’s called Scumcore by the twisted, vomit-coated A&E regulars that play it. After listening to Deathwank for any amount of time, through several of their unidentifiable songs and their muddy everything-louder-than-everything-else production I feel dirty, like I need a scrub with carbolic soap. Any band that lists their top five influences as Death, Drugs, Pol Pot, David Koresh, and Yer Maw so clearly embodies a mid-central Scottish Generation-Why nihilism a certain breed of Scottish man can get behind. Filth encrusted pre-internet mid-nineties streets gave birth to us, and we were smart enough get into a university to avoid Blair’s oil wars, and not smart enough to make anything of the inevitable second and half our peers share cat videos like brainwashed people accepting their fate at the end of Soylent Green, and the other half diligently keep up with news and current affairs and thusly seem to spend all their time clutching their heads and crying.

If you hate people, you’ll like Deathwank. If you hate yourself too. If you’ve ever stumbled through some shitehole outer-Glaswegian town fucked up and fucked on and vomited almost into the dustbin of a train station and still felt a disgusted sense of superiority to the mutated wage-slave scumbags who have had the misfortune or the foetal-alcohol-syndrome enough to call this home, then you’ll like Deathwank.

From their photoshop serial-killer collage artwork to their repulsive and crass public personas, Deathwank records should probably be burned and the ashes sown with salt. It has the imitation of a joke band shat out over a weekend but their insanely huge library of records and comprehensive bootleg collection point to some level of dedication, even if it’s a blinking contest with the populace at large to see whether they or the band start to take any of this seriously. Each song seems like an orgiastic blast, a naked burst of drug-equilibrium energy that lasts only a few seconds. And with a world so comprehensively fucked up and strung out as ours is; as the Psychoactive Substances Bill slips through parliament and inexplicably into law, as you’re chased through an empty car park by a pack of vicious dogs baying for blood, as you watch somewhere or other be blown to pieces as the breaking news label scrolls across the bottom like crime scene tape, Deathwank are the only fucking music you deserve.


Written under duress by Steven.

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