Murder by Death

Adam Turla has a voice like the lowest notes of an old piano. It’s deep and dense and, like the low A on some ancient Steinway, can be somehow curt and smooth, percussive and melodic at the same time. And, with it, Turla sings songs that seem to fit his pleasant tenor perfectly, songs where the bad guys are good guys and the good guys are bad guys.

Turla tells his tales of the "despicable" expertly, but part of his success lies in the mood created by his band Murder by Death. In “The Devil in Mexico”, for example (from the 2003 record Who Will Survive and What Will be Left of Them?), Turla’s voice curls above the persistent whinny of an old Hammond organ, the throbbing plinks of a piano, and a cello’s low moan. His lyrics paint the picture of the devil bleeding crude oil through his hospital bed—an image that not only sets the scene for a larger narrative to follow, but also leaves the listener feeling sort of sorry for embodiment of evil. Similarly, “Sometimes the Line Walks You” (from the 2006 record In Bocca al Lupo) is sung from the perspective of a prisoner who admits his wrongdoings with disillusioned modesty; still, by the time the song shuffles towards its rowdy climax—with Turla’s desperate holler and bright horn blasts rising from the buzz of Matt Armstrong’s swaggering bass—the listener may find himself rooting for this inmate who, as he runs for the fence and from the prison’s guard dogs, will escape because he’s “hungrier than they have ever been.”

Recently, Murder by Death released Good Morning, Magpie, the band’s fifth full-length. On it, Turla presents a new cast of characters—prostitutes, drunks, vagrants, and other souls that have decided to live life unconventionally. An optimist might call them rebels, but most people would call them failures, losers, those with whom the “moral” might avoid eye contact.

But it’s these characters that fascinate Turla. “I like anti-heroes a lot,” he says. “A lot of the characters in my songs are people that might be decent, but do bad things, or bad people who do decent things. I like the idea of a three-dimensional character.”

One character of which Turla is especially proud is introduced in “King of the Gutters, Prince of the Dogs”, one of Good Morning, Magpie’s slower, more stirring songs. A gentle acoustic is plucked, propelled by drummer Dagan Thogerson’s steady, skipping rhythm. Sarah Balliet’s bows slow, doleful notes on her cello. These instruments create a mood that feels weary, but not weak, and lays a firm foundation for Turla’s trademark croon; he sings in the voice of a man whose long, grey beard and wiry frame tell much of his story. “I’ve been hunted, maligned / since before your time,” he sings, “I’ve been stoned / I’ve been thrown / to the wolves / to the wolves / I’ve been starved down / to skin and bones.”

“I think it’s a really unique song,” Turla says, “and it really moves me live. When I wrote it, I wanted a sort of beautifully sad, moving song.”

Despite these lyrics and this desolate, drunken protagonist, “King of the Gutters, Prince of the Dogs” doesn’t seem sad. Maybe it’s because Turla’s voice captures this character in such a convincing manner, or maybe it’s because, about halfway through the song, the slow, slogging instruments begin to gallop a little. Suddenly, Thogerson’s snare drum whips the song like a whisk, Armstrong’s bass thumps to the beat, and Balliet begins to slice thick chunks from her cello. When Turla growls, “Nothing can touch me, / nothing can touch me, / no force, / no sound”, the listener can maybe imagine this meager old man, with rain battering his slender body and lightning splitting the sky behind him, laughing and screaming, feeling somehow victorious over the world that has held him down.

Maybe. Murder by Death’s songs tend to sometimes feel like more than mere music, like there’s something more beneath their notes.

“'King of the Gutters, Prince of the Dogs' was the last song we wrote for the record and came together sort of accidentally,” Turla confesses. “I always get stressed out at the end of the writing process, right before we go into the studio. We’ll have like nine songs written and need one more, but I’ll usually write about four songs before I’ve found it because I’m trying so hard to make the album complete.” “King of the Gutters, Prince of the Dogs” emerged more naturally, Turla says, and was almost easy to write. “That song, to me, not only came out great on the recording, but is really exciting live. It has such a positive energy to it while also being a song about an anti-hero.”

There’s a reason why Turla seems so fascinated with the idea of the anti-hero—that character that intentionally breaks the rules, but always for the right reasons. It’s because, as a band, Murder by Death are a sort of anti-hero to the music industry.

This sensibility is evident not only in the yarns that their songs and records spin, but also in the band’s approach to songwriting. This is especially true in the case of Good Morning, Magpie, an album that Turla wrote in an unconventional way. “Basically, I talked to the band and told them that I had all of these ideas for songs,” he explains, “but I need to work them out by myself.” So Turla drove himself to Tennessee and spent two weeks isolated in the Smokey Mountains. He packed light, bringing only clothes, a tent, and a fishing pole. “I didn’t even have a guitar,” he laughs, “but I had the notepad that I keep all my lyrics in. I wrote and wrote and wrote. At night, I sang to myself. It was very lonely, but very exciting.”

More importantly, though, this sensibility is evident in the manner in which they present themselves. “Defining ourselves is my least favorite things to do,” Turla insists. “We just have never thought about it. We have no mission statement; we have never fit in any scenes. We’ve played with indie bands, Americana bands, punk, metal, stoner rock, rock ‘n’ roll, wussy stuff, tough stuff—we’ve played with everything. I have no interested in genres in general. My favorite books mix genres; my favorite movies mix genres.

“If we want to thrown in a Spanish melody,” he continues, “or a Middle-Eastern harmonic minor and it fits the song without sacrificing the continuity of the song or the album, then that’s what we do because it’s more interesting to us. I like the mish-mash approach to writing rather than just trying to pretend you’re one thing”

Maybe Turla’s old piano voice sings the rebel’s song because, not-so-deep-down, he his one. Or maybe it’s because he realizes that no one--no good guy, no bad guy--can ever be just one thing.

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Turla recorded these songs on a Sunday afternoon in the spring at the Texas home of Armstrong's parents, where the band stayed during a day off from touring. The plan was to record using the landline at that residence, but the connection was too fuzzy to get a clear recording. Instead, Turla recorded the songs though his cell phone.

"Yes" appears on Murder by Death's 2010 record titled Good Morning, Magpie. "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)" is a cover of the Cher song written by Sonny Bono for her 1966 album titled The Sonny Side of Cher. The song was later made famous by Nancy Sinatra on her 1966 album titled How Does That Grab You? A live version of the song appears on Murder by Death's digital EP titled Fuego!, which was released in 2008.

Visit the band's MySpace for more music.

Sorry, but these songs were taken down due to space constraints. Please download The Switchboard Sessions, Volume One for a track from this and other sessions recorded in 2010. If you're desperate for a copy of these tracks, please see the "About the Switchboard Sessions" page for info on how to contact the author.

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Smoke or Fire

As music lovers, it’s easy for us to assume that every musician we hear on the radio—or that we see perform at a stadium, or a summer festival, or a club, or even a bowling alley—is a celebrity. Sometimes, it seems like we have been conditioned by our celebrity-obsessed society to attach fame to people we perceive as “important.” Just because we consumed them through some media, we immediately assume that they collect expensive cars, live in incredible houses, waste their money wildly on non-necessities, and don’t have to worry about the “normal” trials and tribulations of American life, like paying bills and determining if that gallon of milk in the fridge is expired.

In reality, though, most musicians—even those on major labels and those that seem to sell the most music—struggle with the life they lead. Many will say they love playing music and couldn’t see themselves doing anything else, but concede that, even when one is “successful,” the lifestyle of a full-time musician is a straining one. It’s hard to keep friends, maintain relationships, or start a family when one is touring eight months out of the year; it’s even harder when the band barely makes enough money to keep itself on the road, let alone maintain some sense of “normalcy” at home. Musicians must be willing to sacrifice a lot to pursue their passions, even in a society that worships them while it, in so many ways, makes it hard for them to succeed.

Joe McMahon is one of these musicians, a man willing to persevere through stress and struggle for what he is convinced is his calling—his music.

After McMahon’s band Smoke or Fire finished touring in support of their second full-length—This Sinking Ship on Fat Wreck Chords, which was released in February of 2007—they were ready to record their follow-up. “We planned to go into the studio a year and a half ago,” he explains, “but then we got offered all these overseas tours that were hard to pass up.” The band toured non-stop until 2009, playing shows in Japan, in Australia and New Zealand, in Europe, and in the United States with NOFX. “At the end of it,” he tells, “everyone was like, ‘We need a break,’ and went their separate ways. We didn’t really get back into communicating as fast as I think we all thought were going to. We were really spent.”

This break was not only necessary because the band was physically and emotionally exhausted; the required rest was the result of some sudden and unforeseen financial problems. When the band went to Europe, they were promised thousands of dollars that they never received. Though money has never been a motivating force behind Smoke or Fire, that money was needed to keep the band touring and recording.

“We ended up coming home at Christmastime with nothing and thousands of dollars in debt,” McMahon explains. “I think we all went home and thought about why we wanted to continue playing music, if we wanted to continue playing music, and also—for most of us, who have spent over ten years playing music—if this isn’t what we’re going to do, what we were going to do.”

“Ultimately,” he continues, “we didn’t know if we were going to get back together and play again.”

Though the band stopped to consider whether they would—or could—continue as Smoke or Fire, McMahon found himself unable to step away from his music. Four days after his return from Smoke or Fire’s tour with NOFX, McMahon found himself preparing to hit the road again; this time, though, he planned to perform solo.

Before he left, he recorded a handful of songs in his friend’s bedroom—ones he had written for Smoke or Fire (and an early incarnation of the band called Jericho) that he could translate from power chords into full acoustic songs. He also recorded a cover of a Johnny Cash song, “Let the Train Blow the Whistle”.

“I was going down to play Harvest of Hope last year,” McMahon says, “and decided brought a bunch of blank CDs. I the plan was to sit there at the merch table and burn these songs onto CDs for five bucks to whoever wanted them so I could put gas in the tank and get to the next town.”

When the three friends with which he was planning to tour were suddenly unable to join him, McMahon had a decision to make—to cancel the shows or shove off on his own. “I was in this position where I had this two-week tour booked down south by myself,” he explains. “The thought of it, at first, was kind of weird; in eleven years of touring, I had never done that. But once I hit the road, it became one of the best experiences I’ve ever been on. It was lot of listening to NPR and staying in thirty-dollar hotels, but it was great.”

Whether it was strumming solo on tour or composing orchestral soundtracks, which McMahon started doing to make ends meet at home, playing music remained at the forefront of McMahon’s mind so, when Fat Wreck Chords asked Smoke or Fire at the end of 2009 if they would pull it together to play some spring festivals, he was ready to hop back on board. The offers to play South by Southwest and the Harvest of Hope Festival in March, along with the thought of playing the Fest in the fall (which was tempting, since they had been unable to play in previous years and, as a band, found it the most fun), were enough to pull the the band from its hibernation; Smoke or Fire was ready to formally reform as a band.

“As soon as we agreed to do that,” McMahon remembers, “Fat was like, ‘Great! You guys need to get us a seven-inch by next week.’ And we were like, ‘Okay…’ So we hauled the troops back into the room to decide what two songs we wanted to record. We knew we’d have to do it very fast and very cheap.”

Maybe it’s for this reason that Prehistoric Knife Fight, the seven-inch that the band recorded in one day and mixed in one hour, sounds so raw and so refreshingly genuine. Recorded by friend Casey Martin (who plays bass for Landmines) at Sound of Music Studios in Richmond, Virginia, Prehistoric Knife Fight feels harsher than This Sinking Ship, but expresses the same terse vitality evident on the band’s previous releases.

On the A-side “Speak Easy”, fuzzy guitars take turns firing off chords in quick, bitter bursts before cementing together into a solid clump. McMahon’s voice is clean, but brash in a desperate and melodic way; it soars above waves of growling, wiggling guitars strummed viciously by both himself and bandmate Jeremy Cochran; beneath this strident surf and an antsy drumbeat, Gwomper’s bass scuttles subtly.

“Modesty”, the single’s B-side, presents a different mood. The song starts with a single guitar chord strummed for maybe too long; it’s the sound of anxiety, the sound of building pressure seconds before something sets it off. When that pressure is suddenly released, the song is flung into its first verse and McMahon sings, “What is it in life that makes us fail? / That it’s impossible to walk away / Business holds people like hostages, / locked away is boardrooms and offices.” Even when the song starts to simmer and strips itself down to the delicate pings of a ride cymbal; strokes of lush, greasy guitar; and light blips of bass, one can’t help but suspect that, again, the bubbles are only building up. The song bursts during the bridge into a syncopated breakdown that sets up a climactic final chorus.

Musically and lyrically, “Modesty” feels like a song that McMahon had to get off of his chest. “It’s a song I wrote about seven years ago on an acoustic guitar,” he says. “It’s about my dad, who worked at a job he hated for twenty-five years. He quit one day, just walked out, and I wrote that song that day. For this seven-inch, we figured we’d do one song that’d make it onto the full length [‘Speak Easy’] and another song that’s always been there but we’ve never made into a full band song, so we sat down and made ‘Modesty’ into a full band song.”

As Smoke or Fire began its rapid reconstruction, people started to take notice of the songs McMahon distributed during his solo tour, including Neil Shulman of Anchorless Records. “I never intended to release those songs ever,” McMahon says, “but Neil approached me and was really into releasing it. I was really hesitant at first because I recorded it so quick. But, at the same time, he was like, ‘Dude, it’s great! You recorded it drunk in your friend’s bedroom!’”

“I can’t remember if it was Neil or me that said it,” McMahon continues, “but we decided it’d be really cool to do it as a split, to get another band to do acoustic versions of their songs. That made me way more on board.” When Brendan Kelly of the Lawrence Arms expressed interest in such a project, McMahon conceded to Shulman’s request. His six songs make up the second half of Wasted Potential, the split with Kelly released by Anchorless and Red Scare Industries on March 13th of 2010, the same day that Fat Wreck Chords released Prehistoric Knife Fight.

With two records recently released (and a third with Smoke or Fire ready to record), it seems like McMahon may be busier now more than ever. It doesn’t mean he’s rich, and it doesn’t make him any sort of celebrity; it only means that he has to work a lot harder. “I think we’re back in this with absolutely any expectations of making it big or making money doing it,” he says. “We’re just focused on doing it because it’s fun and because we love it.”

Whether or not we, as listeners, attach the words “Rock Star” or “Celebrity” to Smoke or Fire, what matters to McMahon (and Cochran, and Gwomper for that matter) is that music is being made—that, despite the stresses and struggles, despite the unforeseen financial problems, these guys pursue their passions.

Because that’s what a passion is—something a person can’t help but pursue even when it drags him or her through hell.

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McMahon interviewed and recorded these songs in his basement on a March evening mere days before the releases of Prehistoric Knife Fight and Wasted Potential. Smoke or Fire would leave for the Harvest of Hope Festival and South by Southwest in less than a week.

It was somewhat confusing at first when McMahon plugged his acoustic guitar into an amp, since most bands don't use amps for these over-the-phone recording sessions. It soon became clear why he plugged in, though; his huge, soaring voice would have, otherwise, drowned out the guitar. It took some time for me to realize that Smoke or Fire's albums don't (and maybe never could) do the weight and power of his voice justice.

"What Separates Us All" appears on Smoke or Fire's 2007 record titled This Sinking Ship. "Modesty" appears on Smoke or Fire's 2010 single Prehistoric Knife Fight. "Clean Sheets" is a Descendents cover; the song originally appeared on the 1987 album ALL.

Visit the band's MySpace for more music.

Sorry, but these songs were taken down due to space constraints. Please download The Switchboard Sessions, Volume One for a track from this and other sessions recorded in 2010. If you're desperate for a copy of these tracks, please see the "About the Switchboard Sessions" page for info on how to contact the author.

Read more articles.