Deadletter by Joe Mulville
Deadletter were in Bristol on October 25th.
A few weeks ago your reviewer went to see the re-released Stop Making Sense, the 1984 concert film by Jonathan Demme about Talking Heads’ tour the previous year.
Taking place over four nights, the film offers little insight other than capturing the euphoria and sheer force of a band at the top of the game, with a host of musicians working in tandem to create a whirlwind of glorious majesty.
Watching six-piece Deadletter on the first night of their UK tour is a disconcertingly similar experience. Musically the two groups overlap, even if they are separated by nearly half a century: the ragged-yet-watertight dexterity, the synchronisation of the musicians (very obviously on the same page) and the magnetic qualities of the frontman. Equally, both acts combine an eclectic mix of genres to their music.
But while David Byrne and co specialised in funk, art rock and punk, Deadletter – as a requirement of the age in which they live – must have a ‘post’ prefix attached to the latter. And while Byrne often appeared delighted, frontman Zac Lawrence possesses an intensity which belies, sadly, the more serious times of 2023. In short, he’s not much of a smiler.
What he is is a wired, jerky and beguiling person to watch. After the first two songs performed, he goes full Iggy and removes his knitted jumper which, in a 200-capacity venue, is only fair and which only seems to add to an already-committed band performance.
Opening with The Snitching Hour which pulsates and ripples while immediately getting the crowd onside – who joyously shout the ‘ding dang dong’ section back at the band – it’s a raucous start, complete with positive message of ‘Love Thy Neighbour’.
Lawrence’s intensity is matched in different ways by his bandmates: Alfie Husband takes to his drum kit first and batters his way through the entire set; at either end of the stage, guitarists Will King and James Bates firmly concentrate on their instruments, and George Ullyott (bass) equals the seriousness of his singer, frequently grimacing and growling in way that would make The Clash (who adorn his T-shirt) proud. Only Poppy Richler on saxophone has any poise, calmly negotiating her way through the set and, amusingly, playing a shaker in the shape of a banana which somewhat lightens the moods.
Only half of the twelve songs performed have been released, but new tracks like Murdered and Hero maintain the undercurrent of malevolence fast becoming their trademark – the latter with excellently utilised cowbell – but their lack of familiarity doesn’t affect the empowering atmosphere of the show, most having likely been polished during the recent (as in, two days before) European tour.
On the other hand, tracks like the jangly ragged Degenerate Inanimate (complete with an almighty drop before the last chorus) are more muscular than on record, and Madge’s Declaration (‘catalogue utopia leads to a lack of morality’) crunches and fittingly desecrates Thatcher’s name, compelling the crowd to sing along.
Meanwhile older single Fit For Work plays the old ‘quiet verse/explosive chorus’ trick to perfection which almost detracts from the scathing lyrics (‘Daniel doesn’t speak but with keyboards who needs speech?’).
With just the right amount of oikishness and a clear sense of purpose, Deadletter are only heading one way. Organised chaos has never sounded so good.
