Death From Above 1979 has been on hiatus for five years, but you never would have guessed that if you somehow managed to stumble into the sold-out Lollapalooza pre-party show at Metro on Thursday night. Dance punk, especially the specific formula that DFA 1979 makes, has the shelf life of a Twinkie. In other words, there really is no expiration date (screw Snopes, Twinkies never expire). A five year hiatus didn’t dull the sensory overload or the audience reception at all.
Between the brain rattling and the face melting, it occurred to me that the only way to describe DFA 1979 is no holds barred. It’s complete and utter madness. Sweet, glorious, ridiculous fucking insanity packed into synths, a bass, a drum kit and two seemingly angry vocalists. This is the sonic definition of what punk should be. If you don’t like it, that just means there will be more space in the pit for everyone else.
The execution is calculating and cold. The rock is hard like diamonds. DFA 1979 rocks harder than bands two, three or even four times their size. Don’t let their diminutive size fool you. If DFA 1979 were a porn star, it would be Ron Jeremy in his prime.