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Photo: Deliah Poore

Sep 22, 2015 Web Exclusive By Frank Valish

On Saturday night in a local North Philly sports bar, all hell broke loose. The hell in question was Michigan hillbilly hardcore five-piece The Goddamn Gallows. Consider the strangeness of rolling up to a parking lot filled with classic cars and pink- and purple-haired youth, only to walk into the venue, Bull Shooters Saloon, to find a brightly-lit bar filled with multiple large television sets tuned to college football. Of course, no one was watching the game. The Goddamn Gallows were here to throw it down, and they did so with style.

After four opening bands, the Gallows took the stage at about 11:45 PM. In case you’re not familiar with The Goddamn Gallows, the band consists of the following pseudonymously terrific members: guitarist/vocalist Mikey Classic, a man with a brutal Fu Manchu and an even brutaller (yeah, I know it’s not a word, but it should be) raspy shout; bassist/shouter Fishgutzzz, a man with an immense beard and a terrifying devilish stare; banjo-player/yeller Joe Perreze, the most “normal” looking of the bunch; drummer Baby Genius, whose numerous facial tattoos paled only in comparison to his screaming; and washboard/accordion player/sometimes drummer TV’s Avery, a man who’s handlebar moustache and ass-length dreadlocks were actually less distinctive than his onstage antics (more on that to come).

The Goddamn Gallows plays an exhilarating mix of punk, hardcore, and hoedown music, releasing four albums since 2007, the latest being 2014’s The Maker, an album that features standout goodtime romps like “Load Yer Guns” and “Howlin’ Wind.” The band’s tunes are often set in an old-time country-ish vein but driven to insanity by the fierceness with which the players attack their instruments. Perreze’s banjo playing anchors the group on its more honky-tonk numbers, with a fiery flurry of notes that pushes the rest of the band to the brink in what ends up sounding like a high-speed chase to each song’s end. Avery, when he doesn’t have a washboard strapped to his bare chest, leads with accordion (hilariously decorated with a sticker that reads, “This machine was made to kill careers”). The accordion-led tunes take the band’s style into more gypsy territory, sounding something like a Satanic Gogol Bordello.

The Goddamn Gallows’ live experience, at least on this night, was equal parts spectacle and musical catharsis. Whether it be Avery’s giant stomach tattoo of what appeared to be the face of America’s 19^th president Rutherford B. Hayes, encircled, dollar bill style, above the word Tyrannis, or the sight of Baby Genius taking to the front of the stage to scream a song that seemed to be about his devout love of Satan, it is hard to overstate how, shall we say, interesting this show was. Almost every song was accompanied by a swing dance/mosh pit, guys and girls throwing each other around in some peculiar “dance” and slamming into one another in violent ecstasy. With the floor being almost completely drenched with beer, hard falls were commonplace-at one point a lady in a Minnie Mouse-adorned dress was inadvertently chop blocked to the ground by one of the slam dance-enthusiasts, to the point where I thought she might have blown out an ACL.

Toward the end of the set, Baby Genius entered the crowd on someone’s shoulders, playing a drum that was held by a crowd member. Avery often spat into the air, performing this bizarre ritual whereby he then seemed to flick his spit into the crowd with the spoons he was using to play the washboard. He encircled the crowd with his microphone cord at one point, almost clotheslining several spectators, and later came into the crowd with his pants down in the back, only to have sweaty bearded men slap his bare ass.

Lest discussion of the music get completely lost in talk of the event, it should be noted that The Goddamn Gallows, despite all the distracting mayhem both onstage and off, are brilliant players. The banjo drove like a train. The upright bass provided an organic, thundering low end. The drumming was punk heavy, and the singing, whether melodically growled by Classic or scream-shouted by Baby Genius and Perreze, was enough to rile up anyone with a three block radius. By the end of the night, after 75 minutes of full out, balls-to-the-wall intensity and musical release, exhaustion was the primary—scratch that—the only feeling. It took all this reviewer had just to make it back to the car. But once the energy started to return, a wonderful happiness enveloped and sleep led to beautiful dreams of Mohawked punks line dancing in the sky.

(www.thegoddamngallows.com)