TVD Live: Destroy This Place at DC9, 6/27

True story: Years ago, my brother and family traveled to Assateague Island to see the island’s famous wild ponies. They unpacked their things on a picnic table and went for a walk. When they returned, there was a pony guarding the table holding a very sharp knife with the handle in its mouth, waving it about like Phil Spector on PCP. The family fled. When bro and family finally summoned up the courage to return, the knife was back on the table and the pony was gone, along with half their foodstuffs. This friends, is nature. It waves a knife at you and steals your shit.

Which brings us to Detroit, MI’s Destroy This Place. They play a high-octane, no-frills combination of ‘90s indie rock with hints of catchy power pop that charges along like a Koenigsegg CCX, causing your ears to flap back and forth as it sails by. But I’m particularly enamored by “Rifled,” which includes the lines, “We challenge Mother Nature/We gave the finger to Mother Nature/We gave the finger to Mother Nature!” How refreshing to hear somebody say “fuck off” to the wilds, with their frothing-at-the-mouth raccoons, rampaging moose, moaning zombie hikers in rotted tie-dye and frayed Birkenstocks, and chipmunks that aren’t nearly as cute and innocent as they look. “Rifled” is the best anti-nature song to come along since Sparks’ “Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth,” and I think we should all be grateful to Destroy This Place for writing it.

On 2011’s Resurrect the Mammoth and 2013’s eponymous Destroy This Place, as well as their 2012 split ep with Hospital Garden, Destroy This Place (they’re Ryan Allen on vocals and guitar, Monday Busque on bass and vocals, John Nelson on vocals and guitar, and Sean Sommer on drums) keep the tempos fast while tossing in frantic power pop vocals, razorblade riffs, monstrous power chords, and enough catchy hooks to render Lake Michigan fish free.

Me, I count precisely one Destroy This Place song (“Ignore It”) I don’t like, and if that’s not a winning percentage my name is Punky Meadows and I played guitar for Angel, DC’s all-white-spandex-clad anti-Kiss, whose appearance on stage involved being at the start of the show involved being hoisted up through trap doors in the floor amidst pillars of white smoke. That is until the day the band appeared on stage, did some quick math, and realized bassist Mickie Jones was missing. Turns out his trapdoor got stuck, and the only sound to be heard in the coliseum was the thump, thump, thump of poor Mickie trying to get out. As it turns out, Life really does imitate Spinal Tap.

Speaking of Spinal Tap, they’re about the only band the reviewing classes haven’t tossed out as an influence on Destroy This Place’s sound. Dinosaur Jr., the Shins, Japandroid—why, they’ve even thrown out Fugazi. (Speaking of which, I recently attended Kid Congo Powers’ wedding reception, and Ian MacKaye showed up in a grey t-shirt. Had it been a funeral, I suppose the t-shirt would have been black.) Me, I think the crits are hallucinating, like my late pig farmer pal Billy Harrison the time he ingested .75 grains of belladonna only to spend the next three days convinced he was sharing a sofa with his dead and decaying grandmother.

Hell, not even the band can get it right. They cite “effects-peddle hopping UK shoegaze” as an influence, but I’ll wager my autographed glossy of Bernie Taupin (go ahead, laugh—did YOU help write the lyrics to “We Built This City on Rock’n’Roll”?) the only time Destroy This Place has ever gazed at a shoe was to check for dog shit on the heel. Me, I suck at the influences game, but even the retarded squirrel finds the occasional nut, and when this retarded squirrel listens to Destroy This Place he hears distinct echoes of Superchunk, and particularly “Slack Motherfucker.”

Destroy This Place keep things cooking—no ballads or even mid-tempo numbers for these guys, just no-frills, balls-to-the wall, hold-onto-the-seat-of-your-pants rock’n’roll like the razor-toothed “Werewolf Mask,” which features a great chorus, some chipper power pop harmonies, and even a tribute to Bob “All the Charisma of a Ford Pinto” Seger (“Take off that werewolf mask/We’re the Silver Bullet Band”). Then there’s “Born With Guitars in Our Hands,” an addictive and melodic power popper with hooks sharp enough to catch Moby Dick combined with lots of angelic “aaaahs,” not to mention the lines, “We were born with guitars in our hands/Kicking and screaming before we could stand/If we’re up all night, then we’ll just sleep in the van.”

As for “All That Glitters,” it features some complex (for these stick-to-the- basics rockers anyway) post-rock chord changes and frenetic vocals about having “a bulletproof vest on,” although it’s not clear whether the vest is to protect the vocalist from an estranged lover or Tom Verlaine, angry because Destroy This Place’s “Exhausted” cops “See No Evil”’s baroque guitar riff. Meanwhile, “Tight Sleeves” boasts a guitar riff so catchy you’ll want to take it home, buy it a leash, and walk it proudly around the neighborhood, while “Fortunate Blood” gallops along like Paul Revere in a rush to get to the Olive Garden before closing for an order of Crispy Risotto Arancini with complimentary breadsticks. (Note: Author received reimbursement for commercial endorsement from Olive Garden, Inc. Whore.) Then there’s “Vampire Day” off the split EP, which boasts some titanic drum pummel, a fantastic descending guitar riff that shoots off sparks like a downed electrical line, and great backing vocals. It’s almost, but not quite, as glorious a bite of Bram Stoker-inspired power pop as Redd Kross’ brilliant “Dracula’s Daughter.”

Anyway, I couldn’t wait to see Destroy This Place at DC9 on Thursday, June 27. I regret to say I missed the opener due to circumstances beyond my control–I was mugged by a wild pony with a knife in its mouth. Took me for 80 bucks, my Visa card, and a 40-pound bag of oats, the four-legged prick. But the worst of it was he didn’t want my autographed Bernie Taupin glossy, and in fact emitted a distinct snort of derision when he saw it. As for headliners Tereu Tereu, I have a strict embargo against bands whose names are the same word repeated, such as Talk Talk, Duran Duran, and The The, although I will admit to having a soft spot in my heart for Guran Guran because, well… as a fan put it so eloquently on the band’s Facebook page: “Ska väl byta ut de här låtarna nästa vecka…så sista chansen att lyssna nu.”

My first impression of Destroy This Place was they didn’t look much like a rock band. Forget the New York Dolls; these guys looked like the science club at Fenton, MI High School. Then they kicked into the superfast “Absorb You,” both guitarists contributing on vocals, and I realized they WERE the science club at Fenton MI High School, having taken up rock after inventing some type of infernal high-velocity machine. “Absorb You” was followed by the anthemic “Born With Guitars in Our Hands” with its cut-throat guitar riff, power pop vocals, and Sean Sommer’s brutal boom crash on drums.

Meanwhile, the fast-as-your-sister “Defeated” featured lots of feedback and distortion, not to mention some cool wah-wah guitar, and was immediately followed by “Emperor’s Bones,” yet another hyperactive number (the whole show flew by like a NASCAR event, which I would never attend because I know I’d be the lucky idiot who gets decapitated by a flying car wheel) that had Nelson screaming and jumping about while the band pledged allegiance to the flag of faster and louder.

“Lethal Sky” opened with some kickass drum pummel and burly power chords, then took off like the Euro-spec BMW “Nazi rocket sled” I used to own until I turned it over for repairs to a shady drifter named “Danny the Homeless Mechanic,” which was the last I heard of it until I got a phone call from the cops in Florida informing me that it had been abandoned in a hurricane with the windows and sunroof open. Meanwhile, “Fortunate Blood”—my evening’s favorite—was both speedfreak fast and gloriously tight, with power pop vocals about “rolling around in the mess that you made,” which coincidentally enough was what my mom said when I told her I’d handed my car keys over to a guy named “Danny the Homeless Mechanic.”

“Ghost Ride the Lightning” boasted a pretty opening and a melody that reminded me of Philadelphia’s defunct Caterpillar, while “Pioneers” roared past like a Conestoga wagon with a rocket attached to the back, and included the defiant lines, “If you think we’re all suckers/And don’t have much to say/Just slack-up motherfuckers/Well you’re wrong in every way.” “Rifled” started slowly, then introduced some big drums and distorted guitars while show closer “Graves” featured power chords so loud my teeth ached and an actual guitar solo (Destroy This Place isn’t big on guitar solos) before ending in a slew of power pop “alrights” and a final “Yea, yea, yea.”

Returning to nature for a moment, there was a time when I thought I might conquer my horror of it. One night my friend Billy and I were on acid at his pig farm, and we decided to watch a calf being born. High as I was, I was like, “It’s wonderful! I’m witnessing the circle of life and death! This is the most profound moment of my… Gak! What’s happening? What the fuck is THAT? It’s… it’s… an abomination!” Then made for the nearest pile of hay to hurl. When I got back, Billy and his old man were still watching over the birth, and out of nowhere Billy’s dad said, “Son, what would you do with a 12-inch dick?” Billy responded, “Frankly dad, I don’t think the half-inch would make much of a difference.”

Which is how I feel about Destroy This Place. They may not be the perfect rock band, but frankly, the half-inch doesn’t really make much of a difference.

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