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Dead Poetic
New Medicines
2004, Solid State Records
The standout element of Dead Poetic‘s 2002 debut disc Four Wall Blackmail wasn‘t the guitars or drums or production - it was singer Brandon Rike‘s voice. Comparable to then-labelmate Sean Corbray‘s (Embodyment) but in a higher pitch, it shone through the forced-feeling screaming and herky-jerky guitars - though the chromed-out production was admittedly pretty good. Rike‘s voice carried the album, lending a uniquely gifted dimension to a band that was by no means a cut above the rest of the screamo pack.
New Medicines takes the above elements, particularly the vocals, and ups the ante to the breaking point; these songs are just ridiculously catchy. The screaming textures are still present, but somehow feel more at home than on DP‘s debut. Coming straight outta Dayton, Ohio, Dead Poetic have added a second guitarist to beef up the songs, and simply written better ones. These songs are so much better than the band‘s previous effort, flowing, streamlined affairs that quickly became mandatory/compulsory listening for this writer. ‘Taste The Red Hands‘ is a pretty overt slap at whoever the chosen target is, and also contains the phrase ‘the backstabbers and money whores‘, more than likely the first use of the word ‘whore‘ by a band on an openly Christian label. Okay, probably not the first, but I think it‘s funny, okay? Shut up.
The second guitarist doesn‘t add a whole lot to the overall scheme of things here; I‘ve read reviews that say it‘s pretty pointless to have two guitars playing the same thing entire record, but I beg to differ. Yes, by and large the two guitarists are doing the same thing, but sometimes they don‘t, and those are good, tastefully-executed moments. Not to mention choruses like ‘Vanus Empty‘ and ‘Glass In The Trees‘ probably wouldn‘t so nearly as good with one guitar - and live? Heavens. Live, those songs must be something to behold.
Rike‘s lyrics remain introspective and intelligent, always a plus in a genre overcrowded with bands who have nothing to say, and his voice can‘t be overestimated; the kid can flat-out sing a song. I had this album on twice in a row the night before writing this and was hard-pressed to take it out. Creating eleven songs this eminently listenable while retaining enough heaviness to keep the hardcore kid in me a happy camper is a rare feat. The album avoids feeling like it‘s one long forty-minute tune, making use of the occasional synth and tempo change, and when it‘s over one‘s automatic reflex is to start it over again.
Dead Poetic have made a much better album than their debut, as if I hadn‘t made that point clearly enough to this point, and if they continue in the direction they‘re going - less emphasis on the aggression, more on the pop-inflected catchiness - their third record should blow minds.