Article and Photos by: Nick Durcholz

Indianapolis – This is the time ladies, gents, and fluid folk, where the old south seems zombified and the devil must be raking because we got that extinction heat that came 24 years too soon.

What a time to be alive! The good news is that there are some super talented and creative musicians out there who croon with the best of them and cajole us while we cook and corrode. Righteously. These two bands definitely fall into that category. They are Narcan for sorrow and their respective styles are impeccable. For me, the Dead South is like a familiar vet buddy from the drawn and quartered days of Covid 19 who calms with their pessimism, while Amigo the Devil is a new, wild friend who I would escort people going into Planned Parenthood with while on mescaline. 

From the first note there was such a gravity emanating from Amigo or, Danny Kiranos. He voiced concern about this show being dull and dreary because it was the last of the tour. Completely unfounded. The energy started rhythmic and slow as a steam engine from the 19th century and built up to a crass,monsoon of catharsis. “I Hope Your Husband Dies” is a very relatable tune which Kiranos dictates expertly. Look it up because I don’t think anyone can tell it with the scallops he can. I had never heard “Murder at the Bingo Hall” and I honestly don’t think Bingo has ever been made to sound more forbidden and scandalous. Therefore, absolutely entrancing. A more seasoned fan put it this way: “Every time [he] takes the stage, it feels like hundreds of strangers silently agreeing to carry each other’s burdens for a couple hours.” For a devil, he truly holds one hell of a mass.

​And then, what can you about the foursome that could charm a honey badger? The Dead South is undeniably cool and unbearably likable. Like a Dickensian barbershop quartet without the accent… That is also Canadian. “In Hell I’ll Be in Good Company” is their hit that is a perfect example. But these Kanucks don’t just whistle and croon. They can blaze with both the banjo and the mandolin when they kick into high gear. Oh, and Danny Kenyon? You are a prince, sir. Rocking the cello like an electric bass? Baller status. Even with a substitute banjoist (Happy Birthday!) they kept the vibe more genuine than Bill Monroe’s ghost. Speaking of, as a resident of the town that calls the International Bluegrass Music Hall of Fame and their festival ROMP home, it was a joy to hear the Dead Southshoulder and hoist high the sacred, immigrant genre as the rain south of Indy cut ROMP short the day before. 

Just like bluegrass, sometimes life saturates and sometimes it blazes.  

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