Five guys, maybe three shirts between them, take to the stage. There's a banjo, a fiddle, a drum set littered with gas cans, chains, and broken cymbals. Then they all start howling, stomping; it's an anachronistic jug band party in a junkyard with sing-along hooks and weathered vocals from another time. Their fans, an ever-expanding congregation, sing along and follow the band with an almost religious fervor, and as vocalist Greg Jamie's eyes roll back into his head there's a sense that something almost sinisterly spiritual has overtaken everyone in the room. This is the world of O'Death.