Nautical knavery

>> Are Montreal metalheads Death Boat
pulling our wooden legs?

JOLLY, ROGERED: Death Boat

By JOHNSON CUMMINS

I’m sitting in an infamous watering hole on the Main with Death Boat’s guitarists and singers, Moppy McMoperson and Captain Boneface. The regular barflies fix their 1,000-yard stares in the direction of our table and rub their eyes, not sure if these two pirates are flesh and blood or just an alcohol-induced hallucination.

To be honest, I’m kind of wondering the same thing myself. McMoperson is wearing what seems like a children’s Halloween pirate costume, complete with a moth-eaten stuffed bird perched on his shoulder. Boneface’s outfit proves even worse, with peeling electrical tape affixed to his chompers giving the appearance of a scurvy-ridden mouth and the buttons on his ill-fitting British Navy jacket threatening to pop off with so much as a sneeze.

Not to poke any more holes in these buccaneers’ leaky vessel, or to shiver anybody’s timbers, but if I were to trust my acute investigative instincts, I would venture to say that Death Boat aren’t real pirates at all. Hell, they don’t even have a missing appendage between the two of them.

“I can’t believe some land-lubbers and scallywags would have the cannon balls t’insinuate we be pirate poseurs,” says McMoperson in an effete, high-pitched voice. “The life o’ a pirate runs through me veins, with the high sea being my maiden. If you love barrels of rum, boiled beef and sodomy, being a pirate is the only life to have. We’re the original gangstas and the original punks—you just don’t get any more outlaw than being a pirate.”

Alright, the jury may be out over whether Death Boat are the real deal or not, but one thing is for sure, pirates are definitely the new wolves in this city. When I bring up the fact that concert and DJ night promoters the Pirates of the Lachine Canal have been ruling the St-Laurent River for a while now, the two swashbucklers become livid. “If those butt pirates of the Lachine anal be reading this,” grunts Boneface, “I would just like them t’ know that if they come anywhar near the Death Boat, me will personally bust a hail of cannon balls at their leaky tub and take their booty—and I’m not talking about gold coins either, yaarrgghh.”

Even with their loose lips sinking punk rock ships, and terrible double entendres galore, Death Boat hardly need them to prove their sea salt. Their soon to be released concept record The Trilogy of the Mystic Stone is full of squealing, ’80s-style metal that hoists the Jolly Roger high with guitar shredding and ridiculous falsetto vocals that could cut glass. Just check out some of their leaden sea shanties, like “Lesbian Tsunami,” “Shit Storm” and “Dial B for Balls.”

“Aaargh, the record mightily is our story of the trials and tribulations we have gone through living on the seven seas,” observes Boneface. “We talk about the loneliness at sea, the bloody battles, homoeroticism, mutiny and other staples that seem t’ go well with cheesy heavy metal riffs. Aye, it is not the greatest tale e’er told nor the worst, but I can say it is most definitely a tale.” And with that, Death Boat may finally be telling the truth

With Trigger Effect and Take My Money
at Foufounes Électriques on
Wednesday, Feb. 20, 9 p.m., $8