Their name might conjure skull rings and stringy hair (it was actually plucked from a traditional Carolina folk song popularized by bluegrass kingpin Ralph Stanley), but O’Death’s pitchforks-at-the-campfire frenzy may be even more sinister than their moniker implies. Mixing the lawlessness of Hank Williams with the Gypsy fervor of Gogol Bordello, the band’s second album is a scrappy, vaguely deranged, country-punk mélange that goes down like an impeccably mixed mint julep: sweet until it burns.
