By the time DeaD Don’t Die took the stage, The Angry Irishmen was in full-blown apocalypse mode. Tables overturned, bodies moving in a frenzied, beer-drenched riot of sound and sweat. The air was thick with the scent of cheap whiskey, spilled Guinness, and whatever dark magic kept the night from collapsing in on itself.
Another Iowa punk duo, but don’t let the numbers fool you—these two played like a goddamn wrecking crew, pounding out raw, teeth-grinding punk madness that rattled the bones of every last unhinged soul in the place.
Then—madness. A dancers took the floor, twisting and thrashing to the razor-edged rhythm like possessed spirits, their movements somewhere between primal and punk-rock divine intervention. It wasn’t just a gig anymore. It was ritual. It was chaos. It was the kind of thing you tell people about years later, and they assume you made the whole thing up.
The beer kept coming. The people kept moving. Time became a cruel joke, lost somewhere between the howling amplifiers and the relentless pulse of Iowa’s punk underground.
Great night. Great beer. Great people. And when it was all over, I staggered out into the streets knowing one thing for certain: DeaD Don’t Die, and neither does a night like this.
I’ll be in Iowa for another couple of weeks—maybe we’ll cross paths again. If we survive….
