A PLACE TO BURY STRANGERS
“There are moments where I’m really scared on stage,” admits A Place to Bury Strangers bassist Dion Lunadon, “where it’s really foggy and I know someone’s swinging a guitar around. Sometimes I don’t give a fuck though; if a guitar is about to hit me in the head, oh well. It’s going to make for a better show.”
He should know. After joining the Brooklyn-based trio in 2010, it only took a few shows before Lunadon smashed his bass against his face. The freshly drawn blood trickled like rain off of a tin roof. But since the band often plays in the dark, he couldn’t actually see what happened. He had to keep going, and hope for the best. “That’s the most intense fear and feeling—when you go to a show and you’re actually scared,” says frontman Oliver Ackermann, a co-founder of the soon-to-be-shuttered Death By Audio DIY space that’s hosted its fair share of frantic, life-affirming shows. “Or you can palpably feel the danger in the music,” adds Lunadon, “like it’s going to fall apart at any moment and the players doing it are so in the moment they don’t give a shit about anything else. They’re just going for it. It’s a gutter kinda vibe; everything about it is icky and evil and dangerous.”
Having lived, worked, and created in the ever evolving Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn for over a decade, native Texan Travis Johnson has felt the direct impact of the growth and dissolution that comes with rapid gentrification. His band Grooms practiced, and recorded at Brooklyn’s Death By Audio for seven years (first as Muggabears, then as Grooms) before they were forced out of their spiritual and literal home in November 2014 when DBA shut its doors.