The Walnut Room

The Widow’s Bane

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T’was the dark year of our Lord, 1775. King George III had just dispatched a fleet of his finest ships to snuff the rebellion abroad. When the dawn of October 30th broke on Captain George Duff, he and his men were just 100 miles out of Liverpool in the Celtic Sea. A deckhand called the Captain’s attention to the mast of black ship about a quarter mile off their port side. Young master Johnny, the cabin boy, strained through his spyglass to see if the ensign bore the Jolly Roger, or perhaps it was Irish Navy. But as the massive old ship drew nearer, Johnny saw the ensign clearly, and it was one he had never seen before. An hour glass with angel wings was pinned to the tattered old rag of a flag with brick red pigment that seemed to drip like murder from the canvas. As Johnny panned the spyglass toward the deck, he heard wisps of voices on the wind. Singing? Yes it was; and how haunting at that. Like a corpse whispering promises through a flute made of bone. And then Johnny saw the figure head; a siren carved in ebony, the size of a Requiem Shark. Her eyes were deep and hollow, her hair seemed to move with the nature of eels, and a dark scarlet ink ran from her lips over the plaque she held in her spindly fingers. And on the plaque; Johnny strained to read… inlaid with bone, in a merciless font, stood the words, “The Widow’s Bane.” In an instant, the ship had swung broadside and before Johnny could speak, he saw a series of flashes emit from the ship’s port holes. There was a sound not unlike that of the earth itself being torn asunder, and then poor Johnny heard no more. Come that evening, the crimson waves left in the wake of The Widow’s Bane, reached all the way back to Liverpool. And while this spectacle was certainly shocking to the fishermen that soaked their trousers in it, this account is only unique in the names of crew members and geographical locations. Apart from that, this story has been a part of almost every port town’s history across the globe for the last three hundred years. Indeed, to this day, if a sailor hears that mournful tune on the high seas, he will know his options of fate are slim. If he has been a God fearing man and said his prayers, he will likely sleep in a watery grave that eve. However, if he has lived his life by the Devil’s standards, his fate is sure to be far worse; an endless voyage of murder and mayhem, singing for his bread, and living among the dead, upon The Widow’s Bane.

Falling somewhere between Tom Waits and the Misfits (with a generous helping of classic seafaring work-song influence), the debut album from Boulder zombie folk-punkers the Widow’s Bane is arresting and addictive. These pitiless lads got their start performing in storefronts on Pearl Street, and their self-titled CD was recorded partly in Gypsy Jewel, an Asian craft store owned by guitarist-vocalist-pianist Mortimer Leech’s mother-in-law. Leech’s love for harrowing old-time chanteys shines through (darkly) on this thirteen-song trip through death, un-death, debauchery and abuse. Yes, the band members dress up in full zombie garb at their shows, but it’s the combination of outstanding burlesque, impressive musicianship and imaginative, tradition-wise songwriting that has this act headed to the West Coast for its buzz-fueled first tour. – Adam Perry, Denver Westword