Back in an era when a trio of Donalds proudly spurted opinions around the place, life wasn't much more complex than longnecks, hangovers and a couple of party bros from the golden north of Australia who named themselves after a dubstep artist from Britania. But shit done changed. Dubstep got more popular than Bundaberg Trash Punk, hangovers got considerably more painful and the South American Donald gave birth to a young specimen called Donether.
And DZ pretty much remained the same.
Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with sticking to your guns, but let's face it, we can't guzzle ales and head butt strangers forever, especially not when there's antiques to be purchased, whiskey to be sipped and shitloads of Torrents just begging to be downloaded.
I really didn't want to make this a Jonny Got Old rant, but the only pleasantries I now find in DZ's music are reminiscently, conjuring up imagery of another time and reminding me that they're still one of better live bands of the past 400 years.
There's some indication, however, that DZ 2.0 (Deathrays Beta Version) are aware of my impending 30th year of consecutive life on planet earth and have taken some steps to twist the limits of their core sound away from being just bloody great music to shotgun beers and rape freshmen to. For the most part these alterations have been executed via some mild production tweaks, the lightly applied inclusion of some obscure instrumentation (or more likely, the manipulation of guitars to sound like other instruments), as well as occasional sprinkles of electronic fuzz in the previously sparse gutters.
And these little details are all good and swell, but it's when the band actually break free from their tightly bound born-to-party shackles that we get the most interesting stuff. The highlight being Dumb It Down, which melds together a rare inclusion of non-screeched vocals (just as we've probably had enough of them) with a sparse backing of what sounds like Tears For Fears being sweet-talked by Trent Reznor in an abandoned Mount Isa warehouse.
Without conquering up quite the same visually stimulating imagery, the album closer, Trans Am, ploughs head-first into a world of adventurism, with the group rewiring their trademark drums/guitars/screech blend into a brand new being, spinning the newly created hybrid around a few billion times and then allowing it to freely engulf and embody all surrounding matter. A beautiful mess of head-numbing joy. That is, until the second instalment of the track struts in and we once more get unwillingly dragged into a Gold Coast keg party, brutally forced into a pleasant, but ultimately regrettable, world of cheap rum, cheaper wine and ecstasy-pumped muscleheads.
Bloodstreams will probably sell well at the merch tables of the band's shows, provided as a souvenir (and reminder) of the attended ear-bursting ceremony. Yet, when you're a fading beauty like Matty McConaughey and your "the chicks stay the same age" tattoo no longer seems relevant, it's highly doubtful you'll be playing this album for any other reason than for a quick shirtless jolt through the memory banks of time.