Twenty years ago, “You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine” hit like a defibrillator to my teenage soul, jolting my seventeen-year-old self into a frenzy of bedroom dance parties. It was the soundtrack to my youthful rebellion, a ferocious blend of visceral beats and guttural guitar that made me question how just two guys could generate so much noise. Fast forward to the present, I found myself at the Galvanizers Yard, ready to relive that sonic chaos.

The stage setup was deceptively simple: a drum kit, a bass guitar rigged with enough pedals to give a centipede foot cramps, and a synth that looked like it had been pilfered from the future. I marveled at how such minimalism could produce the relentless wall of sound that had defined my adolescence. And then, there they were—Sebastien Grainger and Jesse F. Keeler, proving once again that less is more when you’ve got talent and testosterone to spare.

Grainger, the drummer-singer hybrid, deserves a gold medal in the hypothetical Olympics of energy expenditure. Watching him belt out lyrics while pounding the drums into submission was like witnessing a man wrestle an octopus. The sheer physicality of his performance left me once again in awe, and I wasn’t even the one exerting myself. If multitasking were a sport, this guy would be the Michael Phelps of punk.

From the first distorted note of “Turn It Out” to the final, crashing chord of “You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine,” the duo played the album in its entirety. It was like time-traveling back to 2004, with the added benefit of legal drinking age. The crowd—an eclectic mix of grizzled veterans of the early 2000s indie scene and fresh-faced recruits—roared with approval, moshing and dancing as if trying to shake off two decades of accumulated ennui.

The set didn’t end there. As the last echoes of the album’s title track faded, they launched into “Nomad,” a newer track that demonstrated their sound has evolved without losing its primal edge. “One + One” followed, its driving rhythm proving that DFA 1979 still knows how to get feet moving and heads banging. “Virgins” and “White Is Red” slowed things down—relatively speaking—allowing a momentary respite before the auditory assault resumed with “Modern Guy” and “Freeze Me.”

“Trainwreck 1979” was a highlight, the song’s infectious energy amplifying the crowd’s fervour to fever pitch. The air felt electric, the audience a living, breathing organism pulsating with the music. Then came the encore: “Right On, Frankenstein!” and “Dead Womb” delivered the final blows in a concert that felt like both a celebration of catharsis.

By the end of the night, my ears were ringing, my feet were sore, and my voice was hoarse from shouting along to every anthem. Death From Above 1979 reminded us all why they were—and still are—masters of their craft.

Their ability to channel raw power and emotion through their minimalist setup is nothing short of alchemical. As I stumbled out of the venue, drenched in sweat and nostalgia, one thing was clear: you don’t need a full band to bring the house down. Sometimes, all it takes is two guys, a drum machine, and a whole lot of noise.

Words: Angela Canavan

Photos: Angela Canavan