If, by the title, you suppose this is a documentary about sour grapes, i.e., some pre-Ramones, The Clash, or even The Sex Pistols punk band that never got its props, you're mistaken. There's not an iota of bitterness among these guys who stubbornly defied all odds, most of which were housed in their home town Motor City. I mean, what could have possessed three black teenage brothers to think they could form a prototype punk rock band just blocks away from Berry Gordy's mellow soul factory known as Hitsville USA? Having nothing more than British rock band singles, insurance-money instruments, and cloud formations to guide them, DEATH did it. (Note to my friendly reviewers: they weren't just the prototypical "black" punk rock group, but the forerunning "punk rock group" of any color...period.) But being so original, so very far ahead of the curve, came at a cost. Now therein lies the supremely inspirational message of "A Band Called Death" that anyone can leap into like a mosh pit. It took thirty-five years--35 friggin' years!--before surviving brothers Bobby and Dannis got their recognition. Sadly, David, the group's visionary, passed away years earlier, emotionally drained and physically terminal. Although only old tapes of David are featured in the film, his haunting presence throughout the film is undeniable. By the time you hear David's son share his emotions about hearing his deceased father's voice on a cult-hit record, you'll choke back tears. Even if you're not a punker, a funker, or a rocker, you owe it to yourself to check out this inspiring documentary. Dreams deferred don't always shrivel, sometimes they hibernate. So if you miss DEATH's story this time around, the group will wait, patiently, for as long as it takes. They're accustomed sleepers. But mark AfroPixFlix's words (and his nine forks of good judgment), you'll not long be able to escape DEATH's grip.
Review of A Band Called Death
