Album of the Week | Being Dead: When Horses Would Run

Being Dead—Falcon Bitch, Gumball and Ricky Moto—are a trio of Texas-bred besties who make technicolor punk for folks who think the Beach Boys are pretty groovy—yet their music rebels against any sense of influence that can be so easily pinned down. Their work is maximalist and bubblegum bright; full of heart and absurd landscapes just off the road less traveled. “Fields of marigolds and reading, blue skies, white clouds,” Gumball sings at the genesis of lead single “Muriel’s Big Day Off.” “Took a trip into the city, strollin’ around. Find a girlfriend or a boyfriend, baby, lay me down.” Our first proper introduction to Being Dead arrives on the heels of the band taking acid. Mid-trip, they picked up a guitar and, instead of paying much attention to the chords, Falcon Bitch and Gumball found themselves engulfed in the beauty enconscing the patterns of their fingers. Thus, the opening chapter for Being Dead is this surf-rock, jazzed-out cluster of rock ‘n’ roll that is, puzzlingly, worn-in and brand new all at once. When Horses Would Run, their action-packed debut LP, is, in no short words, the most exciting debut of 2023 so far.

All at once, “Muriel’s Big Day Off” puts on different masks: dive bar piano, mariachi-style handclaps, “ooos” that coil around a buoyant, pixelated soundscape. Much like what black midi are doing across the pond, Being Dead do their damnedest to stuff every track with as much firepower and eccentricity that a couple of pals can possibly muster. Their palette is, seemingly, never-ending; no approach is too far out of reach. When Horses Would Run is a huge leap from their 2019 EP Fame Money Death By Drive By, which saw the band tinkering with lo-fi aspirations and freak pop agendas without the structure of a full-length project. Though Being Dead have always been chaotic by trade, no one could have predicted how eclectic their own instrumental vernacular would become four years later.

It’s not often that I open a press kit for a band I’ve never heard of and am so immediately blown apart by the work within. But When Horses Would Run is a special record to behold. From the Link Ray guitar rumbles on opener “The Great American Picnic” to the closer “Oklahoma Nova Scotia”—which arrives like Neil Young and Daniel Johnston had a baby out of psychedelic wedlock—there is something on this album for everyone who presses play or shuffle. At 13 tracks, it’s all killer no filler. Even a short arrangement like “God vs. Bible,” which only contains two lines (If God owned the bible, he’d read it everyday) repeated three times, is lush and harmonious. Sandwiched somewhere in-between gospel music and Devo before Devo discovered synth-pop, Being Dead are cowboys getting their rocks off on mad-lib verses and drugged-out backdrops. There is discovery and curiosity at every turn, a swift detour from any of their rock ‘n’ roll contemporaries who fall into a lulling sonic familiarity with every new project.

Being Dead expel all instances of psych-folk pretentiousness across this baker’s dozen of weirdo-concertos. When Horses Would Run is an authentic, dexterous, impressionable stroke of brilliance from three friends who can’t help but make awing music when in company with each other. In a past life, perhaps Gumball and Falcon Bitch met—as they like to joke—as chimney sweeps, shoemakers or acrobats, and that bond feels as mythical as it is touted to be. When the two singers merge their vocals on “Treeland,” it’s cool as hell. A lot of the work on When Horses Would Run derives from the energy of off-kilter, anti-beaten path gonzos, like Sparks, Oingo Boingo or, even, the B-52s. What I mean is, even when you think you’ve settled into the Being Dead metaverse, you are immediately transported into an unfamiliar place.

Take a track like “Last Living Buffalo,” where an art-punk melody cascades into the distorted static of a shouting, seething “You killed him!” crescendo, where Falcon Bitch’s voice peels open into a devastating crack. You have to stay on your toes, because you never know when Being Dead are going to toss you into a beat shift. Their music is a circus in that way, and a glorious one at that. The monotone delivery from Gumball and angelic, New Wave-conjuring tenor of Falcon Bitch will quickly go silent in favor of a jazz non-sequitur—which arrives deftly on “Muriel’s Big Day Off.” The title track employs a theremin that croons like a cowboy whistling at dawn. Tongue-in-cheek isn’t just an idea that’s in Being Dead’s wheelhouse; it’s a weapon in their arsenal. “By the seaside on a summer day, with a whisper like a drop of rain, that’s the color, that’s the shape,” Falcon Bitch opines, with Gumball’s jawing harmonies permeating in the background. “It’s a take on the promised land of sand and sea.”

When Horses Would Run is full of rhythmic fixtures, like a güiro, glockenspiel, bongos, chair, cowbell, shakers and tambourine. Such an array of production is what has turned the record into this grand assemblage of multi-national influence. Tex-Mex, baroque pop, surf-rock, techno, autotune, proto-punk, rockabilly, it’s all there across the tracklist. Hell, there are even some chamber pop elements working on a track like “Holy Team.”

The centerpiece of When Horses Would Run, however, is “Daydream,” a smooth, irresistible and cosmic offering that outmuscles any bedroom pop label. “Heaven’s not alone, Heaven’s got a best friend,” Falcon Bitch sings. “Heaven is a home, home is anywhere.” With hints of the Shangri-Las and contemporary theatricality, “Daydream” is a dreamy, singular machine as digestible as urban legends and campfire lore. When tapping into a track like this, it’s damn near impossible to not get swept up in the magic of Being Dead. With a beating heart on fire and immortal genre prowess, the band are a cosmic tornado of unrelenting anti-novelty—in the best, most electrifying way possible.

On the Village Green Preservation Society-by-the-Kinks-evoking “We Are Being Dead,” we hear Falcon Bitch’s guitar attempt to do a solo before the instrument, literally, breaks down on her. The whole sequence is crunchy and jagged, but Being Dead are having more fun than any of us. That’s what makes When Horses Would Run such a perfect record to tap into; it’s gorgeous and joyous. That’s not to say it’s an unserious record. This thing could have only been made with meticulous, aspirational, methodical dedication. Only Falcon Bitch and Gumball could have built When Horses Would Run from scratch. The album is a masterclass in confidence and attitude, something you’ve either got or you just don’t. Being Dead, without a doubt, have got it.

2023 has been a particularly busy year for new music, especially debuts from great, wondrous acts who’ve only just hit the scene. I’m especially pulled into the orbit of Being Dead because of their strange yet urgent take on rock ‘n’ roll. They grab every solo, chord progression and vocalization in the book and twist it into an indecipherable soundscape that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head, your jaw drop to the floor and your legs careen into a boogie. Imagine a Jeff Koons balloon animal sculpture but, instead of it looking like a dog, it takes the shape of intestines and organs. The pastiche of vignettes on When Horses Would Run makes the project sing like a pulp novel, while Falcon Bitch and Gumball’s narrative approach gets coiled into a Merry Pranksters highlight reel. Images like “heaven’s tomb erection,” “kiss the jewels of red-blooded carnivores” and “smack my lips with the taste of this morning” are vivid, bohemian and pull the hot iron from the same coals as Richard Brautigan or Hunter S. Thompson did 50 years ago.

“Everybody’s looking for my gold, but nobody’s looking for me,” the band harmonizes on “Oklahoma Nova Scotia.” With When Horses Would Run, the inimitable surf-punk Texans are, really, only just getting started—and, with a machine gun of reference points, sonic potential and unwavering chemistry in tow, there is, without a doubt, a bonafide masterpiece from the band waiting in the wings. When Horses Would Run comes as close to that perfect commendation as a debut album can possibly get. I hope Being Dead make music together forever, because—in an unserious world packed aplenty with far too much serious music—we all need this breath of fresh, hypnotic and transgressive air more than ever.

Matt Mitchell is Paste‘s assistant music editor. He lives in Columbus, Ohio, but you can find him online @yogurttowne.