We spoke with Mike Tod about reworking this centuries-old song, recording in Ireland, and confronting death—both as a concept and a lived experience.

“Oh, Death” is such an old and legendary song. What led you to your grim, dark interpretation?

Well, the concept of the album itself is this long, drawn-out meditation on death or dying, so all the traditional songs we selected deal with that in one way or another.

This song in particular I’ve known for over 10 years—first through an a cappella recording by Appalachian musician Lloyd Chandler in 1965, and then through versions by Dock Boggs and Ralph Stanley.

The idea within the song—a conversation between a person and Death—goes back hundreds of years. I wanted to take the skeleton of it—the lyrics and melody—and try to push it forward in my own way so new listeners can connect with it.

Has the presence of Death followed you throughout your artistic career?

I mean, death is kind of a tale as old as time. The idea of burying the dead, creating rituals, and wondering what happens after—that’s one of the things that separates us from other species.

Not long after that came our ability to make instruments out of things like bones, and therefore music. Those two elements are deeply intertwined.

Going back to Ireland really brought that into focus. There’s a base-level darkness in the culture, but also this incredible sense of joy. It’s a strange balance.

What was it like embodying the character of Death through the lyrics?

To me, what’s most terrifying—or maybe beautiful—is how calm the voice of Death is. There’s a steadiness to it, but also a stillness that feels unsettling.

The narrator is pleading, but Death never wavers. Some people might hear it as a literal conversation, but I’ve always thought of it as something more internal—a psychological conflict rather than a physical one.

You’ve said recording the song in Dublin felt like a “personal exorcism.” Can you expand on that?

Over 10 years ago, on St. Patrick’s Day, I was deep in addiction. I was arrested in Dublin and ended up in the psychiatric ward at St. James’ Hospital—right next to the Guinness factory, ironically.

That was my lowest point. I realized the way I was living wasn’t sustainable. That moment led me into recovery and eventually sobriety.

So recording this album was a kind of return—to the scene of the crime—but from a completely different place. I wanted to explore those darker themes with a clear head.

There’s an interview where Matthew McConaughey talks about playing Rust Cohle in True Detective—how he could go to those dark places because he was grounded in a strong, healthy place. I relate to that a lot in terms of making this album.

What can you tell us about Four Wheeled Wagon; or, A Dark Day in the West?

Some people say traditional music is a dying genre. Ironically, I wanted to make an album about death that proves the opposite—that it’s still alive and evolving.

What happens when an old, acoustic tradition merges with modern, experimental elements? What happens when you step outside those traditional boundaries?

I’m always trying to contribute to the genre itself—not just to myself, if that makes sense?