Hooray! At this point, the Bananas could’ve easily coasted on past exploits. I mean, if you’ve already made the musical equivalents of The Statue of Liberty (A Slippery Subject) and the Grand Canyon (Nautical Rock’n’roll)—(these monuments are totally arbitrary; solely used for illustrative purposes due to their hefty landmark fame)—no one’s gonna give you shit if the new record doesn’t make a Mount Rushmore (without fucking over the Oglala Sioux). I mean, these three Sacramentoians basically made, and then perfected, a version of punk that’s equal parts confectioner’s sugar and cordite. It’s as sweet as a Jolly Rancher, but as dangerous as a grenade with the pin already pulled in the hands of an infant. It’s celebratory, raucous DIY pop that has the wonderful tendency to explode into unexpected chunks. I’ve put my level of trust in The Bananas on the same shelf as two long-standing underground bands that, last year, they went and upped the ante on themselves. The Arrivals’ Marvels of Industry and The Tim Version’s The Decline of the Southern Gentlemen are two hard-playing band’s best records. Mind you, I already celebrated The Bananas entire catalog, but New Animals is the best album by one of my already-favorite bands. The lead-off song is quite possibly the catchiest song about gentrification ever written. Wahoo!