I grew up outside of Vegas. My parents are frugal. We ate at tons of buffets. Somewhere right around graduating from high school, I finally learned something about eating. Take your time. No need to stack your plate up. You can always go back for more. It’ll be there; casinos lose money on these things. They just need to keep the gamblers in the building. I didn’t take my own advice with pop punk in the ‘90s. I fuckin’ gorged myself at the table; pooping and puking the pop punk I couldn’t rightly digest. Fast forward ten years. I have a gag reflex that I have to get over: the slight echo and reverb on the up-front vocals, gnat-ass tight instruments, whatever knob that pours syrup over the entire enterprise, makes me push back from the table before I take a bite. But not always. Because with bands like Teenage Bottlerocket and The Copyrights, I hear much more than just pop punk—although that’s the moniker it’ll be saddled with—it’s bands like this, years later, that remind me why I sat down at the table and grabbed a fork the first time. Real good album. Fun, tight, alive.
–todd (Red Scare)