Dopamines: The Copyrights have made a crater in the middle of the United States. I’m not saying The Dopamines are stuck in that crater. I’m saying that they’re looking at that crater and going, “Fuck… dude…” looking at the immensity of it. It’s the strange majesty of a big previous penetration. Some people will commemorate it by putting a sticker on their car, signifying that they, too, saw that fuckin’ crater. The Dopamines went into the studio, with the residue of that crater in their minds, and they sat down to write two pretty, simple songs—one of forlorn pop punk and another with that and a dash of folk punk—while not being as weepy, contrived, or as bad as that may sound. I like it. Till Planes: Take this from a dude who’s never written a song in his life. These songs are a little premature, where I can almost hear “what’s next?” a couple of times before there’s a chord change, tempo change, or lyric. There are good bits, and I’m interested what they’ll develop into, but, right now, it feels like I’m sitting in a car with someone who’s learning to drive stick for the first time and they have to pause each time to find the right gear while a medley of early Hot Water Music and At The Drive-In is playing on the stereo.
–todd (It’s Alive / Soapy Hands)