Liance – This Painting Doesn’t Dry | Album Review

How do you define a life? How will I be remembered? Was I a good person? Many people wait until they’re old or facing their own mortality to grapple with these sorts of existential questions. These are the types of cosmic worries that drive people to pop out kids, write autobiographies, or donate massive amounts of money to have their name emblazoned on the wing of some building—all in the name of ensuring a legacy. Life is hard enough to navigate on its own, but trying to think of life in your absence is even harder to conceive. 

But, in a way, life is just the sum of its parts. It’s not all courageous decisions or life-changing adventures; there are millions of little microscopic moments that are impossible to articulate. Moments of laughter shared between friends. Days of sadness and consolation. Hours of nervousness and worry. Outbursts of pain and violence. Those moments may be less glamorous, but they are what make up a majority of our lives. They may not all be beautiful or noteworthy, but they are honest, and they are plentiful. This Painting Doesn’t Dry, the sophomore album from Liance, is a 44-minute document of these types of moments, both big and small, that make up a life. 

The entity known as Liance can be described in many different ways. The band’s Spotify page self-describes Liance as the “narrative songwriting project of Hong-Kong-Michigan-Brighton transplant James Li.” Meanwhile, I saw a fan online describe Li’s approach to music as “diaristic indie folk-rock electronic chamber pop.” While grounded in physical spaces and the arbitrary boundaries of musical genres, these examples alone prove just how eclectic a Liance release can be. For as long as this project has existed, Li has refused to conform to any single category or sound. Li only knows how to make music that’s true to his experience, and that leads to a collection of sounds, ideas, and thoughts that feel as multi-faceted as any one individual is. Perhaps more than any other record I’ve heard this year, This Painting Doesn’t Dry feels like a collection of stories that flesh out an existence, personality, and viewpoint all at once. 

Opening track “Ellie Takes a Bath” perfectly sets the tone for the album, welcoming the listener into the release with a mesmerizing noise loop that buoys throughout the track. Soon joined by a stuttering drumline and eventually Li himself, the song fleshes out a picture of two people sticking together through sickness and finding connection in shared interests and experiences. The song references, amongst other things, The Glow, Pt. 2 and Ezra Pound, just so the listener knows what they’re getting into upfront.

The following track, “Too Beautiful To Destroy,” acts as a mood-based level-set for the record, letting the listener in on a key inciting incident that frames the remainder of the LP. The song begins with a lush piano introduction which is quickly subsumed by a Flume-esque electronic warble that commands immediate attention. In between stark personal verses, the song’s chorus repeats, “It all adds up / Even small things add up in time / It all adds up” until the phrase saturates every fold of your brain. This all leads to a piano-tracked bridge where Li flashes forward in time, detailing the suicide of a close friend. This traumatic loss is directly contrasted with beautifully poetic moments shared amongst friends. 

These types of losses are the kind that hang with you forever. The pain of losing a friend is something that never entirely goes away; it only numbs over time. Sometimes all you can do to actively combat that sadness is to find comfort in a friend who knows what you’re going through. Though he doesn’t spell it out for the listener, the adjacency of these two opposing states creates an indispensable dichotomy. Placing such a striking tragedy next to moments of contentedness establishes how important each of these feelings are in their own right. Li’s choice to surround such a formative low with hopeful rays of human connection acts as a beautiful reminder of the good that can feel so imbalanced in the wake of loss. These moments are emotional anchors that keep us grounded. 

Outside of the personal experiences depicted in the lyrics, there is also a downright stunning range of textures and musical flavors to be found here. Mid-album “Catalonia” is a beautiful instrumental pit-stop that sits somewhere between the tropical math rock of Standards and the high-fantasy jazz guitar of Shalfi. Meanwhile, the instrumental on “Used To The Signs” sounds like pure National worship, which sits amongst other tracks that lean heavier into eclectic Sufjan Stevens and Destroyer-inspired instrumentation.  

Throughout Painting, songs shift focus from interpersonal to global, sometimes at a moment’s notice. Scenes of livestreamed funerals and tear-gas-laced protests punctuate flashes of beach trips and other “quiet victories” that make the heavy events feel a little less heavy. This is a consistent theme throughout the record, just as it is life. As things outside seem to spiral further and further out of our control, finding small, somber moments of connection is sometimes the only thing we have to hold onto. Whether political, environmental, or systemic, the world is comprised of these things can that feel too monumental to tackle on our own. Sometimes finding solace in the things we can control is all we have. Whether it’s a partner, friend, or parent, finding someone that you can lean on is necessary for survival in 2021.  Sometimes that takes the form of empathizing and wallowing in sadness together, but other times it’s escaping into a moment of happiness where all of those lumbering specters feel far away.

These feelings come to a head on “Untitled 92 at the NPG,” where Li calmly sings, “Blushing through post extinction events / Elated by our own holy insignificance.” These existential sentiments lead directly into “The Decameron,” where Li interpolates an English expression as he explains that he “[doesn’t] want to live through history no more.” As these thoughts spiral, the perspective shifts from grounded to celestial in one of the album’s most poetic verses. 

When I emerged I was covered by the earth
The parking deck was full of rotting flowers
There is a river - shimmer - threading illness back to the past
Seven planets and three stars

The record’s penultimate title track is a 90-second excursion that acts as a thesis statement for the entire piece. The song is so quiet, subtle, and fast that it almost passes by unnoticed. It’s not until further listens that the words really land…. But I’ll get to that in a minute. “This Painting Doesn’t Dry” is followed by “TAMSY,” which is undoubtedly Li’s magnum opus. This epic 12-minute closer is a multi-phase journey that winds from pedal steel ruminations to cosmic spoken-word poetry. The song evokes such indie-rock landmarks as Sufjan Stevens’ “Impossible Soul” and Car Seat Headrest’s “Beach Life-In-Death,” great company to be in. 

On this final song, Li offers up a few more slice-of-life portraits, eventually working up to a series of affirmations over a soaring instrumental that feels about as close to redemption as Li will ever allow himself. The album wraps up with a lyrical callback accompanied by the same noise loop that opens the record, leading to a sense of recursion or repetition. 

As one takes in this oceanic statement of personal truth and poetic observations, everything begins to come into focus. These events all have meaning, even when they have no meaning. As these stories bounce around the listener’s head, the album’s namesake suddenly clicks into place. 

Aside from being a beautifully poetic sentiment, the phrase “This Painting Doesn’t Dry” is a realization that life isn’t over until it’s over. As Li flashes from one small vignette to another, the message becomes clear; these moments will keep happening. Your life is never finished. It’s not until you pass on that your “painting” is finalized. Until then, you will keep adding on layers, colors, and shapes, building out a beautiful landscape of memories, events, and people. Things may get covered up, but they’re always there. Losses and feelings may become distorted with time, but their impact remains. Your life is your canvas, but it’s impossible to know how it will turn out until it’s all over, and even then, you don’t get to appreciate it fully. 

So once again, I ask, how do you define a life? Defining a life is hard, and defining your own is inherently impossible. It’s difficult enough for us to understand how we are perceived day-to-day, let alone how people will remember us once we’re gone. In fact, we have no say in how others will remember us–that’s hard, but it’s also a relief in some ways. In the meantime, all we can do is continue to forge ahead and live life the best way we know how. Existence can be built through these connections and experiences, but we have no say in our legacy. All we can do is hope that others catch enough glimpses of our true selves that once our painting is finalized, it feels authentic to who we were.

Pet Symmetry – Future Suits | Album Review

It’s safe to say that none of us have come out of the past year the same. The collective experiences of a world in quarantine will continue to influence us in countless ways and have already left a mark that will never be truly erased. I’ll never know who I would’ve been if 2020 wasn’t a year of personal trials and global tragedies, but what can any of us do besides pick up the pieces of a life we used to know and carry on. Future Suits by Pet Symmetry is a reminder that we’ve all been subject to circumstances beyond our control. Perhaps even more importantly, the record is a bid to find some meaning in the indifferent chaos.

Future Suits is a new look for Evan Weiss, Erik Czaja, and Marcus Nuccio in more ways than one. The album cover’s QR code and sci-fi lettering don’t lie to listeners; this is a more digital and eclectic effort than we’ve seen from Pet Sym before. Synthesizer lines and tropically influenced drum beats are scattered across the record. The band also shows us their dynamic range throughout the release on softer, laid-back tracks like “Debt Symmetry.” Fans shouldn’t be wary though, as perhaps the group’s biggest triumph is maintaining their Chicago-rock edge while still growing their sound. 

This isn’t to understate the songwriting on Future Suits, which doesn’t depart from their trademark-style of introspective thoughts conveyed in sing-along choruses. The lyrics are still filled with clever wordplay and good humor, after all, what do you expect from a group with three songs on an album that are puns on their band name? (no disrespect to “Pet Sympathy” “Debt Symmetry” and “Pet Synergy,”). The Pet Symmetry gang still seem to have as much fun as you can while playing music, but impressively don’t shy away from the heavier topics of social commentary. 

While present throughout the album, tracks like “Bootlicker” and “2021: A Personal Space Odyssey” bring themes of social strife to the forefront. These songs acknowledge the personal traumas and hardships of living through unrest while also making a statement on the overarching issues causing societal damage. This bifocal perspective makes for a refreshing listen, especially when Evan Weiss’ knack for combining immersive imagery and slick phrasing is at full force. One such instance is “Bootlicker,” which boasts lines like “bruised blue from tension watching you / a numbered badge just wasting time on every avenue.” These tracks achieve an ambitious desire to encapsulate the environment of “post” COVID society and make a meaningful statement without coming off as preachy. 

This represents a serious increase in scope for the focus of Pet Symmetry’s music. Fan favorites off of previous records like “A Detailed and Poetic Physical Threat to the Person Who Intentionally Vandalized my 1994 Dodge Intrepid Behind Kate’s Apartment,” “You & Me & Mt. Hood,” and “Please Don’t Tell My Father That I Used His Honda Accord to Destroy the Town of Willow Grove, Pennsylvania in 2002” all detail formative adventures in loving detail, but are confined to being individual experiences. With Future Suits, Pet Symmetry face down a global pandemic, civil unrest, and political dishonesty with the same ethos of teenage joy-riding rebels. Admittedly, many people are understandably burnt out at the prospect of hearing about the doom and gloom of planet Earth in 2021. While this record can’t promise escapism, it does provide a novel perspective on the situation delivered in a distinct and well-executed style.

Not only is it not preachy, but this record oozes authenticity. It touches the big, small, good, bad, and ugly that comes with getting through life one day at a time. Future Suits chronicles the personal journeys of navigating relationships, fighting the monotony of everyday life, and finding a place for yourself in the universe. Tracks like “Window Pain” paint this picture of turmoil at every turn; “as the world keeps getting small / we’re just sailing through the darkness / we’re the ships that face the squall.” Yet another tune that perfectly evokes these emotions of personal reckoning is “Pet Synergy” with lines like; “times they are tough / vibes remain off / so how else do you break up with yourself / standing in the shade of your own shadow.” The same song also bears daunting reminders of our fragility; “you see, all my friends keep dying / if I don’t put my apologies into writing I’m scared they’ll never get to where they need to be.” Packaging these themes seamlessly into a driving, raucous jam is an accomplishment that not every band is capable of. Pet Symmetry’s emotional outpouring here doesn’t take on the tone of whiny venting (which can be great too!) but is a powerful display of heartfelt angst.  

Pet Symmetry’s third album is an enjoyable listen all the way through in no small part due to its natural ebb and flow. More hard-hitting barnburners like “Pet Synergy” with its overdriven guitar and open-hi hat grooves transition cleanly into smoothly chilled tunes like “Bootlicker.” Even with this range, these dynamic rises and falls don’t at all seem forced, an excellent quality for a record that you’re going to want to listen to from front to back over and over again.

Future Suits is a masterclass in a band expanding their sound while staying true to their roots. Exploring new sonic territory while introducing lyrical content to their discography may seem like biting off more than they can chew, but Pet Symmetry has shown with this release that they can take these challenges in stride. Future Suits should scratch any Pet Sym itch that listeners have had and should excite you for their next chapter… Here’s to hoping we make it there.

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Jack Hansen-Reed is an avid music fan from Omaha, Nebraska with a passion for all things DIY. In his free time, he enjoys sticking it to the man, cheering on the Cubbies, and drumming in indie-americana act Bearwithus. Send him any music recommendations on Twitter at @jhansenreed.

The Killers – Pressure Machine | Album Review

Editor’s Note: Friday 13th, August 2021, at 1:36 AM Mountain Time, I hit play on Pressure Machine, the then-just-hours-old seventh album from The Killers. I spent the next two hours listening to the record and jotting down my reactions in real-time. What follows is a (slightly) polished version of those thoughts in an exercise I’m calling a “first listen” review. 

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I’m going to let you guys in on a little secret; Imploding The Mirage just barely missed out on our 2020 Album of the Year list. It was so close to making our top 15, in fact, that you can even see the album cover in the header image for that post. Mirage hit the sweet spot for me in so many ways; it dropped at the peak of an antsy and confined COVID summer, came from a group that I have loved since childhood, represented an artistic return to form, and touched on a genre that doesn’t get enough time in the spotlight. While Imploding the Mirage genuinely feels like a modern Heartland Rock classic, it was just barely edged out by other releases by the time the end of the year rolled around. 

When The Killers announced a second, more pensive accompaniment to the soaring open-road indigo of Mirage, we all knew what they were doing. Shortly after the album’s announcement, they released a collab with Bruce Springsteen, and then they unveiled the black and white cross-adorned album cover. The signs were all there, and they weren’t subtle; this is The Killers doing their Nebraska. Lead singer Brandon Flowers even went as far as to explain that, due to the Coronavirus, the release of the Mirage was “the first time in a long time that I was faced with silence, And out of that silence this record began to bloom, full of songs that would have otherwise been too quiet and drowned out by the noise of typical Killers records.” Sounds awfully familiar to me. 

It took them a while (and included a few stumbles), but The Killers have finally figured out who they are in this late stage of their career, and that is a Springsteen worship band. That’s fine. I love that. I support that. Sam’s Town is still a classic to this day, and I say lean into your influences. That said, Nebraska is probably my favorite Springsteen record (yeah, I’m one of those guys), so I went into Pressure Machine with my guard up… but I’ll be damned if they didn’t suck me in almost immediately. 

The record opens with a menacing Godspeed-esque warble over field recordings of people talking about their lives in some unnamed small town. As you listen to these disembodied voices tell you about living in the same place for decades and marrying someone straight out of high school, your mind immediately begins to flesh out some dusty corner of America. While inspired by Brandon Flowers’ hometown of Nephi, Utah, the band intentionally leaves out any defining characteristics so that the listener can fill in the blanks with similar stories and places they have experienced first-hand. These quotes, along with their dark, murky undertones, construct the feeling of a depressed town where tourists stop only for gas and maybe a meal. A place where businesses have left and technology has abandoned. A place that we have failed.

From here, the band sways into frame with a slightly-out-of-place folk riff. The lyrics walk a fine line, occasionally stumbling over themselves as Flowers weaves a story of a character addicted to “Hillbilly Heroin Pills.” In their best moments, the song’s verses are a beautifully lived-in portrayal of middle America. “West Hills” strikes me much in the same way as Waxahatchee’s “Arkadelphia,” where the depiction comes across as equal parts reserved and revering. It’s the kind of perspective that you can only gain by living in a place like this. Even with one-off lines that occasionally pop up and hit you like a rake, the searing guitar solo that comes in at the climax of the track more than makes up for it. 

After the opener, “Quiet Town” begins with another field recording, this time with a more suicidal bent. The sinister nature of this sample is soon undercut by a radiant synth and peppy drum beat. It feels a little disconnected, but within two lines of the song, you get so wrapped up in the narrative that it almost doesn’t matter. There are lyrics that touch on opioids and the small town cliche of people feeling safe enough to not lock their doors. As these trite observations mount, there’s a harmonica solo, because, of course there is. Even though I recognize it as uninspired… I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hit. That’s what’s both impressive and confusing about Pressure Machine; even when things feel predictable or hackneyed, they’re still committed. 

Throughout the album, there are flatfooted lyrics like “In this barbed wire town of barbed wire dreams” and questionable similies like “Small town girl, Coca Cola grin, honeysuckle skin.” Still, those examples only stick out like a sore thumb because the vocals are so crystal clear in the mix. There’s no bombast to hide the cornball heartland rock pastiche like there was on Sam’s Town or Imploding the Mirage. These are also more committed character studies than anything the band has ever done before, so maybe it’s just a byproduct of Flowers failing to put himself in the narrator’s shoes properly. Even when individual lines fall flat, the band is committed enough (and my love for Springsteen is great enough) that it all feels worth it. You get the sense that the band is taking lots of big swings, so it still feels admirable even when they miss.

Thanks to the fascinating but intentionally drab quotes found at the start of most songs, the tracks can sometimes start with literally negative energy. Once the band starts up, the songs generally follow the same structure beginning with a campfire smolder and building their way up to a triumphant guitar solo or a passionate chorus. In this sense, it feels like you get the best of both worlds, sometimes tipping more into Darkness on the Edge of Town territory than Nebraska. The 90° desert drive of Mirage has faded, but these tracks thrive in the early morning light at that moment right before the sun comes up. 

Despite all of the lyrical cliches, the uninspired emulation, the needless Phoebe Bridgers feature, and the jarring transitions between mood-setting field recordings and instrumentation, I adored Pressure Machine upon first listen. The most critical thing I can say about it is that the record sometimes feels split in two conflicting directions. Nebraska worked because it felt stark the entire time. On Pressure Machine, songs can begin with a dark slice-of-life tale that feels like it’s leading up to a piece as forboding and wretched as “Nebraska,” but instead, we get something like “In The Car Outside,” which sounds like it could have fit in anywhere on the back-half of Mirage. 

Interestingly enough, the band also released an Abridged version of Pressure Machine, which cuts out roughly five minutes of running time simply by removing the field recordings and getting straight to the tasty jams. Especially when compared to the nearly identical copy of “Pressure Machine” with no asterisks or parenthesis, it’s hard to view the abridged version as the “definitive” rendition of the album since it feels more like these songs exist solely for radio edits and playlist placements. It’s mainly just disappointing that the samples, the press cycle, the cover, nearly everything implied that these songs were going to be dark and sorrowful. I guess when compared to the rest of The Killers discography they are, but they never quite plumb the same depths as Nebraska.

In retrospect, I think it might be it’s impossible for an artist of The Killers stature (or Springsteen’s, for that matter) to swing a solo acoustic album like Nebraska in 2021. There’s a major label and millions of dollars behind Pressure Machine, so this record can’t be that big of a risk. Even if it’s only one or two songs, something on here still needs to be able to fit in on a stadium tour setlist. This album was never going to be a collection of “State Trooper”-level songs because The Killers don’t have the restraint for that. 

They also don’t have the balls to end the record on a crushing one-two-punch like “My Father’s House” into “Reason to Believe.” In the final two tracks of Nebraska, Springsteen offers up possibly one of the saddest songs in his entire catalog, then chases it with a four-minute ray of hope found in the resolute nature of the people depicted throughout the album. This leads to an effect where the listener goes from an extreme low and then experiences an unexpected optimistic uplift that breaks through the entire LP like a holy sunbeam. Instead, The Killers wrap things up with a mildly-uplifting title track followed by a predictable slow-build choral ballad.

But do I need the restraint or the balls? Not necessarily. While occasionally disjointed, these songs still scratch an itch, and it almost doesn’t matter how they do it. I came into Pressure Machine in search of pensive sentiments, folksy slice-of-life stories, and a harmonica or two. I got all that and a little extra fanfare, but I’m not mad about it. We may never get another Nebraska from an artist the size of The Killers, and that makes me a little sad. That doesn’t mean smaller, lesser-known artists aren't creating that type of music, but it sure would have been fun to watch Flowers and company try. 

I suppose when you draw (and invite) comparisons to Springsteen, you’re going to get a lot of them. Is it unfair for me to judge this new Killers album by comparing it to one of the greatest heartland folk-rock albums of all time? Of course. Does that mean I can’t enjoy it on its own merits? Not at all. 

Pressure Machine takes the winning ingredients of The Killers’ discography and melds them into one singular 50-minute experience that manages to feel unique. This record takes the personable human tales of Sam’s Town weaves those stories together with the production and style that made their last record stick. Unfortunately for The Killers, what made their last record stick was doing an impression of the greatest living American singer-songwriter, so you’re always going to exist in that shadow. On its own, Pressure Machine is a somber middle ground between Sam’s Town and Imploding the Mirage. Only time will tell how often I venture to that dust-covered well. 

Catbite – Nice One | Album Review

I’m not sure if you’ve heard the news, but ska is back. Like, back back. Well, it’s not like it ever left, but after a year and change of staying in our homes, perhaps people have decided to not be so self-serious. It’s easy to point to this ska revival as being akin to the reappraisal of nü metal, but I don’t think they quite reflect one another. The return of nü metal has more to do with it being accepted as smarter than people had initially given it credit for. The staying power and swathes of influence of bands like Deftones and Slipknot finds the genre en vogue, with artists like Rina Sawayama and Loathe putting new spins on its sonic touchstones. This is not the case with ska. 

Musically, this current moment in ska-story feels less like a new wave and more of a return to the sunburnt skate punk of third wave ska that invaded the mainstream in the ’90s. What makes ska great is that it overflows with exuberance, which bands like No Doubt and Rancid understood. They took the infectious choruses of The Specials and Oingo Boingo and morphed them into anthems by adding heavy power chords and gang vocals that every kid in the crowd could shout. Somewhere along the way, people grew tired of this bountiful joy and cast ska into the gutter. A new generation of musicians found ska lying there helpless and have dusted it off so that it may thrive once again. 

Catbite is one of these savior bands. The Philadelphia quartet’s sophomore LP, Nice One, is a gleeful slice of ska-punk that hearkens back to the genre’s heyday. The album is a strong piece of power pop, and its sole purpose is to have fun. Opening track “Asinine Aesthetic” catapults Nice One into your ears as frontperson Brittany Luna belts about posers over a chorus of “ooo-sha-la-la’s” and rapid guitar upstrokes. Lead single, “Call Your Bluff” is an endlessly hummable ripper that rails against wack posturing. Meanwhile, “Not Ur Baby” introduces a touch of melancholy without sacrificing Catbite’s ability to craft large radio-friendly hooks.

Nice One is an example of a band understanding their strengths and leaning all the way into them. What sets Catbite apart from so many groups, regardless of genre, is that they have a powerhouse singer in Brittany Luna. They know the rules; when you have a talent like Luna fronting the band, you gotta make big songs that get the crowd moving. Along with slick production courtesy of Davey Warsop, Catbite keep things simple in order to support Luna’s spectacular performances. While Catbite’s self-titled debut features such moments, the album comes across as a group still learning who they are. Nice One does not include its predecessor’s vibeier jams like “Already Gone,” instead, the songs on the group’s sophomore album get straight to the point, even on the mid-tempo rocksteady tracks, “Stay” and “Bad Influence.”

Like many power pop albums, Nice One falls prey to frontloading the tracklist. The songs on the back half are by no means lackluster, but when the first half is wall-to-wall bangers, it can be hard as a listener to keep up with the band’s pace. Perhaps the album could be better served with a more even distribution so as to give each song its due, but nailing the perfect song order might be one of the hardest things to do in music. Thankfully, Nice One is a relatively brief album, so any lull that might be experienced is momentary.

With Nice One, Catbite have proven themselves worthy of being amongst the new standard-bearers of ska. Like their contemporaries Ska Tune Network, We Are the Union, and Bad Operation, Catbite are shifting the perception of ska away from the unsavory white dude aesthetic that partially maligned the genre in the ‘90s, instead centering it on the joy that the music brings. Today’s ska is a safe space where anyone, regardless of race, sexual preference, and gender identity, can express themselves and skank their hearts out. Perhaps the demand for inclusion alone is enough for the current ska scene to be considered a fourth wave? Honestly, I’m not sure, and the more time I spend thinking about criteria is time away from enjoying the music. With Nice One, Catbite aren’t looking to reinvent the wheel; rather they are putting new air in the tires so the car can keep on cruising.

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Connor lives in San Francisco with his partner and their cat, Toni. Connor has an MFA in creative writing and is working toward becoming a community college professor. When he isn’t listening to music or writing about killer riffs, Connor is obsessing over coffee and sandwiches.

Follow him on Twitter or Instagram.

VIAL – LOUDMOUTH | Album Review

There’s a special type of baggage that comes with being a “TikTok Band.” It’s not uncommon to see Tiktokers who also happen to make music express their reluctance to promote their songs on the app for fear of such stigma. This phenomenon also goes both ways with groups like Beach Bunny, who have enjoyed “hit” TikTok songs, but refuse to let themselves be defined by that success. With the lines between “art” and “content” becoming increasingly blurred, the desire for such separation is understandable (not to mention the unsavory company that TikTok musicians may find themselves among). But unlike the now-infamous trio of pop-punk girlbosses, VIAL’s rage runs deeper than Manic Panic hair and performative vulgarity— as does their collaborative spirit. They’ve embraced the “TikTok band” label and everything that comes with it, sharing goofy videos about their idiosyncratic fashion choices and how they found their drummer on Tinder, all the while using the platform to promote their band. Perhaps most importantly, the rapport the band members have with one another feels natural. Their friendship seems like a genuine necessity of their creative process rather than a tacked-on marketing gimmick. 

VIAL are musicians, not influencers, and on their sophomore LP, LOUDMOUTH, they’re making pop-punk for the Extremely Online. Their targets are often digital age villains like the irony bros and devil’s advocates they roast on the roaring album opener, “Ego Death.” Lyrics like “What about your life on Twitter?/What about me makes you bitter?/I won’t be your babysitter!” make it clear from the get-go that VIAL are taking their riot grrrl roots and updating them for the 21st century.

That’s not the only way that VIAL draws inspiration from the groundbreaking genre while filling in some of its blind spots. For decades, the riot grrrl movement has been rightfully criticized for being overwhelmingly white, cis, and privileged. VIAL find themselves in good company with artists like Meet Me At The Altar, Nova Twins, illuminati hotties, and Pom Pom Squad, who are bringing refreshing inclusivity to the riot grrrl revival. Nonbinary identity and rejection of gender roles are central to VIAL’s music— as it says in their social media bios, they are NOT a girl band.

Even when VIAL’s influences are apparent, they manage to put an original spin on the ideas of their foremothers. Songs like “Roadkill” and “Piss Punk” see them channeling early Sleater-Kinney as they take aim at sexism in the music industry. Inspiration from punk predecessors like Bikini Kill and Bratmobile is clear in lead vocalist Taylor Kraemer’s snarky, flippant delivery on “Planet Drool” and in the song’s schoolyard taunt intro: “bratty, bitchy, money-hungry/ruin the fun for everybody” is chanted in unison over Miss Mary Mack-style hand claps. Standout single “Violet” is a power-pop ballad about queer longing and the confusion between romantic and platonic feelings. Its title-- along with its plucky guitar riffs and rolling snare-heavy drum fills --call to mind the riot grrrl classic of the same name from one of the genre’s most controversial icons. 

All this being said, some of their efforts to make riot grrrl sound original and up-to-date are less fruitful than others. Lines like “I can’t begin to explain how much that I fucking hate you/you fucked me up/you talk too much/and I will never date you” come off more whiny and juvenile than subversive. “Therapy Pt. II” (the sequel to “Therapy” from their debut album Grow Up) leans on straw feminist sloganeering— if sloppy rhyming of “get therapy” with “toxic masculinity” doesn’t give you enough second-hand embarrassment, ad-libs like “plus you’re really bad in bed!” will have listeners questioning how far VIAL’s gender politics have progressed past 2016 Tumblr discourse.

Their talents shine brightest when they’re making spunky pop songs that are sweet without being saccharine. Cuts like “Thumb” and “Something More” incorporate tinny drums, bouncy surf-rock guitar progressions, and infectiously catchy hooks destined to delight fans of The Regrettes and the aforementioned Beach Bunny. “Vodka Lemonade,” a ridiculously fun song about some decidedly un-fun things-- social anxiety, self-doubt -- features captivating stop-and-start progression, sparkling vocal harmonies, and a kickass horn solo. Even during moments of frustration, uncertainty, and despair, VIAL aren’t above joking about drinking their weight in caffeine and being left alone while their friends go out without them. “21” is an excellent album closer, a quarter-life crisis anthem whose sincerity doesn’t come at the sacrifice of its sense of humor. This seems to be the key ingredient to VIAL’s recipe-- no matter what they do, they’re gonna have fun with it, and we’re lucky that they’ve brought us along for the ride.

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Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram @grace_roso and on Twitter @grace_roso.