Punk that’s grown out of the gobbing posturing mohawk-ed juvenilia of angst, but still strips the music to its energy, still kicks out jams. Post-angst punk, what punk should’ve been, with the violence, rage raw and ritual, with the bare aesthetic.
Something that remembers the blues, the spirit of Beethoven's uproar, the palate of the American outlaw. Something like Uncle Tupelo and like The White Stripes:
I can’t explain it.
I feel it often,
every time I see her face,
but the way you treat her
fills me with rage and I
want to tear apart this place.
You try to tell her what to do
and all she does is stare at you
her stare is louder than your voice
because truth doesn’t make a noise.