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What’s the point of having a voice
When it gets stuck inside your throat?
Daily gestures, routines, and miseries are common to the human race. There are those who even do those badly, who gracefully strive to be clumsy and inadequate. They are little heroes who dismantle the status quo in the midst of the circus of the omnipresent “I do my best/optimize.” Thus, they end up becoming the mockery of the uniformed, who by informing each other optimize large banquets of laughter behind their backs.
I imagine Jeff Rosenstock like this, a misplaced hero singing about the nervous collapse of the United States through his own, like countless predecessors. The recurring image is the asphalt where he fleetingly crosses paths with faces headed towards the well-known, interstates, gas stations, pictures of common misery. Jeff goes crazy, at least he is aware of it. He screams it to a world speeding along tainted roads, tired and bored.
The rest is a story of sleep deprivation, a lot of anger for a nation he no longer recognizes, anxiety, nostalgia for a youth that is going to hell (Jeff is from '82). A genuine album, a breath of fresh angry power-pop, pop-punk, or more simply indie-rock. Reminiscences of Will Toledo's creature, Car Seat Headrest, early Weezer, Cymbals Eat Guitars.
The best songs are USA, All This Useless Energy, and 9/10, but the rest is also a nice discharge.
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