Suckerpunch – Review

Suckerpunch

(510)
by Austin Nash

It’s about time somebody re-conditioned an old formula without fucking it up. I imagine store copies of Suckerpunch‘s self-titled debut coming to life at night and beating up the Huey Lewis section for fun. Suckerpunch deliver that UK snottier-than-your-favorite-sister temperament and make no attempt to hide anything. The hooks are right out front, they get in, jump on it, and get the fuck out. Suckerpunch was forged in Southern CA, but yield more of an East Coast fruit “Ian school of rock” sound. They basically make me want to don some leather, slick my hair up, and dangle a cigarette from my mouth while beating up Rick Springfield in a purple silk shirt. I imagine Vinny Bobarino playing punk, aiming to please, and fucking all the girls. This is not about following or breaking rules, destroying or farting out anthems, or friendly chats with dead neighbors; this is about taking and not giving. Suckerpunch are pissed and degraded like a good punk band should be, scribing sneering songs with titles like “Shitlist,” “Dead Beat,” “Why Bother,” and “Pissed Away.” They are more than pleased to tell me how fucked I am, like I don’t know already. Dicks. That’s what I think, they don’t make me want to drink or tell stories, nor do they make me want to do dishes (that takes a promise of something special). It’s more likely to make one throw things at roommates and cats, feed bugs to spiders, and be a jerk in general.