Last time The Thermals made an album they hardly upset the order of things. Barely created a through-draft, threw it down in about four and a half seconds onto a reel of tape no higher quality than a dusty old ball of string. It was the grubbiest, zestiest, most lo-fi punk record released last year, probably. And buried somewhere amongst the static were some of the most untainted pop head-rushes we’d heard since Green Day started throwing bite-size strops, or Guided By Voices first got their calling. What has happened this time around was inevitable, but a crying shame nonetheless. They bought bigger amps. We suspect they might have even got their hands on new instruments. And we’re almost certain they spent many, many significant minutes in a real-life bricks-n-mortar studio. Sell outs! Hang the bastards with the power cord from their neglected two-track! Alright, maybe not, hold off for a moment, but it has whipped the dynamic about a bit.
Its charm was everything last time, more significant than the words you could hardly make out and the chords that were pounded fearlessly and repeated ad infinitum. With that charm swept away the focus had no choice but to shift. With everything clear as day though its one saving grace is Hutch Harris’s voice (not to mention his 70s cop show name), still an irresistible dripping spoonful of rough treacle in spite of everything. He hollers his way through ‘Our Trip’s two minutes and three chords, spitting out forgettable rhyming couplets in the most memorable way he can. And then he does the same another 12 times, save for select twists at just the right moments – the hillbilly GBV-ness of ‘Let Your Earth Quake, Baby’ for one. This ain’t no lo-fi snobbery, it’s just we think they made more sense when they had promise, a band that might have been or almost were. They just pass by the skin of their teeth though. A for effort, but overall fuckin’ C+.