The Thermals are a serious band that's hard to take too seriously. Over the last decade half-decade-plus, singer Hutch Harris has waxed profoundly on religion, war, politics, mortality, the improbability of lasting love, and other fears that keep us up at night, but always in the same boyish pop-punk yelp that renders his lyrics about 40% cuter than he probably intends them to be. In another world he might have been blessed with the gritty, commanding pipes of a Joe Strummer or a Laura Jane Grace, singers who by their very nature exude authority. Instead he shares a voice with the guy from Matt & Kim.
At his best, Harris just owns it. 2006's The Body, The Blood, The Machine is still the band's most-loved album, because it's the giddiest one, pairing the band's inherent fervor with slaphappy power-pop riffs that charged ahead like a classroom of kids running for the door after a recess bell. Since then, however, it's been diminishing returns as the band has attempted ever-soberer statements, often at the expense of the uncurbed enthusiasm that made that album such a treasure. They hit their nadir with 2013's buzz-killing Desperate Ground, the closest they've come to a flat-out bad album, in part because of the good-on-paper decision to pair the band with Dinosaur Jr. producer John Agnello. His stern, muddy mix sucked much of the joy out of its songs (though it's unclear how much they had to begin with).
Thankfully that joy deficit isn't a problem on We Disappear, a reunion with producer Chris Walla, which despite its fatalistic title and fixation on failing bodies and fading relationships plays up the fun factor in a way the last few records haven't. It wouldn't be right to call it a return to form, since this band never truly breaks form, but it's got higher highs than any Thermals album since The Body, The Blood, The Machine—and really, the best way to judge a Thermals album is by its highs. “My Heart Went Cold” is an early one, a double-glazed sticky bun of a rocker, all eager bass, “oh-woah-oh!” injections, and puppy-dog pep. A protest song that's as much a celebration of the form as it is an act of defiance, “Hey You” is chased by the equally determined “If We Don't Die Today,” one of the band's most ripping ballads. It's a hell of an opening stretch.
As is usually the case, though, the band stumbles when they slow things down. “The Great Dying” lends the album its title with Harris's most vivid description yet of the vast nothing that lies in store for us all: “The sky will turn to fire, the sea will turn to salt / Our memories will burn like we were never here at all / We disappear.” But the song's dreary pace makes it a slog, and the forced bleakness isn't a great fit for Walla, whose specialty is crisp indie-pop, not cacophonous forays into existential dread.
Most people don't come to Thermals albums for that stuff. They come for the shout-alongs and fist pumps, and even in its somewhat-dialed-down second half We Disappear smuggles in generous dollops of both, with tunes like “In Every Way,” which throws down the record's tersest, most blown-out riff, and the endearing power-pop quickie “Thinking Of You.” After two albums that struggled with the growing divide between the serious band they seemingly longed to be and the bubblegum punk band listeners want them to be, The Thermals strike the right balance on We Disappear, an album that manages to satisfy both camps.
