In certain punk circles, Twisted Teens have already made it. That’s partially due to bandleader Caspian Honeywell’s time on the circuit in the defunct anarchist group Blackbird Raum, who jump-started the folk-punk movement almost 20 years ago. But mainly, it’s the result of the New Orleans duo’s unique stamp on the sound of underground punk: Honeywell, often in a leather vest, howls with a pack-a-day voice over racing, lo-fi guitar, while RJ Santos, always sporting a dapper suit and tie, plays pedal steel. It’s garage punk with an old-school country twang; as their personality seeps through the sound like dye, it takes on the color of music’s sepia-toned past and technicolor present.
Twisted Teens’ restless slacker approach seems contradictory by definition until you recall the Andrew Savages of the world. Where Parquet Courts rode a proverbial bull through the crowded streets of New York City, Twisted Teens’ 2024 self-titled debut kicked up its bare feet on a Louisiana porch with a casual wave for onlookers. On their follow-up, Blame the Clown, the band unleashes an even tighter batch of songs born from sheer charisma, straightforward hooks, and the no-bullshit storytelling that gets passed down between generations over eggs and grits.
Everything about Twisted Teens’ musical demeanor is casual and unpretentious. They shoot from the hip when writing punk songs and play with the precision of an in-house country band, all while maintaining the relaxed confidence of musicians who act like they’ve been here before. “Is It Real?” opens Blame the Clown with the duo’s quintessential blend, pinning Honeywell’s storied rasp over the tinny solos of Santos’ nimble pedal steel. Standout “Circus Clown” takes off in a garage-punk sprint, but Hollywell’s lasso of a bassline and Santos’ warped and reversed metallic yawn inflate the song with helium until it soars away. The blown-out whammy bar slide on “Hurricane” verges on shoegaze, but then the pedal steel juts in to tether it back to Twisted Teens’ sound. No wonder Santos earned the nickname “Razor”: He whittles his lines into such clear points that they leave a smooth, shaved surface behind each song.
Punk musicians have incorporated cowboy stoicism and spaghetti Western guitar for decades, from the Gun Club’s “Mother of Earth” in 1982 on to Teo Wise’s Fermo o Sparo! last year. Twisted Teens make it their own by relaxing into their ragged ways. Blame the Clown is coarse and often blown-out, as if even the tape recorder they used to track the album was recovered from an old mine shaft. That scrappy garage-punk sheen lends credence to the band’s tales while it sneaks fiddle, piano, and synths into the background. On “Little Seed,” Hollywell proselytizes the vagabond lifestyle, proving no baggage is needed if you barter with a satchel of seeds: grow a carrot to feed a horse in exchange for a ride, or plant connections by offering lonely elders your hand in friendship. Close your eyes and Twisted Teens appear with calloused hands and dirty sweat smudges in the Louisiana humidity. It’s what made their acoustic cover of “Sea of Love” rival Cat Power’s version, or why you learn Santos paints rusty saws by hand and think, “Oh yeah, that makes sense.” They just sound like guys who’re gonna throw down on clawhammer banjo in a fiddle jam session when they’re bored.
Just when it seems Blame the Clown might be a serious affair, Twisted Teens inject a shot of dark humor. Absurdist scenes creep into Hollywell’s tales: a man walking with a rooster inside the eye of a hurricane, an experience of enlightenment just before an involuntary psychiatric hold, the loose skin from a 10-year-old boy’s circumcision getting tossed out the car window and landing on a woman’s nightgown. They’re details that only this band’s toothy frontman could deliver with a shrug that functions as a Scout’s Honor.
The big allure of Blame the Clown, though, is how Twisted Teens’ songwriting harkens back to classic American music rooted in blues and folk. Take Honeywell’s searing delivery of lines about the responsibilities of steering a ship in the acoustic “White Hot Coal,” or the bittersweet sentimentality of “Wild Connection”: Those hearty scales and patient, emotive storytelling stand on foundations poured by Lead Belly, Woody Guthrie, and Charlie Patton. Even the rowdiness that fuels “Not Real,” an impassioned argument about the harms of social masking to fit in, connects the heavy swing of blues rock past to the present day with a jarring Find My iPhone jingle.
Honeywell and Santos play music that translates how they’re getting by in the present, but they’re not looking to escape. When he hears about pressure making a diamond, Honeywell opts out: “I’ll be in my rocking chair/If you need me, I’ll be over there.” That’s Blame the Clown’s lasting effect: an ability to stretch time like summer vacation, to use up every second in a minute without ever feeling hurried. With the breeze hitting his face and his friend sitting nearby, Honeywell knows the best view to gain perspective is from your front porch, where time mellows out. “We’ve got a wild connection,” he sings later on, the sweetness of the sentiment almost smoothing over the tear in his throat.
