Fat patron saint of lost causes, godfather of bastard children who hang out at the mall, hater of Bush: Fat Mike, old enough to be my daddy, should be inured to the failure he's chosen as a lifestyle. For instance: That he's been unable to un-elect Bush should irk him only as much as another Pennywise set at the Warped Tour. Clearly, that's not the case (cf. The War on Errorism, two volumes of Rock Against Bush, and now Wolves in Wolves' Clothing), though who can blame him for getting over animal liberation, er, Liberal Animation quicker than two horrific rigged elections? Optimists know that the band still brings it live-- got that dad joke from the man himself, March show in NYC-- but even the 15-year-olds there knew to mosh harder to 1992's on-the-wagon lament "Bob" than 1999's operatic country-hating "The Decline".
NOFX can't be blamed for pilgrims like myself returning to the band only to miss all the young miracles we spent our latter teenage years repudiating; if we didn't fuck up too bad, we even came back with the same political views they're currently pushing on the next generation. Now we're fans because they're not that self-important, and they make us feel the same way. Their politics are a consolation prize; your high school band will never again cover "Don't Call Me White", but at least NOFX still do, if sandwiched between Bush rants.
If Wolves is guilty of anything it's not containing another song worthy of a talent show; or, worse, offering ones to the "Killing in the Name Of" set rather than for the guys with the fat trumpet player. Their title track's own take-- "We all want a Hollywood end, but we're getting a foreign one/ The script has already been penned, and titled/ The Fat Wreck Chords of a Drowning Nation"-- has a cinema joke but nowhere near the old Rage punchline. Which is a problem for both sides of the locker room.
Equally discouraging are the heaps of scorn visited upon uncharacteristically easy targets: podcasts, anarchist book fairs, yuppie G8 protestors, middle America, the fat people who live there, the religious people who live there, and, um, people who like Japanese sex-torture (?!). NOFX get their share-- on "60% (Reprise)" they cameo as "The band with our own label/ With money under the table"-- as does Bush, on almost everything here. But being so pissed off sure eats into the quality of their jokes.
No worries about craft though. Like buddies Rancid, NOFX are not-so-secretly pop-virtuosos, playing not just fast but without any kind of discernable effort-- as if there were no gear they couldn't kick into-- and delivering signature napalm time-changes on cue. "USA-holes" has a funny name and a guitar solo; "Seeing Double at The Triple Rock" has riffs but dumb lyrics about "drinking quotas"; and "The Man I Killed"'s Pogues-cranked-up balladry almost makes up for the incoherent narrative about maybe killing the president. Joke ska song? Check ("Marxist Brothers"). Joke Spanish torch songs? Check ("Cantado Español"). Read a review that mourned the departure of El Jefe's horn, but I can't say I miss it.
The pleasure of hearing Fat Mike and Eric Melvin make melodic lines out of "We get what we fucking deserve/ Bringing raised fists to a knife fight" is vintage NOFX but it also expresses something depressing and new: the desire to kill somebody. One wonders and hopes this whole thing is still fun for them. Probably is; after all, they thank Mischa Barton in the liner notes.
