Anyone who’s heard a second of Rainer Maria, the Promise Ring or the Anniversary is likely to hear their influence in the Portland band Blowout’s exuberant debut LP. Consider the most identifiable similarities: The coed vocals that can’t be bothered with the order of “call and response” and just pile on top of each other instead; a spring-loaded rhythmic section; group chants that feel like more of a product of musical theater than punk. These are the qualities of a certain itchy, impatient brand of ‘90s indie rock, one that was so exasperated by its more staid and slack peers that a song like “Do the Standing Still” felt necessary call them out. This was music that conveyed the sense of being so overwhelmed by frustration, excitement or any feeling really, that they simply had to act on it, coordination be damned. So from a certain angle, *No Beer, No Dad *is an indie rock band making one of the most irresistible dance albums of 2016.
I mean, it’s emo as hell too: “Indiana” double-dips in the genre’s favorite tropes by using a geographic signifier for a hook on a song about having a pet for a best friend. When Laken Wright breaks into a barrage of “ba ba bas” on “Cents Cents Money Money,” it could be heard as direct homage to the Promise Ring’s “Why Did We Ever Meet?” even if the inspiration is entirely different: rather than being incapacitated by infatuation, she’s at a loss for words to describe how bored she is with your bullshit. There’s a wild streak of pop-punk pissiness as well in the tart edge of Wright’s vocals, the between-song banter about beer and cheap guitars and the general attitude: “Indiana” is a love song about a pet, but Wright only gets to this point after admitting, “People just bore me.”
Even if inspires some odd contortions at basement shows, *No Beer, No Dad *appears to have the same goal of *traditional *dance albums: release from the problems of the straight world. And while they’re young, Blowout are going to make the most of out of having the energy to take on the universe while absorbing the resistance of the universe pushing back with its incessant demands; jobs, money, relationships, parental guidance, all of that annoying shit. Fittingly, the hookiest songs are the ones that speak to Blowout’s ambitions to get up, get out and find success or failure on their own terms. During the riotous “Guts Grown Up,” the entire bands yells “I left it all!” and they could not sound more excited to get drunk, sleep on ratty couches, engage in doomed sexual encounters, and in general do all the things that will probably inspire their more considerate, *mature *second LP. If they get there, they'll hopefully discard the bafflingly unflattering production that serves as their strongest current similarity to Promise Ring circa -30 Degrees Everywhere.
It’s not like anyone should expect a band this young and energetic to sound like they walked out of Daniel Lanois’ studio; but No Beer, *No Dad *doesn’t sound raw or lo-fi like it’s trying to accurately capture a young band’s live energy. The problem is more concrete: often times, you can barely hear the vocals at all. Wright too often struggles just to be heard, and these aren’t songs where the vocals are meant to function as texture. This becomes even more pronounced during *No Beer, No Dad’*s second half, where Blowout veers towards looser song structures that can sound like instrumentals with incidental studio chatter. It isn’t enough to negate the exceeding promise Blowout has right now, but maybe it's just a part of their “dance like no one’s watching” attitude: they’re going to express themselves right now, polish and nuance be damned.
