This is one of those moments where really I should be in a group meeting, like I dunno “Ramones Anonymous” or some such, in a freezing cold church hall desperately trying to warm my hands on a rapidly cooling cup of something that’s desperately trying to pass itself off as coffee because all I want to do is stand up, clear my throat and say…
“Hi, my name’s Tim and I’m a Young Rochelles addict. It’s been five minutes since I last listened to them and I don’t care what any of you stiffs say, soon as I’m out of here I’m going to crank them up to eleven and sing-a-long to Return of the Skunk Ape until my eyeballs bleed and my ear drums burst. And if any of you don’t like it, then you go all go fuck yourselves”
See, The Young Rochelles play every song like it’s going to be their last and they force every last bit of energy they have into each and every note they play. You can’t fake the kind of punk rock honesty that infects and infests everything that The Young Rochelles do, it’s just impossible. Hitting like a meth-amphetamine fuelled version of the Ramones, these cats have perfected the pop punk formula and if they ever decided to bottle and sell whatever it is they put into writing their tunes, then they’d be overnight billionaires. This record right here, it’s a sure fire contender for album of the year. You don’t want this slab of punk rock genius, you NEED it…. Tim Cundle
Shut up, stop whatever it is you’re doing, go here and buy this damn record. Do it. Do it now.