PUP
PUP make a rough entrance and then keep revealing how much control sits underneath it. Their self-titled album is packed with shouted hooks and distorted guitar, but the songs rarely settle for charging straight ahead. Odd turns in rhythm and melody give the noise a recognizable personality. The band sounds excited by the possibility that a catchy song can also feel unstable.
“Guilt Trip” establishes the method. Heavy chords give way to a more angular guitar figure, and a late shift changes the song's direction just when it could have repeated itself. Stefan Babcock strains against the instruments while the other voices help carry the melody. That combination makes the performance feel shared, even when the words stay focused on personal frustration.
“Reservoir” is more immediate, with bass and drums keeping a hard forward pull beneath the guitars. It supplies a direct release after the opener's changes. “Mabu” is the more revealing song: its uneven rhythmic movement never stops the chorus from feeling natural. PUP know how to make an unusual musical choice feel like part of the hook rather than an interruption for listeners to admire.
The longer “Yukon” adds a slower, bluesier shape, and “Dark Days” turns exhaustion into a particularly strong singalong. Those changes help separate the songs within a deliberately abrasive sound. Some of the writing remains broad, and the sheer eagerness of the performance occasionally does more work than the emotional detail. The album's rougher edges are also easier to enjoy when the band has a firm melody underneath them.
“Factories” gives the ending a heavier final push, keeping the record from simply running out of energy. Across ten tracks, PUP show a strong understanding of both impact and arrangement. The friendship implied by the group vocals is as appealing as the aggression. It makes this album feel like a difficult situation that four people have decided to face together.
