three singers, a tap-dancer, three songwriters and songs meant to be thrust into the sky with joyous punches. Recorded in a basement by Conor Oberst, the album’s danceability and “f*ck it up” chants, it’s sorrow and punk, dress up brawling and bottled call to friendship and grab-it-off-the-shelf folk was like nothing that had ever come before. It took indie pop and kissed it on the forehead leaving a glitter smear. It stomped on hate and refused to be part of any scene that wouldn’t let every single kid in the door.
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