Pissed Jeans
Hope For Men

Sub Pop 2007

By ignore staff

Oh yes, we love the shit out of this band. Knotty, unlikeable punk scrawled out by bleeding ulcers with day jobs that don’t look any better in $8 magazines. Pissed Jeans subsist to pull the covers off of life at noon with a life-sucks-die lip curl and curl up in a smell of three-day-old beer and hate and the mundane.

Comparable to: SST stopping by for beers in Bruce Willis’ TV room from The Last Boy Scout.

Way to kick all females off the planet called Your Fanbase, guys. Sub Pop definitely jumped up and dirtied the plate by signing this band and backing their second album after the leaner Shallow on Parts Unknown. With everyone living in security blankets and wondering if the ‘rents were right, it’s bananas to hear a band putting out this type of Tum-chalk love right now only to garner what looks like snowballing acclaim.

Pissed Jeans don’t compute the fact that unbridled anger and contempt in music do not gel with the world’s ongoing bombings and music journalists hiding in their employers’ gloss houses with college degrees on the mantles. So, perhaps the accolades are being handed over in a trance of genuine fear and pussy admittance. Some Mongolian sweating welted lyrics about ice cream, as a very ‘90s symphony of rec-room guitars and drums fizz into a bath riddled by mad jolts deserves its fucking due.

And if there’s not a time machine involved, explaining the sounds flowing out of Pissed Jeans’ native Allentown, Pennsylvania is like watching a snake eats its tail. It makes no sense. Praise the lord, music has caught up with global counterfeit unreality.

This discourse of Pissed Jeans' Hope for Men is written by the staff of ignore Magazine, copyright 2007.