By DCist Contributor Maeve McDermott
“Rock and roll is a full contact sport and I love it!” James Snyder yelled two songs into Beach Slang’s set, his hair already swinging with sweat. More than a few of the frontman’s peers would say this line with a wink. Not Snyder.
Nor is there a shred of irony in his stage getup, a Hollywood approximation of a mid-aughts pop-punk singer; Vans, a plaid vest, colorful skinny jeans, a corduroy blazer festooned with pins, and a white guitar that he, naturally, spun around his body during drum breakdowns.
But on Monday night, nobody was more game to make fun of Beach Slang than Beach Slang, be it Snyder’s puppy-eyed enthusiasm or the Philly punks’ grand total of nine released songs (“We’ve been milking these songs for long enough”).
And those nine songs? They ripped. There’s no time wasted on bored shrugging or ironic references in Beach Slang’s airtight three-minute anthems. And live, the songs run together into a dizzying succession of hooks, which briefly come up for air for a few seconds of a whispery bridge before diving back into another swinging-from-the-rafters chorus.
An entire evening of Beach Slang’s breathless punk would’ve been a marathon. Thankfully, they were paired with an opening set of stoic power-pop from D.C. locals Title Tracks. Their first show of 2015, the trio tried out a handful of new songs—tight, affable rock that split the difference between Elvis Costello and Superchunk— that’ll end up on their next album, which they start recording next month.
In between songs, the Beach Slang bandmates were having a ball; they shambled their way through false starts and botched tunings, roasting Snyder in response to his goofy jokes, and drowning out his musings with country-western vamping. They’d start reciting Bukowski and Hunter S. Thompson lines before dissolving into giggles, starting the opening riff of “Sweet Child ‘O’ Mine” before veering into parody. Everything was fair game for the audience to laugh at, which they did, with genuine amusement. By the end of the show, Snyder had hugged every member of the band.
And as a result, Beach Slang’s ultra-earnest lyrics about scarred knuckles, loud stereos and getting drunk with your best friends read as sympathetic, where a lesser band would just sound insufferable; after all, there’s no way to sing lines like “You are how The Smiths sound when they’re falling in love” with even a shred of put-upon coolness. Thankfully, Snyder didn’t try to.
Though, there was Snyder’s stray comment after he finished pounding out the last notes to his sweeping, one-man anthem “We Are Nothing,” exclaiming, “I always feel like Springsteen when I play that—I don’t know why.” C’mon, man—you can’t deal exclusively in power chords and roaring vocals, and write lyrics about youth and life and love in the big city streets, and live across the Delaware River from New Jersey, and not know why.
