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The Tyrades | review | punk | Lollipop
by Ewan Wadharmi
Teenie boppers hoping for the next No Doubt best look elsewhere. Singer Jenna Tyrade has no Madonna leanings whatsoever. Her explosive spewing lingers on nauseousness, savoring the bile in the back of the throat before erupting in a wonderfully messy hurl. If Ms. Tyrade comes across as condescending, you'll end up agreeing that she really is better than you, boy.
Driven by Jimmy Hollywood's enjoyable guitar hooks, they consistently redline the engine. Terrorizing the neighbors with Dave Unlikely's mailbox-bashing percussion. Most of the tunes get one more go around than is necessary. One or two minutes would trim them nicely into short-but-bitter punk gems. We're lifting the moratorium on "operator" songs to allow the crisply urgent "Message From The Operator."
This release is highly recommended, but I have to take issue with my favorite publicist's lofty claims. The Tyrades are not "the first and only Chicago punk band." For one, you have to ignore the impact of Naked Raygun. And secondly, these kids are from Buffalo.