10 recent non-Phoenix punk albums to stir your rebel spirit

There's something in the air, yeah? Not just increasingly high pollen counts; a spirit of madness, joy and rebellion. How else could we hope to survive the next four years (or four weeks) if we didn't embrace our inner punk rock magic.

And there's plenty of evidence of just that within Phoenix as of late. It's with recent or forthcoming shows from upstarts like The Linda Lindas and Molchat Doma. A gathering of old punk royalty at the always exciting Punk in the Park. Even how remembering the passing of Robert X. Planet reminds us all of punk's true power and connective potential.

So, why stop now? Since we've already cataloged Phoenix's best punk albums, let's add to the spirit with some other great records from Arizona and beyond. Whether it's classic proto-punk from Tucson, post-punk from New York or noise punk from Australia, these recent releases each exemplify the spirit of punk as both a genre and an overarching approach to managing an increasingly chaotic world. Let these records remind you not just of why punk rules, but why these same ideas and energies have also made Phoenix a home for this proud rebel spirit.

Now, breathe it all in, will ya?

Class, 'A Healthy Alternative'

Tucson's Class have pretty much nailed the retro proto-punk "equation" in its entirety. On the one hand, it means the same kind of ironically anthemic jams every single time, even if the variety that is there really does matter. ("Move so Fast" has sunny ‘60s charm, and "Amory Building" is basically Ramones' "Rockaway Beach" by way of the MC5.) But that sonic consistency and robust enthusiasm means we get a genre masterclass — a demonstration of how bashing away can bring about big truths and bigger hooks. The record engages with its chosen genre in a way that honors a lineage while remaining more loud, unruly, and anxious than ever before. It's like eating your favorite spicy, hearty ramen every single day — you fight any flavor fatigue and indigestion because it's just that damn filling.

Gurriers, 'Come and See'

With "Come and See," Gurriers have found the counter-agent to paralyzing nostalgia. Step one is to be bold and weird: "Close Call" turns guitars into broken chainsaws, and "Sign of the Times" makes the recent U.K. sing-talk fad freshly weird and grating. From there, lean into the part of the '70s that matters, like the Irish spirit ("Prayers" is a Dublin mating call) and the endlessly scrappy vibes ("No More Photos" practically picks a fight with each listener). The end result? A collection of 11 tracks that rest uneasy in any era, and songs that scream on a wavelength made for the pissy and disenfranchised across all of time. Plus, there’s this sense that everything and nothing is up for stake, and that laissez faire vibe is a yummy treat. It'll set your soul on fire — until it doesn't.

Bikelane, 'Surrogate Activities'

In an album about aging, Norway's Bikelane clearly don't know how to feel. One minute they're snarling in the face of Father Time on "Stick It." The next moment, they're getting as zen as possible as sentimental post-punkers ("It is What It Is"). The rest of the LP follows suit, from the hokey nostalgia of "Juveniles" to the very mature ache of "Squeeze." You'd call them indecisive, but I'd say they battle against hacky tendencies and half-hearted thematic dissections with true heart and grit. They rage because maybe that rebellion is the only thing we’ve all ever truly owned. It’s a record that makes very human and ugly the process of growing up, figuring it out and realizing you know nada. Still, at least life can sound big, bright and maddeningly catchy.

Maxband, 'On Ice'

Two brothers, two different side gigs. Whereas Parquet Courts frontman Andrew Savage turned into a genius country crooner with A. Savage, Max Savage's Maxband churn the layers of NYC punk for something truly novel. There's plucky Yo La Tengo ("Take-out Menu"); dream rock with plenty o'grit ("Recreate the Start"); a proper channeling of Television ("Fabric"); and, speaking of musical heroes, The Strokes with more chutzpah ("Transfer"). It's a record that channels not just the Big Apple's best bands but something deeper: this feeling that every sound and feeling is within their reach. That as Maxband pluck away, they're celebrating NYC as a vortex for cool vibes, deeply human stories, endless inspiration and a endless wit and attitude. And oh brother is it the best tour of The City that you’d ever hope to book.

Destroy Boys, 'Funeral Soundtrack #4'

Death isn't nearly as scary when it's being sung about by California's own Destroy Boys. The 11-track LP remains true to its name as a kind of playlist for letting die everything that we don't need (or can't have) in life. There's angelic garage rock to signal the death of false hope ("Plucked"); a barn-burner for burying bad love ("Praying"); a Sugar-ian lamentation for your deceased sanity ("Shadow (I’m Breaking Down)"); and, with help from Scowl and Mannequin Pussy, the funeral song for awful dudes everywhere ("You Hear Yes"). Is there catharsis in these passings on? The kind that rewires synapses. Is it as ugly and hard as it is transcendent? Sure, the band fight with every power chord. In death there is shimmery new life and jagged hope. Amen.

Institute, 'Ragdoll Dance'

I've tried a few ways to describe Institute. They're like if Bauhaus smoked Menthols and slammed Natty Lite ("Dopamine For My Baby"). Or if The Misfits were in an anarcho collective ("Uncle Sam's Hate"). I even thought they were either a glam rock Earth Crisis ("Dead Zone") or Crass if they finished art school ("Plateau Of Self"). Yet none of those are nearly accurate enough, and the nine-track "Ragdoll Dance" remains this unquantifiable DIY artifact that's too lithe and joyous to be hardcore and too hardcore to be earnest and sentimental. The band and the LP are fine in this unknowable bubble, and it lets them engage/disengage their nostalgia, humanity and overall accessibility as they see fit. It also adds a confrontational tinge to our "relationship," making Institute all the more exciting and unpredictable in ways that mean something. Descriptions are dumb but punk is forever.

High Vis, 'Guided Tour'

High Vis know that "Guided Tour" is a walking contradiction, an album that's "hopeful" while also "being incensed." It's a compelling way to live, though, if you know how to ride the line. "Drop Me Out," for instance, turns social disconnect into a roaring jam commemorating self-belief. Meanwhile, "Fill the Gap" finds the band anthemic, borderline joyous as they set clear boundaries with the world. And without uttering a word on "Untethered," they create this layered jam that's like a pleasant bike ride through a burned-down cityscape. Forget what the squares told you: anger is the secret to a personal power that'll set you free, shape your goals and perspective and generally counter negativity with purpose. The band counter any nasty optimism with a grit and honesty that makes this record a textured, nuanced achievement. Now get on your bike and ride to the cursed future.

White Collar, 'White Collar'

I assumed that I'd talked enough shit about hardcore for one career. But then I heard White Collar's self-titled LP, and I had to open my big dumb mouth again. Because this 12-track affair makes crystal clear a very real dynamic: you're gonna love what you hate and hate what you love. For example, "Petition Signer" hums at a whiny frequency that makes me want to pull out my blood vessels, but even that's oddly affirmative. On the flipside, the fuzz of "Equal Wrongs" is catchy until I can feel my molars shake. It happens elsewhere still: "Alt" is nearly surprising in its technicality until it’s not, and "Meat Market" is annoying but bizarrely charming. It's hardcore as life: dumb but transcendent, silly but serious. It's a medley of feelings you want and fear, all smashing you in the face/limbs like a limp cod. The secret is to lean in and let it all just shake your bones and pull you somewhere new. White Collar are masters at this singular craft, and I hope they're really happy.

Snõõper / Prison Affair Split

The key to a proper split isn't star power or shared politics; it's the weirdo factor. Spain's Prison Affair and Nashville's Snõõper are a match made in awkward loner kid heaven. Each band gets to shine on their own: Prison Affair's "Quizás," for instance, is a trip into the pocket synth dimension, and Snõõper make candy-coated hardcore with "Waste." But there's also just enough interplay to matter — the chaotic bash of "Online" (from Snõõper) leads brilliantly into the frenetic surge of technical thrash that is Prison Affair's "Algo Huele Mal." You could enjoy both sides as standalone testaments to their demanding, endlessly eccentric stylings. Even if you look at it as one big piece (the soundtrack to a '90s Discovery Zone pulled into hell), there's texture galore to manuever. It's a match made somewhere, and it’s what happens when bands come together in the name of chaos, creative freedom and assaulting their listeners like spiked Halloween candy.

CLAMM, 'Disembodiment'

Assemble the words "punk" and "Australia" in some order and I'll nibble your mukluks forever. But Melbourne's CLAMM still deserve praise beyond their nationality with the four-track "Disembodiment." For one, "Change Enough" drives like a muscle car across the Outback, but it's more robust and anthemic than their countrymen. "Disembodiment," meanwhile, has a "traditional" blend of weight and force, but there's surprising layers and nuance. From there, "Define Free" pulls in some Detroit-ian/proto vibes for a surprising little left turn. And, finally, "The Pressure" made me think of the best, most endearing bits of Japandroids. In a country of really great punk, CLAMM stand out with a curiosity, bravado and presence that connects them to a great tradition and yet makes them hum with a singularly nervous, oversized angst. There's enough balance between the personal and political, the thoughtful with the primal to make the EP a novel experience among the continued onslaught of epic Aussie punk. God bless every mad, mad denizen.