By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
By Steve Weinstein
By Araceli Cruz
To paraphrase James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams, the one constant through all the years has been powerpop punk (even Robert Smith lent his pale voice to Blink-182 this falltime to call your new wave friends and tell them the end is nigh). But despite its longevity, the genre has also seen its share of crappy bands with nothing but three chords and hair product in their pockets.
Enter Hurry-Up Offense: two frontboys with WB guest star looks and their kickass drummer, who write songs about problems facing disaffected twentysomethings living in Brooklyn ("I found out what it means to get knocked down": Did they lose their MetroCards?) and the plot intricacies of Die Hard (off last year's Donald Moore: "The wrong guy/the wrong place/the wrong time/in my bare feet"). The group occasionally gigs as Carson Daly's house band on Last Call, which might cause many to write them off. But, as they beg on their new Labor Day EP, "Don't believe the lies": The kids have skills, working fierce bass solos under happy three-part harmony. Live, they pogo around in requisite Vans and artfully duct-taped guitar straps. But there's a legitimacy to their music that trumps bubble-thrash assumptions.
Hurry-Up Offense play Pianos February 20.