7.43 is at least a glancing hit, for sure…
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[7.43]
Brad Shoup: A punk rock concept album about the end of days: at least two of these things may induce a twitch. It should be noted that Brainless God is more 12 Short Stories About Midwestern Townies than American Idiot. But really, all you need to know is flawless guitarchitecture, a refrain that swaps Blink-182 for Major Kong, killer internal rhyme, and a song-length taunt from the saved. A lesser act might’ve put the Irish wake of “On & On” at the close; by slotting it leadoff, Direct Hit! gives the righteous a delicious riposte. The rising ladder meets the falling bomb halfway. Sanctimony washes its hands in brutal juice. What a way to go.
[10]
Alfred Soto: Hardcore smarts and propulsion + sung chorus = a solid driving song. A shame the Pumpkins never stumbled on the title.
[7]
Anthony Easton: I am not sure how earnest the piety is here, but I love the melodic vocals under the brutality of the guitars. Figuring out the problem of piety might be a way of explaining how serious it is in general.
[7]
Patrick St. Michel: Sorry, this is just way too throaty and cheesy for me.
[3]
Josh Langhoff: In my backyard lurk these gassy, thrill-a-minute, theologically-minded pop punkers — except “thrill-a-minute” is too stingy. In this song alone we’ve got shrieking horn imitations, a whoosh of an organ entrance, that thing where the guitars cut out so it’s just hollering over bass and drums, the Offspring shoutout “greatest of ease,” THE RIFF TURNING MINOR (ANALOGOUS TO ALL CAPS), a diabolical St. Peter laughing in heaven, and the band yelling “Fuck you!” at their own riff. That’s at least seven thrills in 2:26, an average of three thrills a minute for this not-at-all-spooky Milwaukee hell dream.
[9]
Will Adams: Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I think that suddenly the sky is going to split in two, revealing a screaming red atmosphere that ends the world in a second. I begin to feel anxiety about all the things I’ve done, that I haven’t done, good or bad. Anything that happened could influence where I go after this, if I go anywhere at all. Will God judge me? Is there even a God? I just lay there, completely vulnerable under the cover. If that scenario ever happens, it’ll probably sound like this: howling guitars and screeched words that offer a glimmer of hope, only to say “fuck you” and hurtle everyone toward their inevitable end.
[9]
Jessica Doyle: Since my mother died in March I’ve become less Jewish and more materialist, for reasons I can’t entirely explain. (She’s not in heaven; she’s not waiting for me behind some invisible curtain; she’s just not here.) Maybe if I were a Christian in mourning I’d be shuddering in visceral dislike at the trolling. (I keep thinking of the evangelical law clerk who wept because my mother, her friend, would be going to hell. “That’s so sweet,” my mother said.) Where I am now, is with a grin. Hey Direct Hit! You did a mitzvah! (Or maybe just a mitzveh. But still!)
[7]