“Rugrats” was taken…
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[6.88]
Alfred Soto: It’s my fault that I hear Hayley Williams singing “LET’S GO MARLINS” in the bit where the drummer and guitarist briefly accelerate the tempo. It’s my fault because two minute blasts of ebullience like “Anklebiters” fool me into thinking I can love any gibberish.
[9]
Iain Mew: Half of it could pass for a lost classic Los Campesinos! single (those glockenspiels!). All of it is obviously giddy on the thrill of its own speed and directness, and ready to shout it out. Cautionary warnings are rarely this fun.
[8]
Will Adams: Tight power pop with a roaring hook, too short to make an impact.
[6]
Crystal Leww: I like the idea of fucking the haters and loving yourself, but I don’t really endorse the idea that “you’ll be the only one you’ve got”. Whatever. I can’t resist the jangle here.
[6]
Patrick St. Michel: Now here’s how to do a pep talk in song form. It’s direct and unflinching — sounding appropriate for the Warped Tour — but cushioned by bells and yelps that bring to mind Los Campesinos! It doesn’t mess around in getting to the point, but it’s also supportive. Plus, it’s punchy… a little over two minutes is the perfect amount of time for this chat.
[8]
Brad Shoup: It’s kind of a pessimistic pep talk, yeah? To set this up as a one-take, Real Band effort, they leave in the laughter. But it’s just as joyless as the message, even if “falling in love with yourself” is a novel twist on the self-help trope. Pogo-worthy drive aside, this is the real misery business.
[5]
Anthony Easton: Brad Shoup Tumbl’d a conversation about whether this was art, which is the exact wrong kind of pleasure and makes me do this terrible thing where i judge the audience more than the performer. I had fun listening to it, but no memory of it afterward — and I wonder if that floating hook is why people think it might be better then it is.
[4]
Jonathan Bradley: The title refers not to kids, as was my first impression, but cavilers. You can understand my confusion; it would be entirely apposite to inoculate oneself against the dread of domesticity with bells and tantrums. “Someday you’re gonna be the only one you’ve got” is a hook delivered with the exuberance characteristic of a singer who once told us that for a pessimist, she’s pretty optimistic, but such dour sentiments never had a chance against a band that accelerates through hairpin melodic turns wielding bass notes that punctuate like exclamation points. “Anklebiters” opens with feedback and closes with hollering — bookends that feint at classic punk chaos — but the song itself unfolds with silicon chip precision; the mayhem derives from how each new element sharpens the one before. Some critics have complained about the compression on Paramore but “Anklebiters” uses it to its benefit; the jumble is supposed to overwhelm.
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