The Happening Sound of Power Pop

My organs of hope have become dulled of late, less sensitive, less responsive, sluggish. But even my poor semi-cauterized speraceptive system can no longer ignore the evidence: Something is definitely happening out there in the land of rock ’n’ roll. Young humans everywhere, it seems, are picking up Telecasters and Les Pauls and plugging them into amplifiers and sitting down behind drum kits, writing three-minute-and-thirty-second bangers built around jangling guitar patterns, uplifting chord progressions and high harmonies, fitted out with proper middle eights and key changes and even, on occasion, handclaps. They are sporting shag haircuts. Some of them have even been spotted performing in suits, wearing skinny neckties.

Looking back, I see the first swell of what Bandcamp’s Ben Salmon (correctly, in my view) has styled “the Fourth Wave of Power Pop” appearing a decade ago, with the release of Do Hollywood, the first album by Long Island’s The Lemon Twigs. But one band of exuberant skinny boys with melodic gifts and chiming guitars, steeped in the lore1, does not make a Wave.

It was not until last year’s 1-2-3 punch of the Beths’ (Auckland, NZ) “Expert in a Dying Field,” the Goods’ (Oakland, CA) “April Fools,” and Sharp Pins’ (Chicago, IL) “Talking In Your Sleep,” that I felt the first genuine stirrings of what turned out to be actual hope. In this era of so-called generative music, when GarageBand is a trademarked app, a revival of power pop—real music played by genuine humans on actual musical instruments—seemed unlikely.

Then this past June, (Emitt) Rhodes Scholar Paul Myers and I took in a show at the Fillmore. The Twigs headlined, in sparkling form and supported (significantly, to us old heads) by seminal Bay Area Second Wavers the Rubinoos. The opening act was a group of rock ’n’ roll babies from Detroit, Mod Lang2, four talented longhairs in suits who played loud and sang sweetly and leapt into the air with exultant seriousness, arms windmilling freely like Townshend in his lanky prime.

As the kids from Rock City literally kicked into “What I Can’t Have,” with its Chilton-Bell carillon dual-guitar attack and its angelic ooh-la-la-la-las and its succinct expression, in title and lyrics, of the fundamental power pop concern, my scarred old speroceptors could no longer ignore the evidence pouring in through my ears, eyes, and the soles of my feet, and I knew: Power pop lives!

Since that night in June I’ve been out conducting field research, seeking further proof of the above thesis, sampling recent releases from New Zealand, Australia, Europe, and North America, and friends, I am returned to tell you: it is ample. Even limiting myself to tracks dropped since 2023, I came up with almost five hours of delicious power pop goodness, which it is now my pleasure—my hopeful pleasure—to present.

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