Class

Class sounds like the best band you ever stumbled upon in a basement at 11 PM. It is music that prioritizes friction and momentum, built on a foundation of jagged electric guitars and drums that sound like they are being hit with genuine intent. There is a specific kind of Midwestern grit here, a sound that is unpolished but incredibly tight, blending the raw aggression of early hardcore with the infectious, sugary hooks of classic power pop.

What sets them apart is the economy of their songwriting. Most tracks clock in under two minutes, stripping away any unnecessary fat to leave only the essential nerves of the song exposed. The vocals often sit in a sweet spot between a bored sneer and an urgent shout, delivered with a deadpan wit that makes the social commentary feel personal rather than preachy. It is the sound of analog tape being pushed to its limit, warm and distorted in all the right places.

Start with 'But Who's Reading Me?' to hear them at their most cohesive. It’s a record that demands your full attention for twenty minutes and then immediately makes you want to hit play again. It is perfect for those moments when you need a jolt of pure, unadulterated energy to cut through the noise of a stagnant afternoon.