Localized Minor Authority

“You look like you’re all cloned at the mainstream factory,” Minor Authority singer and guitarist Nate B.W. Harris taunts listeners in Punk Side Up’s title track. To echo his painfully mixed metaphor, Minor Authority sounds like it was cloned at the squat-punk factory, from Harris’ overblown Sham 69 riffs right down to the pack-a-day gurgle with which he sings.

A vocabulary used only by masters-level sociology students and the worst kind of punk act litters Punk Side Up; “society,” “nihilism,” and “rebellion” all figure prominently into the lyrics. So do trite references to cornered rats, dead bodies, and soccer moms, so you can rest assured that you’re listening to another up-the-punks rant instead of a dissertation on structural-functionalism. Somehow, this isn’t much comfort.

Revving up a running riot that’s inspired mostly by Rancid by way of Government Issue and The Exploited, Punk Side Up slogs through a landscape of shamelessly recycled riffs and high-energy hardcore beats that places its faith in punk’s roots. It never quite settles on a single point in time though, bouncing between ’70s British oi!, ’80s D.C. hardcore, and mid-’90s East Bay crust, a cherry-picking maneuver that leaves Minor Authority grappling with nothing but cliché.

“Liberty Bell” uses Crimpshrine-like squat-punk melodies to take on 2001’s hottest topic, The PATRIOT Act, matching 18-year-old music with 8-year-old politics. “Hey Man” lurches between spoken-word stretches and blazing circle-pit madness, as Harris reiterates to his mom, his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend, and his soon-to-be former employer that he’s a rebel playing by his own rules—mostly because he refuses to prune back his hairdo. “The Great Escape” and “Cities Burn” offer more of the same rebel angst set to melodic, off-the-rack punk jams. Harris steps in with surprisingly adept guitar solos in nearly every song, adding some redeeming qualities to Punk Side Up, but it’s obvious once he gets away from executing his fretboard magic, he’s outside his own realm. Wade through his trite scolding of mainstream society for half an hour or so, and you’re bound to start siding with the mainstream-factory clones and soccer moms against these silly wannabes. 

A.V. Club Grade: D