But these tunes hurdle over the vague, fashionable soundscapes of fellow Low-mixed albums by the National and the War on Drugs. In fact, they occupy a refreshing, unfamiliar territory in between those bands and the work of the record’s producer, Jeff Rosenstock. It’s no surprise that Rosenstock would want to work with Smith Street, as the band’s wordy, witty self-deprecation is no far cry from the former BTMI! frontman’s lyrical output. Both songwriters can be awfully depressing without actually bumming us out—Bomb’s music makes chronic depression and functional alcoholism actually seem like a party at times.

While the album is by no means devoid of darkness—’Throw Me in the River’ being the emotional nadir—the record’s true constant is Wagner’s desire to find love, to find happiness in spite of his shit luck. On closer ‘I Love Life’, Wagner counters an earlier cry of “I don’t love anyone anymore” with “I love you so fucking much right now.” Songs like that and ‘I Don’t Wanna Die Anymore’ echo the triumphant riffage of the Menzingers at their best, but supplanting their drunken misery with something truly novel in its happiness.

What separates this band from everything else in the sad bastard corner of punk rock is, at the very root of his tears, Wagner’s contagious joy. Not only does he find himself on the precipice of happiness, he professes his budding hope as a conscious choice, a daily task to take seriously and to carry out loudly, with pride. “We’ll keep on through this shitstorm until the metaphors are literal,” he asserts on ‘The Arrogance of the Drunk Pedestrian’. While most bands in this sonic realm like to champion their dashed dreams, Wagner dares to dream on and fend off cynicism.

Lead single ‘Surrender’ assures the listener that “you don’t have to surrender if you don’t want to”—to depression, to cynicism, to the bad kind of drinking—to whichever bad habits make us into shitty adults. And that’s the heart of the record, the assertion that your own level of well being is a constant choice. River, as a whole, plays like a tailored, self-diagnosed antidepressant from Wagner to himself. He willingly vomits all of his troubles onto the table, then fingerpaints the mess into a map towards sanity. This album is a self-help book written for its own author.

DAVID SATTERWHITE

The twenty-five seconds of intro feedback on the Sky We Scrape’s ‘Broken Ladders’ EP elicit deep memories of bro-heavy hardcore shows in legion halls—that familiar tension conjures images of muscular, young men in black jeans and t-shirts, armed with electric guitars and bent at both knees before half-stacks in a battle-ready power stance. The imposing warriors of aggressive rock pogo up and down with their backs to the crowd, adrenaline mounting. “Get ready,” whispers the feedback. “Get pumped. We are very, very serious.”

It’s something of a surprise to hear clean, melodic vocals follow the record’s doomy intro, but less so when thinking in terms of a band’s desired image. While the long hum of amplifiers doesn’t explode into ‘Dopesmoker’ in the slightest, this is certainly an EP and a group that wants to be taken seriously. But the band’s overall sound is far less threatening, less boorish than its frame. These songs hearken back to material that most bands would hesitate to cite as influential—ever-brooding, yet accessible mid-00s fuse rockers like Story of the Year, Senses Fail and even tidbits of Thursday come to mind. And perhaps that’s a good thing.

The Sky We Scrape isn’t doing anything novel on ‘Broken Ladders’, but the music is familiar, even nostalgic in a puzzling sense. A lack of playfulness (the real remnant of TSWS’s aforementioned forebears) might do the band a disservice, but it’s certainly a respite from the stoned, apathetic grin that’s dominated indie rock for the past few years. This EP pays homage to a style that most bands shelved for something hotter years ago—the question is, who’s listening?

DAVID SATTERWHITE