Tacocat, busting out of the Pacific Northwest, drops "Talk" and we are loving it.
One of the weirdest things humans do is to classify half of all humans as niche. As though womens shit isnt real shitas though menses and horses and being internet-harassed arent as interesting as beer-farts and monster trucks and doing the harassing. Thats why Tacocat is radical: not because a female-driven band is some baffling novelty, but because theyre a group making art about experiences in which gender is both foregrounded and neutralized. This isnt lady stuff, its people stuff. Its normal. Its nothing and everything. Its life.
The four actual best friendsEmily Nokes (vocals, tambourine), Eric Randall (guitar), Lelah Maupin (drums), and Bree McKenna (bass)came together in their teens and early baby twenties and coalesced into a band eight years ago, and you can feel that theyve built both their lives, and their sound, together. Hanging out with Tacocat and listening to Tacocat are remarkably similar experiences, like the best party youve ever been to, where, instead of jostling for social position, everyone just wants to eat candy and talk about Sassy Magazine, sci-fi, cultural dynamic shifts, and bad experiences with men.
Tacocats third studio album, Lost Time (an X-Files reference, doy), is their first with producer Erik Blood. I would describe him generally as a beautiful wizard, Nokes said, who, in our opinion, took the album to the next level. Wizard level. Bloods sounds are wide and expansive, bringing a fullness to the bands familiar sparkling snarl. The Tacocat of Lost Time are triumphantly youthful but also plainspoken and wise, as catchy as they are substantive. Men Explain Things to Me eviscerates male condescension with sarcastic surf guitar. On The Internet, they swat away trolls with an imperiousness so satisfying you want to transmogrify it into a sheetcake and devour it: Your place is so low/Human mosquito.
One of feminisms biggest hurdles has always been that it isnt allowed to be fun. Tacocat gives that notion precisely the credence that it deserves, ignoring it altogether and making fun, funny, unselfconscious pop songs about the shit theyre genuinely obsessing or groaning over: Plan B, night swimming, high school horse girls (they know the different breeds of all their favorite steeds!), the bridge-and-tunnel bros who turn their neighborhood into a toilet every weekend. And, eight years in, Tacocat have built something bigger than themselves. Theyve fostered a feminist punk scene in Seattle so fertile its going national and rendering the notion of the girl band even more laughable than it already was. There are no girl bands in Seattle anymore. There are just bands and everyone else. Women, Nokes jokes. Theyre just like us!