Nothing Fits
In the Red

Nothing Fits is Tyvek come full circle. Their self-titled record for Siltbreeze last year was a major curveball, an acquired taste and for many, not the same Tyvek they were unified with through singles and live shows the preceding two years. At one point in the time since the release of that messy, indulgent, yet strangely cohesive album, Tyvek was whittled down to a trio. At an after-hours performance on a bridge one cold Austin night, it seemed like Kevin Boyer was holding Tyvek together with silly putty. Nothing Fits is redemption. It’s a band exploding. Not since those first incendiary, barely attended, out-of-town gigs has Tyvek sounded as inspired and urgent. Funny to consider a band of their relative youth needing to be inspired at this point, but that’s assuming there was a rock bottom. Nothing Fits is breaking bones at that depth and clawing a way out of the hole.

Only on “Outer Limits” does Nothing Fits resemble the quirky, freak-first, fist-later collaboration that was captured on the band’s self-titled record, but only in its second half. The song’s sci-fi drone finale is just the right amount of experimenting on an album that’s 26 minutes of relentless basement punk. The rest is fast, catchy, nervous and extremely reminiscent of the classics. The Circle Jerks’ sneer, Blag Flag’s velocity, the Dead Milkmen’s goofiness, the Fall’s powder-keg repetitions—it’s aim is to assimilate and become one of those classics, as Nothing Fits is sing-a-long worthy and cuts off all the unnecessary fat. As much as it rages in homage though, Boyer has never been a preacher. Tyvek is more about the complaints of complacency, rather than nihilism or politics. “Pricks in the Car,” with a refrain of “fuck off” is pissed party-punk. In addition to the fun side of Tyvek—like the combustible “4312” or “Potato”—there’s a menacing pop element to Boyer’s writing. “Underwater To” might be the best song he’s written to this point, a constant cruise of new wave melody and blitzkrieg bob. Or take the blistering title track. Over in 90 seconds, caked in extra fuzz and crackle, and full of hardcore chants the song is a call to arms for any doubters, a return to form for anyone wanting the old guard, a renewal, a refresh, perhaps the best track of this ilk this year. It feels good to bleed, but feels better to triumph.
Kevin J. Elliott

MP3: “4312”