You ever feel like you were born too late? That sick feeling of missing out has been embedded in the Bay Area bellies of The Atom Age since they were just young rockers chewing on bubblegum. Was it the early 1960s missed out on? No, No, it must’ve been the 50s. Wait! Maybe it was hanging on the playground during the 90s that stings the most? Who the hell knows? All they do know is that they weren’t there, but goddamn did it sound good. You have to wonder if there’s a place in this driveling modern world for them and their negative minds just can’t see it. Couldn’t they find their standing if they puffed up their pompadours and leaned into the neo-rockabilly slack jawed hot rod scene? Perhaps a half hearted stab at lo-fi budget rock could be the path of least resistance? Why not go full on punk and reap the rewards? We may never have the burning answers to these questions and frankly, it’s likely too far gone to find out.
Having learned almost nothing from playing music for over a decade, The Atom Age convened once again in 23’ to lay down a new record. Their studio, District Recording, in the sleepy tech crusted Valley of Silicon provided the backdrop. The band opted to track live, using as little overdubbing and trickery as one can reasonably get away with. The resulting self-titled LP is from the gut, gloriously smart and stupid, while dropping all the sniffs and secret hints from missed decades past that could be mustered. It’s fun, clever, and at times dumb. Saxes screech, crappy organs wail, and vocals ruin already battered throats. It’s a wall of new and nothing new, all at the same time, poised to punch up your heartbeat and force you to come down from your daily dose of comatose.
Whatever strange powers determined their “Johnny Come Lately” fate are still benevolent enough to allow The Atom Age to take a small part in what they love. The group may never find their perfect place in time, but maybe that's the point. It’s why the struggles of making exciting Rock ‘N’ Roll possess them, and like the best stuff from days past, comes spit out as imperfect and as unpredictable as ever.