Superdrag rock like it's 1996 (and that's a good thing)

This story starts at a Coconuts in Stoneham, Mass. You might recognize Stoneham as the home of Nancy "Ow, my knee!" Kerrigan or wrasslin' legend Killer Kowalski, but otherwise it's just another middling suburban town. You might recall Coconuts as one of the many lame-o chain stores that were eventually folded into the even lamer chain-that-shall-not-be-named (though there aren't many left so you can probably guess)—but really it was just another square shop pushing overpriced plastic circles. And somewhere between the Celine Dion endcaps I discovered one of the greatest guitar bands of the era: Superdrag.

It was my senior year of high school, my car was in the shop from one of my many adolescent fender benders and I was stuck running errands with my mom—a painfully uncool activity for a budding hipster. She was bargain hunting at the local discount department store, a gaudy beast whose design style felt like the excretory end of a '70s hangover—a palette best described as "brown frown"—while I perused the neon-bathed retailer at the end of the strip, still billing itself as Coconuts "Records & Tapes" long after vinyl had been shown the stage door.

If you're too young to remember these kinds of stores, they were not cool places where cool people bought cool records. These were the sorts of places where your uncle who doesn't really know you could buy you an album you wouldn't really like. They were decorated like a low-rent version of The Max from Saved by the Bell, where Mr. Belding has been replaced by acne-scarred Ugly Kid Joe fans. It is not the typical environment where an aspiring music snob is likely to get sideswiped by in-store promotions. But that's how it happened.

The video for "Destination Ursa Major" was on the video display and it was like mod kids from Mars had crash-landed in my brain. Sure, the first single from Regretfully Yours, "Sucked Out," had been huge that summer, and many a Denny's waitress had been freaked out by my peers' screaming the chorus and destroying diner booths, but '96 was a banner year for the Alternative Nation and some full-lengths got lost in the shuffle. (If you doubt the glory and majesty of 1996, please remember Olivia Tremor Control's Dusk at Cubist Castle, Modest Mouse's debut, 1977 by Ash and Sloan's One Chord to Another all came out that summer.) "Ursa Major," with its swooping guitars, layered harmonies and propulsive rhythms, cut through the clutter and blew my mind.

When I put Regretfully Yours in the stereo it started a love affair that would last for over a decade. Their sophomore effort Head Trip in Every Key coincided with my discovery of, um, head trips in every key, Valley of the Dying Stars was playing in the background while I dropped out of college and moved in with my parents and Last Call for Vitriol was blaring at the Red Rose Café when I wandered into Murfreesboro. It wasn't uncommon to hear Superdrag rarities booming from the silkscreen shop at Grand Palace, and singer John Davis' solo records are worth a thorough inspection. If I had a dollar for every time I heard a story about how Superdrag were the coolest kids at Lucy's, I would buy myself a time machine and see for myself.

Which brings us to Industry Giants, the first album by the original line-up since 1998. There's always the chance that reunion records will disappoint. In fact, stats suggest that reunion records almost always disappoint. If you listen to a band for the better part of your life, a reunion album can be a major let-down compared to those pristinely preserved memories. Industry Giants is not one of those albums.

From the opening drum blast of "Slow to Anger" to the closing chords of "Death Blow to Your Pride," Superdrag throw down like they never left town. Each songs bristles with the simple joy of playing electric guitars through loud amplifiers with good friends. The Wipers meets Flip Your Wig-era Hüsker Dü of "5 Minutes Ahead of the Chaos," the fuzzed-out jangle of "Everything Will Be Made Right" and the Joe Strummer-isms of "Aspartme" all fit squarely into the mythological ideal of Superdrag. The potent stew of Thin Lizzy guitar leads, the liberal dose of My Bloody Valentine (minus the lethargy) and those insanely catchy choruses make the current crop of indie rockers look like the Captain & Tennille. Hell, "You're Alive" sounds like it could've been a lost single by Australian punk legends Radio Birdman, and even the slower songs like "Live and Breathe" bubble over with an excitement and vitality that is sorely lacking from much of today's music scene. Maturity and life experience have only sharpened the edges that were razor-sharp in the first place.

Which is to say that this story isn't over. The lengthy hiatus has done these boys good, and they are back, quite possibly better than ever. If you love buzzing guitars, gorgeous hooks and unbridled energy—all the things that make America great—you owe it to yourself to buy this album. This isn't another nostalgia trip. It's the dawning of a new era.

Email music@nashvillescene.com.