It’s Memorial Day, and today the 6OGs present to you… look, I’ll be honest. The bulk of this post has absolutely nothing to do with Memorial Day. Random accident of timing. No tie-in, no hook, no nothing.
We here at 3A6OG HQ understand the larger meaning of the holiday - to honor American military personnel who died while serving their country. We are also aware of what the holiday has become - the unofficial start of summer and a day for beach trips and barbecues.
Unfortunately, nothing we’ve written addresses the ultimate sacrifice, nor do we spotlight current or past summer jams, although all three sections below highlight albums that wouldn’t be out of place at a cookout. Not that I’ll be attending one, as DC is on day five of rain with more to come.
We also realize that our current climate, littered with a constant stream of AI-generated militaristic slop, might make one feel less inclined to embrace a patriotic holiday, especially with a UFC-fueled sesquicentennial on the horizon. Well, Memorial Day has been here long before our current fuckstorm of a political moment and it will be here long after this open fire hydrant of insanity is hopefully, mercifully, behind us. Don’t let the bastards get you down, and don’t let them ruin - or take ownership of - an important holiday.
Remember that no one group has a monopoly on honoring service. And if you happen to live in a place that actually has good weather, get outside and throw on one of the three albums we discuss below. Two are new, and one is very likely new to you. Enjoy!
New Album: Look for Your Mind! by The Lemon Twigs. For an artist, there seems to be a fine line between showing your influences and being considered derivative. The former can get you labeled as a student of music history and a keen observer of the best traits of the legends. The latter can tar you as an opportunist, a phony or, perhaps the worst insult that can be thrown around by the music writer cognoscenti, a rip-off. It used to be that being called a sellout was the worst insult that could be thrown in a band’s direction, whether from their peers or the press. Since the concept of selling out doesn’t exist anymore (due to the fact that doing so has been the only way to make a living as a musician this century), “rip-off” has become the de rigeur insult, questioning a band’s authenticity (ironically in a time when little in our lives feels authentic).
But who gets to be the authority on authenticity? The artists themselves? Their peers? Fans? Is it like spotting obscenity, that we know it when we see it (I promise this is the last time I’ll reference the Supreme Court). Are we all just part of a hivemind that can spot a rip-off at the first riff? I mean, the overall response to Greta Van Fleet was largely uniform but the fact is they make many people out there happy (that both of these publications are now owned by Conde Nast is itself another blow to authenticity).
Rancid were once considered a Clash rip-off despite some band members’ punk bona fides going back to their Operation Ivy days. Numerous bands from the late 2000s into the early 2010s proudly displayed their Brian Wilson influences without being tagged as wholly derivative. And yet, ask anyone what they thought of Jet and chances are the response will be some variation of “opportunistic garage rock poseur band.” The goalposts move but we always know where they are.
Into this discussion unwillingly step The Lemon Twigs. Hailing from New York like me (and also fellow Long Islanders who couldn’t wait to escape the ‘burbs) The Lemon Twigs are brothers Brian and Michael D’Addario (Brian is two years older; both sing, play guitar and write songs, while Brian also contributes on drums and bass). The brothers embrace retro and the pop sounds of the ‘60s and ‘70s.
Does that mean The Lemon Twigs honor that era or are they ripping it off? Put it this way – their new album, Look for Your Mind!, puts a unique, updated spin on the type of music that Gen Z’s grandparents might have listened to. Combining elements of power pop, glam, jangle pop, bubblegum, and a touch of theater-kid energy, The Lemon Twigs make that music their own. Question their authenticity at your own risk. The band absorbed the best of what came before and molded it into their own.
The album-opening title track wears its Beatles influences on its sleeve, yet the song has just enough growl and fuzz to feel like a modern spin. The single “I Just Can’t Get Over Losing You” is as true to ‘60s pop as any other track on the album – right down to the alternating harmonies – with lyrics that feel lifted from the head of a teen in a garage band days after watching the Fab Four on Ed Sullivan (“I just can’t get over losing you / It hurts so badly / Everything I’ve done since we were two / I’d give it up gladly”). Just check out the video (featuring touring band members drummer Reza Martin and bassist Danny Ayala). The band is clearly not just embracing but embodying their sound.
Another single, “2 or 3,” is pure bouncy ‘60s bubblegum pop that would feel like parody in less self-assured hands. But the lyrics give the game away. Rather than singing about teen love and heartbreak, the song is ultimately a modern tale of questionable relationships (“She’s always in the mood / For something more refined / I’ve changed my attitude / And disciplined my mind”) and insecurity (“Can’t take it anymore / I cannot live a lie I’m just no good for her / She should find another guy”). The Lemon Twigs might be putting on a bit of a show, but mostly they’re playing themselves.
“Nothin’ But You” gets added to the modern power pop playlist and perhaps sounds more like a Radio City outtake than any of its contemporaries, specifically due to its bass line channeling the spirit of Andy Hummel. “Fire and Gold” starts off folky and strummy before using mid-‘70s arena rock effects to transition into an AM radio tune. Similarly, “My Heart is in Your Hands Tonight” feels like a forgotten ‘70s middle school dance staple.
Listening to the rollicking “Bring You Down,” I envision the D’Addario brothers seeing themselves as Brian Wilson writing his version of “Summertime Blues” but with a Gen Z anti-capitalist bent (“Well I’ve been working so hard every minute of the doggone day / And my rent’s gone up and the boss won’t raise my pay”), a healthy fear of AI (“They’re gonna take my job and give it to a metal machine”), a sense of helplessness (“If I don’t make some money soon, I don’t know where I’m bound”), and an awareness that the whole system is rigged against them (“All I know is that the man was made just to bring you down”).
“You’re Still My Girl” is a bouncy jangle-pop number with Frankie Valli falsetto flourishes that mask a dark undercurrent (“I know that you don’t want him / ‘Cause you’re still my girl / There’s no use losing sleep about it / Oh please don’t cry now”). Album closer “Your True Enemy” is built around Alex Chilton power pop but surprises by blending in Sgt. Pepper-style psychedelic touches.
Authenticity is a loaded word, especially in music. It’s difficult to judge the intent and sincerity of an artist from the outside, yet we do it all the time. But maybe it just boils down to asking a couple of questions – are you absorbing all of your influences and doing something creative with them, such that it becomes something new, or are you just a slightly inflated tribute act?
The Lemon Twigs can answer that first question with a resounding “yes” (and are free to ignore the second question). They’ve taken a familiar style, injected it with their own experiences and personalities, and written catchy songs that sound fresh. No one should ever confuse them for a tribute act or question their authenticity. Or, for that matter, their abilities as musicians or songwriters. In the end, that’s what matters.
The Lemon Twigs first came on the scene with their debut album, Do Hollywood, in 2016. Six albums later, Look for Your Mind! is their best, most focused, tightest collection of songs. They now sound more like a band and less like the D’Addario brothers’ music project. This translates to the record feeling like an extension of their live shows. Sadly I missed their most recent show in DC. Hopefully that won’t be the case next time. (Brian)
Album from an upcoming/recent show: Two Wheels Move the Soul by Robber Robber. Last Friday I made it to my first show at Rhizome DC. It was founded in 2015 by a group of “unschoolers” as a community space to learn alongside their children and support experimental art. As other spaces around DC have been forced to close due to urban development, it has come to be home to much of DC’s avant garde and DIY music scene, including jazz, folk and indie rock. Recently, Rhizome in turn was threatened by a plan to sell the lot and house (which they currently lease) to developers of low-income housing. The Rhizome team doggedly searched for an affordable space to purchase, and in 2024 were able to raise money through grants and crowdfunding to purchase their long-term home on Alaska Ave NW. While awaiting permits and remodeling, they continue to serve the DC community, artists and musicians from this large old house in DC’s Takoma neighborhood.
And I mean house literally. The band set up in the living room. The crowd filled the adjoining dining room on one side, and the entry hall and stairway on the other. Merch was sold off the top of the gas stove in the rear kitchen. The vibe was more of a grad student house party than a concert, with small groups of people milling around outside with their BYOB cans when I arrived.
Naturally, the acoustics of this place were not considered when it was being built, and amplified music can be felt more than heard. The opener, Philadelphia punk band Empath, was a visceral experience of frantic drums and a brutally loud wash of sound with warbling distorted synths rising above it. Their energetic show and freely shifting tempos were compelling and earned a lookup of their music to catch more of the subtleties.
Robber Robber fared somewhat better with their balance of sound. Still a bit muddy - but the experience is unmatched. With no stage and no barricade, the audience stands right up there with the band, all in this shared space that feels like a home, all part of the community, feeling the music together. It probably felt familiar to the Burlington, VT-based Robber Robber, as I can’t think of a better analog to the alternative haven of Takoma.
Founding members Nina Cates and Zach James actually started their musical journey in Brattleboro as teens but moved to Burlington for college, expanded to the four-piece Robber Robber in 2022, and have been integral in forging that town’s music scene. Two Wheels Move the Soul is their 2nd LP, released in April 2026, and showcases their musical creativity, with off-kilter, unexpected beats and melodies, mid-song meter shifts, and a brilliant interplay of bass and guitars.
Opening track “The Sound it Made” creates tension right from the beginning, with a high, sustained bass note and skittering, restless drum fills. The bass starts to bend and shift as the guitar riff steps in, and they all build together to a crescendo of crunchy Sleigh Bells-style full-band staccato stabs.
“Avalanche Sound Effect” gives the vibe of sproingy, boppy machinery. I assumed this was a sampled drum track, but in this “Pine Street Sessions” video, it’s a combination of scratching on the guitar string and a super-tiny hi hat. Nina Cates’s subdued vocals start as truncated phrases with angular melodic intervals. But they provide they building energy as the song progresses, shifting to a loping 3 note waterfall then an even more urgent 2-note alternation. As the beat shifts to 6/8 time, the two vocal riffs get harmonized and woven together as the grand finale.
Cates’s vocals come to the fore again in “New Year’s Eve,” over a confident, strutting beat. In a rich, layered voice with a metallic shimmer, she sings about the feeling of spinning your wheels as time passes: “New Year’s Eve, what’s another year worth?/But baby where did all the time go/I was stuck here tryna make it work.” Meanwhile the guitar bounces in dissonant intervals to support the feeling of continuous effort with no payoff.
“Watch for Infection” also includes just the right amount of dissonance in the opening guitar arpeggios. James’s funky syncopated beat does heavy lifting here, along with effortlessly cool speak-singing during the verses. The bass supports with an unobtrusive drone, but builds a rising crescendo near the end to add a new layer of interest.
In an April interview Cates talked about being turned off by songs that sound like “two different song ideas that they taped together.” (I won’t name names about which band she slagged about that, but their initials are RHCP.) She doesn’t want transitions between song sections to sound unnatural. In the album’s lead single and flip-side standout “Talkback,” this approach pays off. A crisp, snappy beat shuttles along with a rapid fire reflection on the pain of not having a retort to a verbal barb and not being able to let it go: “too late/ I run it back inside my head/ inside my head/ run through again and with no end.” It will embed the verbal hook in your brain, if you are like me: “Till hours later / hours later / hours later/ ...would’ve been the perfect talkback, perfect quip.”
Similarly, “Enough,” despite lead-in and outro sections that border on unwelcome repetition, boasts a middle third that wanders naturally into pleasantly unexpected chords without calling attention to itself as a separate ‘bridge’ section. It flows satisfyingly into the more straight-forward intro beat of “Again,” but here and on closer “Bullseye,” Robber Robber may have overcorrected towards keeping a unified sound through the song, as they both fizzle without feeling that the ideas have been fully developed.
Nevertheless, there’s enough asymmetric beats, quirky guitar play and smoky vocals here to keep me coming back to Two Wheels Move the Soul, and it’s complex and interesting enough to find new tidbits each time. (Dave)
Album being rediscovered (at least 10 years old): Providence by Mercy Rule. College bands. We all have memories of those bands we saw in college in small clubs, in the campus bar (I hope you went to yours; I did the booking for mine for a year, though it sadly no longer exists), or maybe even a fraternity house, that stopped us in our tracks, that changed us, that gave us a peek into what live music could be, that made us feel something we hadn’t felt before, certainly not like that. Or maybe we were just continuing to realize that we were adults, that this was our music, that these were our lives. (Or maybe we were just really drunk).
These were the local or regional artists we went back to our hometowns and told old friends about. “You have to hear this band. No, c’mon man, really, you have to just hear this song.” Usually met with an eye roll or “whatever, dude,” and then a turn of the volume dial louder while Led Zeppelin IV or The Wall played. Again.
I got lucky in that I went to college in St. Louis in the early-mid 1990s, so one of the first bands I did “you gotta hear these guys” with was Uncle Tupelo, who was still playing 500-ish cap rooms when I got to school and eventually was turned on them by a friend. Within a couple of years, my friends at home realized just who I had been on about, and I sounded a little smarter.
But of course there were plenty of others who didn’t turn out to have started a new genre and spawn multiple legendary careers like Uncle Tupelo. Ditch Witch, The Bottlerockets (they did make some noise over time), The Finns, The Drovers, bunnygrunt (who I was happy to see have recently reunited), Mercy Me (no, not the Christian rockers; this was a campus band), and plenty more. I’ll admit I’ve not really gone back to many of them over the years. With one exception.
Mercy Rule. They weren’t exactly local (from Lincoln, NE), but regional and played fairly often in St. Louis, so they felt in that same category. They were both a powerhouse rock band and incredibly funny, relatable, and engaging on stage back in the days when banter was more of an art. With the kind of charisma that should have made them a “you gotta hear these guys” band that made it. Lead singer and bassist Heidi Ore was fairly short but sounded absolutely massive, guitarist Jon Taylor played loud and fast, and he was squarely within the 90s Midwest rock lane, and the drummer kept it all together and then some with punishing rhythms. Even Rolling Stone thought they had it all when it named them a rising band to watch in 1995. And they got signed to (and, of course, quite quickly dropped by) major label MCA.
The music itself was so very college, especially in the early 1990s - big guitar riffs, massive and frequent variations in volume and tone throughout many songs, angsty and alternately angry and funny lyrics about feeling stuck, about needing to grow, about being ready to burst and then ready to crawl in a hole, about being emotional so the world will embrace you and then emotion-less so that the world can’t destroy you. They were a little past college themselves, but each track felt like it was holding us college kids in its arms and pushing us to explode at the same time. Which is more or less how so many days felt in college.
The entirety of Mercy Rule feels contained in the opening track, “Tell Tomorrow.” It starts with a couple of jolting guitar licks and then simmers until Heidi Ore breaks in: “Today was just like/every other day/It was me in front of my TV/I said, tell today, it sucked/And I’m not gonna live like this anymore/And I said, tell tomorrow, that I’ve been thinking about/What I got and what I need/Tell tomorrow that I’ve been looking for a reason/Just to live my life.” Hard to find lyrics that capture being 20 and uncertain of your future than those.
The song quiets for Ore to sing that nothing’s going to break her heart or touch her inside, then explodes again as she screams tomorrow better know what her name is because she’s going to find a new way. Is today the beginning, or the end? The worst, or the greatest? Every moment in college can feel like that, and the balance of these lyrics, Ore’s vocals that come from her depths, and a band that goes back and forth between simmering and exploding is a mission statement like few other opening tracks.
The album continues along that wave. One moment the songs are sure that this is the way life will and must be (“If this is a sin/then turn me in/‘cause I’m never gonna change my ways,” on “Hey Now”), the next there’s a resignation and sadness (“I woke up this morning, and I/Looked into my mirror and I/Well I started to cry/Then I just laughed out loud/Because it’s all that I know and all that I’ll ever be,” on “Stumble”)(“I don’t want to be myself today/I just want to be someone else/I just want to disappear/But I can’t think of how,” on “C’mon”) and seemingly the next a certainty that things must change (“And you pray to Jesus/You say you’re sorry/For having any doubts,” leading to the chorus: “Which road am I supposed to be on now/And where the hell are my shoes”).
The music stays in its 90s lane, like the sounds of Dinosaur Jr. or fellow Midwest guitar-based acts like Hum or even the Poster Children. This is not a record you would mistake for coming out of any other time period (and not just because of a track like “Hey Now,” which has a guitar line meant to resemble a landline ring). Not to say there is anything to sneeze at when you have a blistering guitar player working in perfect sync with a booming rhythm section. But they add just enough other elements over the course of the album to keep the listener from losing interest. There’s a cello that guides “Stumble” perfectly, and “Which Road” brings in a full string section and piano to close the album on a more pensive and complete note.
There are occasionally more political or religious moments, like on “Uncle Allen” where they wrestle with a family member who seems to justify his racism through his daily reading of the Bible, but is clearly missing the point. “Everybody was born/Just as I, just as I/What you make of it/That’s yours/You’re held accountable/So don’t blow it.” The ability to be direct and honest with this racist uncle is, intriguingly, the moment when there is the most clarity about life on the record. And this is often the case in life, especially when you are defining who you are: it’s easier to see what your life means and is all about in relief against someone else than when left to your own devices, reflections, and even demons. The song “Uncle Allen” comes toward the end and helps to mark a more positive trajectory for the last few tracks.
I was prompted to go back again to Mercy Rule recently for the radio show OG Marc and I did about musical moms, because Mercy Rule stopped their career in its tracks in 2000 when Taylor and Ore decided to have kids because they “just didn’t have room in the van for the band and two car seats.” (The drummer would move to New York and join the band Liars, among others). There have been some reunions and new bands, including one more regular chamber pop project called Floating Opera, but none of it is as clear and direct as when they were Mercy Rule in the 1990s making records like Providence.
Or maybe it’s just that the music is forever engrained with my own memories of trying to figure out in college who I was on any given day or who I would be the day after. I struggled mightily at times, and it was records like Providence that guided me through. Or maybe it’s just that those feelings are less urgent in my 50s than they were in my 20s. And overall, I’m happy to declare that most of my days feel better today than they did then. But I’ll definitely say it again: you gotta hear this band. (Brad)
Great recs. Robber Robber has really grabbed me this year.