Post Life make the kind of feisty, urgent indie-punk that never goes out of style — all exposed nerve endings set to racehorse rhythms and prickly guitars. Not that you should divine, either from their name or from songs like “23” (“Sometimes it’s all a waste / Sometimes it’s a disgrace”), that the L.A. quartet is somehow fatalistic, or just making noise so you can mosh your ya-ya’s out.
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