You almost don’t want to believe it, it seems so perfect. Five kids from suburban Chicago, wrapped in scuffed-up jeans, writing punk songs about going to the mall, dedicating their work to the girls who work at the go-kart stand, right-out rejecting the Winnie Coopers and the soccer practice and the daytime trips to Steak and Shake. You have to tell yourself: we’ve heard this before. It’s a story as old as rock ‘n’ roll, or as old as the suburbs themselves, which is the same thing. Give your gym coach the middle finger . . .
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