The recent swing revival has done irreparable damage to my appreciation of ska music. Granted, the two movements probably shouldn't be mentioned in the same breath, but my cringing sensation at the first sound of a perky tenor sax is more a subconscious reflex than a product of stubborn resistance.

I must admit there was a period in my life when the bubbly excitement attributable to the finest ska artists caused me to skank out in reckless abandon. (Yes, I just used the term "skank out.") I remember it well-– fueled by copious amounts of malt liquor and $4 whole pizzas financially catered for the starving student, arms and legs flailing in absurd contortions, the sock people running amok in an orgy of retarded fervor-– I got into it, by golly! Then ska shows became more frequent than regular hardcore punk shows. Then ska bands were on the radio and stadium stages. Then, after overexposure to the form, I took off my ultra- cool ska shades and saw things for what they truly were. It seemed so empty and pointless, in a trip-hop sort of way, to mindlessly follow pre- programmed responses to constantly rehashed rhythms. "Upbeats, upbeats, give me upbeats or give me death," I would frantically yell as I sat up in bed, plagued by dreams of musical styles that offered opportunities for change and variation.

So I hung up the two- tone outfits. I intentionally wore pink for an entire week as a physical reminder of the new life I had to lead. I delved back into a world filled with dirty guitars, downbeats, and a distaste for woodwinds, and all was well. Then I listened to the Pietasters and found myself fondly reminiscing about the times of yonder, remembering the way that the right ska artist could elevate you from the drudgery of life and remind you of the utter necessity to party and puke your guts up every once in a while.

Yeah, this shit is smooth. It warms the flesh, flowing forth positive sentiment far and wide. Tempos shift throughout in a wildly successful attempt to keep things interesting. Good old- fashioned punk rock even butts its beautiful head in songs like "Somebody." Brett Gurewitz's production brings all of the band's talented nuances into shimmering focus, with the exception of the intentionally lo-fi finale, "Menowannalikki-u," a smoke- friendly sonic trance. Many moments on this album remind me of Fishbone in their heyday, and I make the comparison with all due respect. Gracing the work as a whole is a wonderful sense of humor that more than compensates for any lack of serious subject matter these boys are dealing with.

The sound of horns will probably still send me into a state of petrified terror, but thanks to the Pietasters, I can reacknowledge an old friend who was unfairly told never to call again.

-Kevin Ruggeri