Before Jack White signed them to Third Man, Snõõper staked their claim in Tennessee’s DIY scene as the sound of egg punk in the 2020s: fast riffs, fun antics, and no-fucks-given misfit pride. While Indiana torchbearers the Coneheads and Liquids played hardcore-inspired weirdo punk in a Hardee’s parking lot, Snõõper raided the arts and crafts closet. At live shows, the Nashville five-piece rip through minute-long songs, perform choreography in matching tracksuits, and march bug-eyed papier mâché puppets around the stage as singer Blair Tramel curls a comically large cardboard dumbbell. The goal, as guitarist Connor Cummins put it: “Go as crazy as possible for 30 minutes.” A band with an insatiable desire to shred and a keen eye for bold visual aesthetics? Of course the guy who co-founded the White Stripes couldn’t call dibs fast enough. Snõõper’s debut, Super Snõõper, is a highlight in the world of “Devo-core,” with unpredictable riffs and voltaic singing that strike just the right balance of delightful and detached.
On their first full-length, Snõõper crawl out of the basement show circuit and into the light of a street parade, determined to make people who claim they don’t know how to dance finally bust a move. After intro “Stretching,” a sampler platter that splices together song snippets like you’re scanning radio stations, Snõõper sprint through 13 tracks of squealing guitars and sci-fi sound effects in just over 20 minutes, never allowing a good chorus to overstay its welcome. It’s not that they’re trying to leave you wanting more; they’re just constantly being interrupted by another, even more urgent idea. “Pod,” a zippy post-punk number that intertwines a melodic guitar line with jittery drum-machine cowbell, cuts out in the middle of a guitar solo so the band can barge into “Fitness,” a garage-rock send-up of exercise culture that’s interspersed with the piercing whistle of an irritated coach. In Snõõper’s world, there’s no time for fadeouts.
The puppets and props—enormous Magic 8 Balls, retro phones, arcade consoles—are a requisite part of Snõõper’s identity. For Tramel, these constructions aren’t afterthoughts but a crucial impetus for the band, easing her transition from a vocalist with imposter syndrome to a commanding frontperson. (Though she radiates enviable panache on stage, in daily life Tramel is an elementary school teacher who recently crowd-surfed for the first time and immediately called her mom to tell her about it.) More Frank Sidebottom’s big head than Iron Maiden’s elaborate mascot Eddie, Snõõper’s props are born of restless DIY creativity—a defining trait of the egg punk scene, which tends to prefer physical spaces to digital ones. But even without the aid of a glue gun or upcycled shipping materials, Tramel’s voice is electric. On “Xerox” and “Inventory,” she uses a crackling, lo-fi vocal filter that recalls Guerilla Toss’s Kassie Carlson. Whether delivered in a staccato bark, an abrasive shout, or a playful slur, Tamel’s words land like tiny static shocks. The total effect of Snõõper’s high-velocity songs is like clutching a plasma globe with both hands.
The physicality of Snõõper’s playing adds its own power to these recordings. The chugging guitars on “Unable” may sound straightforward, but Cummins and drummer Cam Sarrett beef them up by contrasting guttural tones with dainty chimes and flashes of total silence. On “Defect,” Happy Haugen takes the lead with a breakneck bassline that verges on blues rock, the notes coming so fast you can feel the blisters forming. Blanketing it all is the gritty texture of the band’s 8-track recorder. It’s hard to translate the kitschy performance-art charm of Snõõper’s stage show on record, but the album’s last and longest song puts on a spectacle to rival it: The five-minute “Running” hypnotizes as it escalates from a post-punk pulse into a bongo-smacking, cymbal-crashing, synth-wailing caterwaul. They say you have to see egg punk live to really get it. But the goofy, revved-up glory of Super Snõõper comes pretty close.
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