From its very first note, Wonderlick Goes to War draws a battle line, not in the name of violence, but of clarity. It’s a record that dares to ask: What’s left for art to do in a time when empathy is debated, facts are ignored, and cruelty wears a flag pin? Across eleven densely layered tracks, Wonderlick’s fifth full-length album charges into this cultural stalemate with wit, melody, and genuine moral fury. Produced with meticulous detail by Dave Trumfio, Goes to War is as ambitious sonically as it is thematically, wrestling with the absurdity, agony, and accidental heroism of modern life. It’s a protest album that never forgets to entertain—a rare beast in 2025.
The opening track, “Niagara Falls, 1969,“ sets the tone with a surprisingly gentle sweep. It’s a marvel of construction, built on Jason Borger’s keys and a BBC voiceover that recalls the era’s impossible optimism: the idea that we could simply turn off nature itself. The metaphor is chilling. The song suggests that spectacle doesn’t require substance, and that absence can be just as compelling as presence, if you sell it right. That tension between illusion and reality quietly echoes through the rest of the record. We’re not just being entertained, but asked to examine what exactly we’re applauding.
On “Vinko Bogataj,” Wonderlick takes a viral image of defeat, the ski-jumper whose crash symbolised failure for a generation, and transforms it into a hymn for the imperfect. Jay and Tim don’t pity Vinko, but they salute him. His failure becomes a rallying cry for every person who’s been told they’re not “the best.” It’s defiant in a subtle way, nudging listeners to find power in persistence, rather than victory. The musical bounce keeps it from getting preachy, with Trumfio’s production leaning into New Wave pulses that make the song feel propulsive and, ironically, triumphant.
That tension between childhood innocence and adult disillusionment rears up most devastatingly on “I Am a Children’s Book“. There’s something profoundly haunting about watching a well-meaning story age into suspicion. Here, Jay’s raw, cracking vocals turn an abandoned book into a symbol for suppressed ideas and the cultural panic they provoke. It’s about censorship and how society scapegoats vulnerability, especially in children. It’s one of the record’s emotional peaks, and one of the moments where Wonderlick weaponises pathos most effectively.
Of course, this wouldn’t be a Wonderlick album without their signature playfulness amid the pain. “Popping Pills” is autobiographic and generational, tracing the arc from adolescent recklessness to elderly resignation. What could’ve been a dour meditation on mortality instead pops with The Band-inspired swagger. Levon Helm would’ve smiled at Simon’s drumming, and Tim’s lyricism never succumbs to self-pity. This is one of Wonderlick’s greatest strengths: finding humour as a coping mechanism and an act of defiance.
The mid-album sequence, “Hollow Bodies,” “Rhinoceros,” and “Museum of the Inquisition,” forms a thematic spine, a kind of philosophical triptych on societal decay. “Hollow Bodies” is sneaky with its pop accessibility, disguising a scathing political critique beneath bright hooks and clever wordplay. “Rhinoceros“ dives deeper, borrowing Ionesco’s metaphor to question how easily we surrender humanity for conformity. And by the time we reach the literal torture chamber in “Museum of the Inquisition,” the joke has died on our lips. What begins as a lark becomes horror. We’re reminded that civilisation’s worst atrocities didn’t erupt spontaneously, but were engineered by men in suits, supported by the masses.
The final stretch of the album brings both catharsis and confrontation. “My Love’s a Weapon” struts in with a mischievous glint, turning affection into ammunition, while “Wag Your Tail” offers the kind of pogo-pop adrenaline hit that proves joy can be radical, too. But it’s “Reading a Loved One’s Mind” that haunts most. Trumfio’s Swell Maps-inspired textures are immaculate, giving each verse a distinct tone, like a diary slowly unravelling. It’s a quiet highlight that encapsulates Wonderlick’s ability to thread intimacy through chaos.
“Origin Story,” the closing track, is a stunner. Set the day after the 2024 election, it’s not abstract, but lived. Hungover, enraged, but awake, Wonderlick sings, “I was born this morning, I haven’t always been me.” It’s a rallying cry disguised as rebirth, reminding us that resistance isn’t something you inherit, but something you choose, again and again.
“Wonderlick Goes to War” doesn’t scream. It doesn’t beg. It stands its ground. It understands that the personal is political, and that pop songs can be Trojan horses for truth. In a world where apathy is easy and rage is cheap, Wonderlick offers something far more valuable: clarity, compassion, and a damn good hook.
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