Tacocat

Tacocat sounds like a technicolor explosion in a Pacific Northwest basement. It is the sonic equivalent of a handful of Skittles: sugary, tart, and undeniably bright. Their music takes the skeleton of classic 1960s surf rock and dresses it in the thrifted flannels and combat boots of the Seattle punk scene. The guitars shimmer with a clean, reverb-drenched jangle, while the rhythm section provides a bouncy, driving foundation that keeps everything moving at a breakneck pace.

What truly sets them apart is their ability to weaponize humor and sarcasm. They tackle everything from the mundane frustrations of public transit to the complexities of seasonal affective disorder and feminist politics, all without losing their sense of fun. The vocal harmonies are tight and infectious, often feeling like a group of friends shouting together in a crowded car. It is music that refuses to be bogged down by the gray clouds of its origin, opting instead for a defiant, neon-lit optimism.

Start with the album NVM. It is the definitive document of their sound, featuring the period-positive surf anthem Crimson Wave and the relatable urban frustration of FU #8. It perfectly captures their transition from garage-punk scrappiness to a more refined, hook-heavy power pop sensibility that remains their signature.