PWR BTTM is a self-proclaimed queer punk duo based in New York and comprised of Ben Hopkins and Liv Bruce. According to this interview, Bruce identifies as non-binary and prefers they/them/their pronouns, while Hopkins uses both he/him/his and they/them/their pronouns. Ultimately, the band seeks, in both their music and image, not to enforce labels but to break them down, achieving liberation through unapologetic self-expression.

Although I've seen the name around, my first real exposure to PWR BTTM was through their recent Tiny Desk Concert. Their presentation is certainly outlandish, which makes it hard to determine at first if they take themselves seriously or if it's all a big joke. As it turns out, the truth falls somewhere in between, with Hopkins' and Bruce's stage personas being exaggerated yet wholly genuine versions of their true identities. I quickly fell in love with both the scrappy precision of their performance, particularly Hopkins' guitar playing (the tone achieved on acoustic guitar for that delicious riff in "Ugly Cherries" is pretty impressive), and their utterly hilarious and witty between-song banter. Their devotion to glitter is also quite admirable (see below).

Anyway, as riveting as that performance is, I want to talk about a song that's not actually a part of it: "West Texas." On their debut album, Ugly Cherries, which was released last year, PWR BTTM alternates between softer, sweeter numbers (often sung by Bruce) and more blistering, in-your-face ones (often sung by Hopkins) that function as an improbable yet genius blend of glam rock and catchy, minimalistic DIY pop. "West Texas" falls more on the latter end of that spectrum.

Notable for Bruce and Hopkins' alternating lead vocals, the song's verses align with their personalities. Hopkins' is sarcastic and sneering: "You left New York for West Texas to avoid all of your exes/How ironic, but that is your thing." Bruce's, on the other hand, is affectionate and idealistic: "The stars above me are the same ones above you/I've been trying to play it cool, but I still love you." Driven by an irresistibly grungy guitar riff, piles of feedback, and explosive cymbal crashes, it manages to be a big, epic rock song despite being under three minutes with no chorus to speak of.

(Also, here's a random still from the video I can't quite figure out what to do with but is too heart-warming not to include.)