Trophy Wives are not afraid of the past. Seemingly random pieces of Louisville mainstays like Lords, Coliseum and Young Widows coalesced into a band that takes some of the best elements of hard rock, punk and indie and melts them down to base elements while creating a fist-pumping album that sounds as commercially viable as it does “indie-as-fuck.” The songs cross decades: The first few lift Stonesian intros, fading into big ’80s riffs. The choice “Crooked Cross” should be in a movie. (My only complaint is that it fades out far too soon.) To say that this band borrows from years gone by is not a disparagement; the Wives do it honorably. Just as you settle in to “Oh they’re doing x, y or z,” a new piece comes along that throws all other references out the window. You find yourself overthinking the record, only to find that none of it matters. To misquote Morcheeba, tune out and turn it up.
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