Bad Religion
– The New America
Bad Religion was standing on the other side of the punk rock hill they helped build, squinting at a landscape they weren’t sure they still recognized. The New America is the sound of a band that knows it’s too old to sneer but too sharp to shut up. It’s an album that dials back the fire without snuffing it out completely—more conversation than confrontation, but the words still sting.
Best of…
This record caught a lot of flak for softening their edges. Some cried sellout, others just yawned. But listen closer, and what you hear is a group trying to wrestle with relevance, not rewrite it. The guitars are bright, polished, almost too clean. Greg Graffin’s vocals are upfront, less snarled, more sung. He’s digging into autobiography here, something rare for a band that usually aims its scope at systems, not souls. You can feel the push-pull: the old defiance pressing against a new kind of reflection.
Producer Todd Rundgren adds a layer of sheen that longtime fans either tolerate or curse, depending on how much they miss the dirt and snarl of No Control or Suffer. But it’s not like Bad Religion went soft—they just aimed inward. The New America isn’t punk as posture. It’s punk as self-interrogation. And in its quieter moments, it might just say more than the shout-alongs.
Choice Tracks
You’ve Got a Chance
This opener doesn’t explode—it strides. The message is classic Graffin: you’ve got agency, so what are you doing with it? The chorus is tight and catchy, built to stick. It’s less a battle cry, more a challenge whispered into your morning mirror.
A World Without Melody
If that title doesn’t sum up the album’s contrarian streak, nothing does. The guitars chug, but with purpose, and the lyrics dissect the emptiness of culture-by-committee. It’s a middle finger wrapped in a lesson plan.
New America
The title track serves up a subtle gut-punch. It’s hopeful, almost in spite of itself. There’s disillusionment here, sure, but also a weird kind of optimism trying to claw its way out. Rundgren’s polish makes this one shimmer, but the message doesn’t get lost in the shine.
I Love My Computer
Half-sarcasm, half-warning, this track is either charmingly dated or eerily prophetic. It’s awkward and weird and way too on-the-nose—which makes it perfect. Punk bands aren’t supposed to sing about their laptops, and yet here we are.
Whisper in Time
One of the more vulnerable songs in the catalog, and one that shows Graffin’s not afraid to admit that punk doesn’t shield you from regret. It’s stripped back, melodic, and quietly devastating. Not a pit-starter, but definitely a gut-check.
The New America might not be the record that fans tattooed on their arms, but it’s one they should revisit with fewer expectations and a little more empathy. It’s Bad Religion growing up, not selling out. And even when they sound more like a rock band than a punk gang, they still sound like they’re thinking harder than most.