PUP
– Morbid Stuff
Morbid Stuff kicks off like a drunk friend kicking down your door at 3 a.m.—angry, messy, and oddly comforting. This isn’t just another pop-punk record soaked in sarcasm and speed. It’s a survival diary written in sharpie on the back of a bar receipt. Toronto’s loudest sad boys have never sounded more direct, or more completely unhinged, in the best possible way. There’s no filter here. No polish. Just hooks wrapped in scabs and lyrics that read like a group chat meltdown.
Stefan Babcock’s voice is half-yell, half-sob, always a few decibels away from falling apart. It’s not pretty, but it works. Every word feels lived in, scraped together from therapy sessions and bad nights with worse friends. The band slams behind him with that perfect, chaotic energy—tight but never stiff, like a car speeding toward a wall and arguing about the GPS. They rip through riffs like they’re mad at the strings, and somehow manage to land every melody like it matters. Because it does.
What makes Morbid Stuff stick isn’t just the volume—it’s the honesty. This is depression shouted with joy. It’s failure made into a chant. It’s the kind of album you throw on when you’ve given up on pretending you’re fine, but you’re still showing up to the party. There’s blood, bile, and even a little hope buried under all the noise. You just have to dig for it. Or scream along until you find it.
Choice Tracks
Morbid Stuff
The opener hits like an overshare in the middle of a pop chorus. It’s confessional, absurd, and painfully relatable. When Babcock yells about laughing at funerals, you believe him—and weirdly, you kind of get it.
Kids
Catchy as hell and sad as hell too. It barrels forward with punk energy and then undercuts it with lines about fear and self-loathing. It’s a love song for people who suck at love and know it. Like if Blink-182 grew up, got dumped, and started reading Bukowski.
Free at Last
An anthem for anyone who’s been told “you just need to get over it.” It’s defiant, bitter, and weirdly uplifting. The chorus feels like a tantrum in four-part harmony. It shouldn’t work—but it does.
See You at Your Funeral
A breakup song with bite. It’s passive-aggressive and petty in the most cathartic way. The lyrics sound like they were written mid-argument, but the guitars keep everything tight and punchy. Perfect for emotional exorcism on a drive home.
Scorpion Hill
The centerpiece of the album. It starts slow, with an almost folk-punk feel, then erupts into full-on panic attack mode. It’s existential dread with a beat. By the time it hits the final chorus, it feels like the end of the world—and somehow, that’s okay.
Morbid Stuff is for people who are still figuring it out and making a lot of noise along the way. It doesn’t offer answers. It doesn’t try to be deep. But it does tell the truth, loudly and with feeling. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep you going.