It’s the little things in life that can often send us over the edge. The painful sting of a stolen lighter, the trauma of witnessing milk poured first in a brew so acute time almost slows down, and the sudden fury of your mate’s seat being claimed in the pub it triggers a violent reaction of corrective recourse, slamming the belligerent across the bar in a combative art known as ‘Jiu Jitsu you’. The subtle transgressions we swallow every day have been captured with barbed hilarity on Panic Shack‘s debut EP Baby Shack, six songs of pugnacious punk-pop that has declared war on the phallocracy that still pervades the indie music community.

Formed in 2018, the Cardiff punk outfit has been steadily unleashing a string of expert singles of hooky, D.I.Y. punk that’s infused with Delta 5’s lyrical observations and ESG’s urgent dynamism that’s placed the band alongside Bristol’s Slagheap and Brighton’s Lambrini Girls at the forefront of vibrant, energetic punk that threatens the mire of monied males that stubbornly clog the airwaves. Fresh from supporting Bob Vylan and headling the 6 Music Festival in their hometown, Panic Shack finally drop their hotly anticipated release which compiles their material into a piquant explosion of biting garage rock and sardonic humour.

“I am not maternal and I am not traditional” quips vocalist Sarah Harvey on the cutting ‘Baby’, a savagely funny yet fiery polemic against the claustrophobic expectation of maternal instincts when one’s bawling, snotty rugrat is thrust into another’s arms without consent. Witty takedowns of society’s infractions course throughout Baby Shack, each track uncompromising with the targets of their derisions. The spirit of The Go-Go’s hovers over the satirical ‘Mannequin Man’, a jabbing jibe against the vapid, middle-class indie boys from London that just never quite seem to fuck off no matter how exciting music is around them, while ‘The Ick’ takes a detour into pithy narratives recounting the hazardous minefield of modern dating, Meg Fretwell’s suspenseful guitar chops (the guitarist is called Fretwell!!) propelling the anticipation for the disastrous ‘ick’ that punchlines each anecdote. There’s an expert grasp of structure that serves as comic timing on ‘Who’s Got My Lighter?’, Emily Smith’s post-punk basslines grooving determinably around the garage rock frenzy illustrating the frantic scan of a club smoking area for one’s nicked clipper, the punk refrain as the thief is spotted and the anger swells to a glorious crescendo, Harvey wailing “well it was fucking one of ya’s!” at the song’s apex.

A more sombre note is explored on the forlorn ‘I Don’t Really Like It’, a moving study of unwanted male attention and toxic behaviours with Fretwell taking lead vocals with a simple and sincere expression of discomfort invariably felt by all women which pierce through masterful vocal arrangements and broiling rage, reminding us of the scourge of predatory leering and points to a more sober dynamic within their jocular repertoire.

With a perfect marriage of infectious punk fervour, razor-sharp lyrical observations, and bucketloads of “not giving a fuck”, Baby Shack is a total gem of D.I.Y. rock that authentically channels the joyous spirit of The Slits and X-Ray Spex, perfectly exemplifying that punk can be both pertinent and fun.