Some songs sound rehearsed, and others sound lived in, like the edges were sanded down by experience rather than production choices. “Alcohol” sits firmly in the second category, bursting into the room with a rugged confidence that feels born in late nights rather than writing sessions. The guitars are loud without being sloppy, deliberately sharp at the corners, with riffs that have a conversational quality, almost answering each other mid-sentence. Percussion hits with that satisfyingly unhinged tightness, the kind that feels like it could swing off tempo just to prove a point, but never actually does. It’s controlled chaos, approachable but untamed.
Lyrically, the song treats vulnerability like a witness statement, not a confession booth. There’s no mourning over the night that went sideways, only a mildly amused replay of it, the disbelief, the lapse in judgment, the comical tragedy of misplaced bravery. The writing avoids decoration and opts for honesty, making every line feel conversational but memorable, like recounting a story to a friend who was definitely there but very unhelpful. It’s unfiltered without trying to impress you with how unfiltered it is.
What keeps the track magnetic is the way it moves, heavy enough to satisfy a rock instinct, rhythmic enough to provoke movement without asking permission. It stands confidently in the grey zone between a stage performance and a personal post-midnight epiphany. The vocals roar when needed but still crack open just enough to show the song’s pulse. When the final note lands, the feeling isn’t one of regret or redemption; it’s recognition – loud, flawed, and more fun to relive than the original moment probably ever was.
