Review: PUP at Magnet House

PUP at Magnet House
w/ Teenage Joans
Thursday, August 16, 2025

‘Too old for teen angst, too young to be washed’: As PUP themselves admit, pop punk might just be guilty pleasure territory, yet there’s something to be said for indulging in its unabashed joy and apathy. Feeling ten years melt away in the communal spirit of hollering anthemic verses with fists punching the air is no small thing.

Of course, part of the guilt is that much of the genre wallows in immaturity—whining, blaming, and an impotent “fuck the world” defence without self-accountability. Hell, we all know at least one of these guys, right? Happily, PUP offered more: growth, camaraderie, and scars worn openly, mining doomed relationships and existential dread.

But first up, Adelaide duo Teenage Joans. Tahlia Borg and Cahli Blakers bounded onstage with ridiculous energy—exuberant, infectious, and already armed with serious credentials despite their overt youth (Foo Fighters, Sum 41 supports). Sweet Things Rot blurred saccharine with emo before crashing into Ruby Doomsday: “You’re the rot that grows inside my chest.” The torture of young love and unrequited desire, all delivered with a boisterous charm, flattering their idols without lapsing into imitation. By Superglue, the crowd had arms waving like it was an arena gig.

Candy Apple, 1-800-Painless, and Something About Being Sixteen proved the duo’s knack for self-referential, yet nostalgic and relatable tunes: innocence lost but still desired as murky truths of the world corrupt their rose-tinted views of love and lust. The call-and-response vocals bound Borg and Blazers tightly together, their chemistry undeniable, and the crowd’s responsiveness deservedly warm in turn. A new track, My Heart Is Dead, hinted at sophistication beyond their years before closing with Terrible, a cheeky confessional singalong: “I’m terrible, but I’m not you.” Teen angst, authentic and exponential in potential.

After a breather, Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie ushered in PUP, bounding onstage grinning, clearly ready to cut loose for their final tour show. The pit thickened immediately with No Hope, from the new record Who Will Look After The Dogs?, its shared apathy anthemic. My Life Is Over and I Couldn’t Be Happier followed, desperate but jubilant, the crowd yelling every word.

“We’re giving you the best and worst of PUP tonight,” frontman Stefan Babcock warned. Thankfully, after a long wait for PUP to return to Perth shores, it was only the former: PUP seemed exhilarated and bonded, joyfully bashing through their catalogue rather than teetering on implosion. A humble aside set the tone: “The world’s a piece of shit. We’re living in bleak times. Even though the world fucking sucks, it’s all good in here, and everyone is respecting each other.” No toxic positivity or burying your head in the sand here—just Canadian decency, reminding us that we share far more in common than we realise.

Free At Last bloomed in pastel light, echoing the album cover backdrop, chasing out the emo leanings with hard-won freedom. Robot Writes a Love Song shifted gears—a melodic interlude, its monotone vocal delivery underscoring a robot heart still vulnerable to break.

By Dark Days, the floor was literally buckling under the pit, the crowd yelling louder than the band. At Sleep in the Heat, they were nearly drowned out entirely. Comic relief broke through: a shout-out to “Canadian royalty” in the crowd (Cirque du Soleil coincidentally in town), endless crowd surfers, and Babcock adjusting his “string belt” and reassuring us nothing untoward was happening. Kooky Canadianisms all round.

Paranoid, awash in red light, was billed as “a very angry song,” though even here the band’s optimism leaked through. For a band described as fraying at the seams (and not just by their own admission), they sounded united and ebullient, and the mosh looked more Friday-night than existential collapse. Totally Fine saw Babcock’s voice crack, juvenile in its tenuousness but fittingly so, denial bleeding through the delivery.

A candid interlude explained their third record was written entirely about existential dread, when things “couldn’t get worse”… in 2019. The irony wasn’t lost. Album highlights Morbid Stuff and Kids juxtaposed melodicism with the darkness of the content, and it was hard not to bop along in sync with the boys’ fervour. Guilt Trip exploded with chaotic interplay, guitarist Steve Sladkowski freaking out in the most unhinged moment of the night, though the mid-set anti-shoey sermon (“if you’re in your 30s and still doing them, it’s fucking sad, even if you’re Australian”) gave it stiff competition.

Scorpion Hill lulled with its calm opening before breaking open frenetically. In response, the house’s suspended lights descended close to the crowd like an omen as the pit widened. Another new track in Hallways saw a raw ode to a defunct relationship before Reservoir detonated with Rage-like riffing, PUP inciting the pit as though lobbing grenades. Babcock demanded to be taken to the bar via crowdsurf for a shot while expounding Old Wounds—because why not? This was catharsis as chaos.

The run home was a blur: Hunger for Death’s “fuck everyone on this planet” refrain was strangely sweet under the distortion, while the deep-cut scrappiness of Bloody Mary, Kate and Ashley and the sludgy stomp of Familiar Patterns felt apt as the night slouched towards conclusion. Fittingly, If This Tour Doesn’t Kill You, I Will collided into DVP—the gut-punch of “she said I need to grow up” softened by those infectious oooohs and screamed back word-for-word by the crowd.

PUP may be a ‘Pathetic Use of Potential’ by name, but their relatability lies in their ebullient self-deprecation, baked into their lyrics and delivery with brazen joy: The world may indeed be a piece of shit, but inside that pit, it was fucking joyous.

CAT LANDRO

Photos by Linda Dunjey