If Lambrini Girls’ debut album, Who Let the Dogs Out, had come out a decade ago, many of its lyrics could have prompted dozens of millennial pink mugs: “Cold resting bitch face,” “Don’t tell me to calm down,” and “Getting used to saying no.” But the Brighton punk duo’s cheeky rants aren’t just fodder for an entry-level, marketable notion of anger-as-empowerment. In the past, you were advised to turn up the gas on your inner flame in the name of self-respect, to awaken you from the patriarchy’s obedient slumber. But Lambrini Girls take things one step further, knowing that if you let that fire blaze, you’ve gotta funnel that anger into something fun—or risk all-consuming misery. Everyday folks might channel those feelings into the cursory axe throwing class or birthday trip to a demolition room. For singer-guitarist Phoebe Lunny and bassist Lilly Macieira, it means railing against misogyny, homophobia, and the upper class with 30 minutes of fast-and-loose party punk.

Lambrini Girls introduced themselves to the world in 2022 with scathing sarcasm, feigning, “Help me, I’m gay/Yet everything I do is for the male gaze.” In other words: They’re here, they’re queer, and they don’t take themselves too seriously—unlike some of their self-righteous punk neighbors. Throughout Who Let the Dogs Out, Lambrini Girls strive to maintain autonomy in a corrupt industry and capitalist country without sacrificing their right to a good time, playing like they have a guitar in one hand and a sloshing pint in the other. Take “No Homo” or “Filthy Rich Nepo Baby,” where they indulge in immediate riffs and the type of semi-sloppy guitar solo that makes the bar go wild. It’s easy to trace the rebellious tone of the artists they were drawn to as kids (Kathleen Hanna, Joan Jett, Courtney Love) and the scruffy grunge of sneering bands they admired later on (the Jesus Lizard, Shellac, Nirvana). But the amalgamation of those influences is deliriously rambunctious in practice. For Lambrini Girls, the best part of surrendering to your anger is the joy of telling someone off. Catch the band live and that much is impossible to misinterpret, between the jubilant crowd interactions and alcohol-fueled giggling and shrugging.

Recorded with Gilla Band bassist Daniel Fox, Who Let the Dogs Out wisely leans on nosier elements when the subject matter gets earnest. Opener “Bad Apple,” a searing takedown of police corruption, cues up a rapidfire BPM, blown-out bass, and caffeinated guitar shredding that lends heft to a serious topic; the track was spurred by the 2021 murder of Sarah Everard by a Metropolitan Police officer, and took years to formulate with the correct tone. Lunny and Macieira use “Nothing Tastes as Good as It Feels” to confront their own experiences with eating disorders, paraphrasing Kate Moss’ infamous (and since retracted) quote and blaming the industry Moss once represented for their anorexia-induced missed periods. Lambrini Girls almost become the Vines reincarnated in the process, fusing power-pop structure with fuzzy alt-rock to replicate the disorder’s seductively poisonous appeal. When the song spirals out of control by the end, Lunny spits out a proper good riddance: “Diet drinks taste like absolute fucking shit/Give me full fat, you fucking bastards.”

Yet for all the songs’ contagious fun, their genuine catharsis is unmissable: those massive, descending power chords that follow Lunny’s annoyed “Michael, I don’t want to suck you off on my lunch break” in “Company Culture,” or the speed with which they tear through the surprise coda of “Big Dick Energy.” Lambrini Girls aren’t saying anything new about the state of the world, but that’s half the point. Their lyrics feel familiar because the mistreatment and institutional cruelties that fuel the band’s rage are essentially time-honored traditions in the western world. They’re mad, you’re mad, and nothing’s changing. At least getting it off their chest makes life bearable.

So what’s better than revenge or karma? Teaching your femme and queer communities how to do it just like you. Enter “Cuntology 101,” the album closer and strongest song on the record, in which Lunny and Macieira are self-described “cunts” who couldn’t be prouder; how else do you think they get that profanity-laced pouty lip, a sparkle of confidence in their eyes, the perfect IDGAF glow? “Getting therapised is cunty,” yells Lunny. “Having autistic meltdowns? Cunty.” Stealing from chain stores, learning how to let go, pooping at your friend’s house—the list goes on. With spell-along chants of “C-U-N-T!” and an electro-pop beat, the song epitomizes what makes Lambrini Girls’ take on mouthy British punk their own. They’re not holier than thou; they’re comfortable enough with themselves to stand their ground.