Mile three, already negotiating. Maybe I should've slept more. Maybe my shoes are wrong. Maybe this playlist—Viagra Boys' "Troglodyte" just kicked in and the excuses stopped mid-sentence. That's the thing about egg punk: it's too unhinged to argue with. You either run or admit you were lying to yourself the whole time.
"EXCUSES" is fifty-three minutes of music that refuses to let you off the hook. Egg punk, post-punk, noise rock, neo-psychedelic—genres that share exactly one philosophy: no clean exits, no soft landings, no permission to quit. Viagra Boys to Warmduscher to King Gizzard sounds like three different scenes until you're running to them and realize they're all asking the same question: what are you so afraid of?
I've been thinking about that question a lot lately. Had a regular come into the store last Tuesday, guy who buys one record a month like clockwork, always something obscure, always post-punk. He asked if I still run. I said yes. He said, "To what?" Like it was the only question that mattered. I told him I'd been running to a playlist that made excuses sound pathetic. He bought the new Fontaines D.C. record without listening to it first. That's trust.
The playlist moves like someone who knows all your tricks. "Shanghai" and "Le Risque" back-to-back—King Gizzard in full psychedelic sprint mode, guitars spiraling around a locked tempo that won't let you coast. Then "Starburster" by Fontaines D.C., Grian Chatten half-rapping over a rhythm section that sounds like it's chasing something it'll never catch. That's miles four through six. That's where the excuses usually live—too tired, too hot, maybe tomorrow—but the music's too restless to let you settle into self-pity.
Whitey shows up twice in the middle of this thing: "WHEN DID I LAY DOWN AND DIE?" and "SOMEBODY GRAB THE WHEEL." Both tracks sound like someone ransacked a post-punk record collection and rebuilt it as a panic attack set to 140 BPM. The all-caps titles aren't cute—they're accurate. This is the section where you either find another gear or walk home. I've done both. The playlist doesn't judge, but it doesn't slow down either.
"ULTRAVIOLET" by The Weird Sisters hits at mile six and change, and suddenly the chaos organizes itself into something almost anthemic. The tempo hasn't changed much, but the production opens up, lets some air in. It's the same trick The Jesus and Mary Chain used to pull—bury a gorgeous melody under so much distortion you have to run toward it to hear it properly. That's the Wall Breaker. That's the track that reminds you why you started running in the first place: not to escape something, but to find the version of yourself that doesn't need an excuse.
The playlist ends with "Bob Ross" by Leeches and "Escalator Man" by Dr Sure's Unusual Practice, two bands nobody asked for, both absolutely necessary. Leeches sound like early Pixies if Frank Black had been even angrier. Dr Sure's is post-punk from people who remember when post-punk wasn't retro. By the time "Escalator Man" fades out, you're either done with your run or done making excuses. Sometimes they're the same thing.
I don't know who made this playlist, but I know what they know: the gap between the person you planned to be and the one you actually are is only crossable at tempo. You can't think your way across it. You can't negotiate. You just press play and see if you're still running when the music stops.
I'm still not sure what I'm running toward, but I know what I'm running from: every soft excuse, every gentle lie, every reason that sounds reasonable until Viagra Boys start yelling and suddenly reasonable sounds like cowardice. Fifty-three minutes. Fourteen tracks. No clean resolution. The lakefront trail doesn't care, and neither does this playlist. You just run.
