There’s no slow build here, no preamble. The track launches straight into motion, all jangly urgency and tightly wound frustration. The guitars are angular and alive, dancing between melodic hooks and sonic disarray, like they’re on the verge of unraveling—but never quite do. It’s chaos with purpose.
The rhythm section keeps things anchored. Drums snap and surge with a kind of restless discipline, giving the track its momentum without stealing focus. Everything feels lean, like there’s no room for excess. That tension becomes part of the song’s DNA—always moving, always pushing.
Vocally, there’s a refreshing lack of polish. No theatrical flair, no performative angst—just a voice that sounds like it’s been through a few long weeks and finally had enough. It’s that quiet, familiar kind of emotional fatigue, the one you don’t notice until it spills out mid-conversation or, in this case, mid-chorus. The delivery carries weight not because it’s loud, but because it’s lived-in.
Lyrically, “Replay” avoids overstatement. It trusts the listener to fill in the blanks. That’s the beauty of it—nothing’s forced. It’s a track that captures the emotional grind of monotony without turning it into melodrama.
In just a few minutes, Poison Oak manages to bottle up a very specific kind of burnout and let it explode in a way that feels strangely cathartic. “Replay” isn’t trying to be an anthem—it just is. And that’s what makes it stick.