$20

"$20" is boygenius at their most restless and combustible, one of the rockier hinges of "the record." It opens taut and wiry — Julien Baker's jittery, palm-muted guitar and a nervy pulse — before detonating into a cathartic, full-band release, the trio's lo-fi-to-explosive dynamic deployed with real menace. Baker leads with her trembling, urgent delivery, and the song's genius is the slow build of tension that pays off when Phoebe Bridgers' backing screams shred the edges of the outro, the refrain "I know you have twenty dollars" repeated like a plea that curdles into desperation. Emotionally it's the itch of young restlessness — wanting to leave, wanting more, the cost of freedom measured in small borrowed sums and big reckless wants. Lucy Dacus rounds out the three-part harmonies that bind the supergroup's distinct voices into one fraught conversation. The lyric essence is yearning shot through with self-destruction, the romance of an escape you can't quite afford. Culturally it's the indie-rock supergroup as event, three acclaimed songwriters sharpening each other rather than diluting. The scenario is visceral — driving too fast, the catharsis of screaming along, the specific ache of being broke and twenty-something and convinced the next town will fix it. It earns its explosion honestly.