Department of Youth

There's a carnival of adolescent grievance running through this track — trebly, crunching guitars stacked like teenagers on a street corner, the rhythm section locked into a march that feels simultaneously triumphant and absurd. Alice Cooper leans into his role as the patron saint of suburban delinquency, his voice carrying a theatrical sneer that winks at its own exaggeration. The song captures that specific mid-70s glam-rock energy where rebellion was costumed and choreographed, yet somehow no less felt. It's about the generational chasm between parents and children played as a mock-political rally, Cooper positioning youth not as a phase but as a standing army. The production is thick and radio-ready, with a chorus designed to be shouted from the back of a school bus. There's a communal, fist-pump quality to it — the musical equivalent of signing a petition you wrote yourself. You'd reach for this during a road trip with old friends when nostalgia curdles into something gleefully defiant, or whenever you need the reminder that being young and loud was once the whole point.