Beer

What sounds like a throwaway joke song reveals itself as a masterclass in comic timing dressed in punk clothing. The arrangement is deliberately loose and ramshackle — guitars that chug with boozy momentum, a rhythm section that seems to be perpetually on the verge of falling apart but never quite does, horns that punctuate the verses like a brass section that had one too many. The tempo is mid-range for ska, which gives it a loping, stumbling quality that perfectly mirrors the subject matter. Barrett's delivery here is more deadpan than usual, reciting increasingly absurd observations about drinking with the flat affect of someone genuinely committed to the bit. There's no moral warning buried in here, no redemption arc — just an honest and unsentimental celebration of a very specific kind of low-stakes weekend ritual. Culturally it belongs to the Orange County ska scene of the mid-to-late 90s, where irreverence was the highest virtue and sincerity was suspect. You'd put this on pregaming with friends who don't take themselves too seriously, or as the perfect antidote to any music that's trying too hard.