Criminal

State Champs are a flagship of the 2010s pop-punk revival, and "Criminal" showcases exactly why: gleaming, propulsive guitars, a bounce-forward rhythm section, and a chorus built to be shouted back by a room full of people. The production is bright and radio-clean without sanding off the genre's urgency — crunchy power chords, a driving backbeat, gang-vocal lifts in the hooks. Derek DiScanio's vocals are the archetype of modern pop-punk: earnest, elastic, slightly nasal, capable of a melodic sweetness that undercuts the frustration in the lyrics. Thematically it's a relationship in which the narrator casts himself as wronged — the "criminal" framing plays with guilt and blame in a doomed romance, the push-pull of wanting someone who's bad for you. The emotional register is heartbreak processed through catharsis rather than wallowing; it turns hurt into something you can jump around to. Culturally it sits comfortably in the Warped Tour lineage, the soundtrack of suburban American adolescence updated for a new decade. You'd play it driving fast with the windows down, or at a show where the whole floor becomes one voice. It's polished, hooky, and emotionally uncomplicated in the best pop-punk way — feelings big enough to sing, simple enough to sing along to.