You know what’s funny about growing up listening to pop punk? It tricks you into thinking that one day, you’ll stop feeling like a misunderstood teenager. Then your mid-20s arrive, your dreams are on life support, and your idea of rebellion is fantasizing about quitting your job in the middle of a Zoom call. Enter Monday Backwards, a Filipino virtual band (yes, they’re a thing now) that just dropped their debut EP, Quarterlife Crisis Club, and it’s the musical equivalent of rage-texting your therapist between Commute sessions in EDSA traffic.
And before you roll your eyes at the phrase “virtual band,” let’s clarify something: this isn’t some AI-spit-out Spotify-core algorithm sludge. The music here was written by real Filipino artists, and then fine-tuned using AI not as a crutch, but more like a cursed synth plugin that understands burnout. The result? Six tracks of pop punk that don’t feel like cosplay. They feel like a group chat at 1 a.m. where everyone’s screaming into the void and someone accidentally put it to music.
Let’s talk about that title: Quarterlife Crisis Club. It’s not subtle. That’s the point. It’s bold, dramatic, a little bit cringe and that makes it perfect. It’s a club no one asked to join, but somehow everyone’s a member.
The EP kicks off with “Punk Parin (Crisis Club),” a glorious, irony-drenched manifesto for the ex-emo kids who now own business-casual outfits but still flinch when someone mentions “corporate synergy.” It’s punchy, loud, and wildly self-aware, like if early Blink-182 grew up, moved to Manila, and had to budget their rebellion between S&R trips and phone bills.
Then there’s “Mag Asawa Ka Na” which isn’t just a song, it’s a slap in the face from every tita at every family reunion. It’s a snarky, upbeat takedown of heteronormative life milestones, which makes it weirdly danceable for something that might make you question your entire timeline. “Trapik Sa Buhay” is exactly what it sounds like: life, metaphorized as a giant, unmoving traffic jam. It’s almost too on-the-nose, but that’s what gives it power. The track trudges through existential gridlock with a kind of exhausted swagger, like a Grab driver who’s seen too much and stopped believing in Waze three years ago.
By the time you hit “Mag Resign Ka Na,” the gloves are off. It’s a high-octane resignation letter set to power chords. Not so much “two weeks’ notice” as “screw this, I’m starting a sticker business.” This is the sound of someone who’s had one too many sad desk lunches and finally snapped, in the most melodically satisfying way possible. “Sa Wala Napunta” is where things get uncomfortably real. It’s slow, it’s raw, and it’s got the emotional weight of realizing your hustle culture Kool-Aid expired three jobs ago. There’s no triumphant crescendo here, just the aching honesty of wondering if any of this was worth it. You know, the kind of song you accidentally cry to while reorganizing your résumé.
And then, the EP closes with “Konting Break,” a deceptively chill anthem about needing for just five damn minutes of peace. It’s not a grand finale. It’s a sigh. A small breath in the middle of chaos. And honestly? That might be the bravest thing on this whole record.
What’s wild is that Quarterlife Crisis Club never tries to fix you. It doesn’t give advice. It doesn’t pull the “motivational speaker in a denim jacket” routine. Instead, it hands you a mirror, makes direct eye contact, and screams along with you for 18 minutes straight. And you know what? That’s exactly what we need right now. Sonically, it’s everything you’d expect from a 2000s pop punk throwback, but cleaner, meaner, and more emotionally literate. It owes as much to Green Day and Newfound Glory as it does to the chaos of growing up in the Philippines during a digital recession. It’s nostalgia, but with actual stakes.
Quarterlife Crisis Club by Monday Backwards doesn’t pretend to have answers, and that’s exactly why it hits so hard. It captures the quiet chaos of growing up and burning out with just the right mix of humor, heartbreak, and nostalgic distortion. It’s not here to save you. Rather, it’s here to stand next to you while everything feels like it’s falling apart, and maybe scream into the void together. For everyone still punk parin in spirit, even if adulthood buried it under deadlines and dental plans, this EP is your reminder: you’re not alone, and you’re not done yet.
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About the Author
A tenured media critic known working as a ghost writer, freelance critic for publications in the US and former lead writer of Atop The Treehouse. Reviews music, film and TV shows for media aggregators.
