Blink-182

Blink-182

Blink-182

(Geffen)

The Blinks reckon they're dead hard, I think. The trio of San Diego punksters - all lip rings, tats and The-Cure-meets- Iggy-Pop hair - stare out malevolently from the back cover of Blink-182 like mummy's little angels ... um, sorry, I mean hard-ass urban warlords. It's always been hard to tell whether the Blinks are winking at us, or are in earnest but a bit thick.

Finally, the truth is out. It's not a scary image, it's a serious image. They're not dead hard, they've just grown up. Blink-182 puts hardly a foot wrong musically and eschews the sex and giggles of earlier offerings. The Blinks seem to be having fun with their instruments and making them work in a way the Pixies took a quarter of the time. The pace is a roller-coaster, but there's no skimping on the harder-edged, guitar-driven beasts that get your head rocking and heel tapping.

Most of the lyrics remain mawkish teenage elegies to lost lust, but you can't have everything, and the overall sound is a whizz.