Yellowcard – Better Days

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This blank screen terrifies me. The cursor blinks. I search for the words. And in the back of my mind, there’s a cold little voice telling me it’s pointless. That I’ve said everything meaningful I’ll ever say about music. That I’m washed up and irrelevant. That the music I care most about, and the medium by which I communicate my love for that music, has passed me by. The voice whispers. And I hear the soundtrack to my life softly echo through my head like an abandoned radio station hallway. The florescent marquee sputtering, fizzling, and coughing up the bygones of a lost era. My era.

The empty space sits like a verdict — relentless, accusatory.

This is the kind of tension that comes with age. No one ever told me my youthful anxiety of never amounting to anything would morph into being worried I’ll only be remembered for what’s behind me. And it’s a funny kind of cruel, because I’m a little ashamed to admit it. But, honestly, I’ve been thinking about all of this a lot lately. The past, the glory days of the punk and emo scene. Growing up, giving in, the bands that have come and gone. And I’ve been thinking about the pressure that builds over time, how the momentum of not doing becomes intoxicating. By not doing, you never have to worry about failure. You can make up stories in your head about all the reasons it’s not worth trying, and your ego stays nice and protected.

But I’ve also been watching all these artists push against that pressure, lean against that momentum, and emerge bursting with creativity and a newfound sense of purpose. Freed of the shackles of needing to live up to the expectations of being the next big thing, or having to follow up their massive hit records, they’re able to tap into a creative force and deliver music that moves beyond just being a nostalgic feint. And it inspires me. I’ve been spending the past four months immersed in new music from the bands only we knew. Bands with funny names like Motion City Soundtrack, The Format, and The Starting Line. Little gems from our youth that always felt like a shared secret — ours and ours alone.

And that voice in my head? That one that tells me to stop trying, that no one reads anymore? That asks if our past is the best we will ever know? I know the antidote. I’ve known it most of my life. It involves headphones, a volume slider, and a great fucking song.

When I last wrote about Yellowcard, I did so thinking it would be the last album I ever reviewed from the band. I wrote about how endings hurt, but how that pain is a reflection of the beautiful thing you once held close. It stays with you because you care. I wrote about goodbyes and how closing the Yellowcard chapter of my life felt like saying goodbye to my youth. I was not just saying goodbye to the band that got me through the college years and into adulthood, but goodbye to the feeling their music imprinted on me like very few in history.

And that really did feel like the end.

Yellowcard, like me, internalized their goodbyes, played their final shows, and closed the book. For years, that chapter seemed sealed. But some endings pave way to new beginnings. What started as a one-off reunion show turned into a reminder, for them and for us, that their music still meant something. That spark led to new songs and before long the band was back in the studio, this time with Travis Barker behind the kit and the console. Out of what was once finality came something unexpected: another chance. What makes this second chance so compelling is how it reframes their history.

Because Yellowcard will always be the band with a runaway hit, a song that crowned and confined them in the same breath. “Ocean Avenue” was the kind of success so massive that it risks overshadowing everything else. And while in the years that followed, Yellowcard kept releasing great albums, I’ve always felt an internal tension running through them. A push and pull between wanting to replicate that success and the urge to stretch, evolve, and forge new paths. Across their career, they walked that tightrope gracefully.

And that’s what makes this new chapter so exciting. Better Days doesn’t sound like a band still chasing Ocean Avenue, it sounds like a band embracing the best of who they are. And in that freedom, they’ve created their catchiest, most immediate collection of songs since that breakthrough. It’s an album that embraces the joy of being Yellowcard.

It starts with “Better Days,” the lead single and title track. A song that stands as a mission statement for this new era and a song that gave the band their first number one hit in twenty-two years. It sets the tone for a brisk thirty-two minutes of music that showcases a little of everything from the Yellowcard catalog. Energy, emotional resonance, soaring choruses, and big cinematic moments. A new anthem for a band that said goodbye only to return with an unexpected hit waiting for them on the other side. It’s a triumphant victory lap and a new beginning.

Where Yellowcard has always stood above the pack is in crafting incredible melodies that bounce out of the speakers. There is no better example than the chorus of “Take What You Want,” a song that positively punches the soul and ascends to pop-punk heaven. Sean’s violin leads the verses before exploding into an instantly hummable chorus with just the right amount of restraint from Travis. I started laughing the first time I heard it. Just to myself, muttering, “ok, so that’s a goddamn hook.”

Never a band to let up, “Love Letters Lost” is another early album highlight. Featuring guest vocals from the inimitable Matt Skiba of Alkaline Trio, the guitar-forward track weaves in and out, reminding me of the best parts of Paper Walls. The vocal trade-off works perfectly with Matt’s gruff vocals blending with Ryan’s shine. The violin skirts tastefully throughout and using Matt on a track that opens with a line about vampires, and carries a verse like, “I was a photoshoot / just something for you to use / to show everyone how far you’ve come. But I wasn’t good enough / you wanted a royal one / And I didn’t have it in my blood,” is an inspired decision.

The album’s cackling energy pauses in the heart of the track listing with “You Broke Me Too” and “City of Angels.” The former, a power ballad featuring guest vocals from Avril Lavigne, almost plays as a counter-weight to Ocean Avenue’s “Only One.” Where “Only One” was youthful desperation — all-or-nothing heartbreak screamed into the void — “You Broke Me Too” comes from a place of lived-in understanding. The emotions are still sharp, but they’re tempered by experience. The chorus lifts with: “What I’ve been through, led me to you. You found me when I was broken / you let a little bit of hope in,” before crashing back to earth with the heartbreaking “but you, you broke me too.” The use of a guest vocalist here adds gravitas to the song as both parties come to the same crushing conclusion. It’s a grown-up kind of pain. And, this two-song run gives an otherwise very upbeat album a nice dramatic interlude.

“City of Angels” calls back to the electronic elements on Lift a Sail with its pulsating opening and ethereal feel. And whereas “City of Devils” on Lights and Sounds cursed the city, here Ryan sings of the hope that returning has given him. The song feels like an answer to that earlier bitterness, replacing frustration with gratitude. As the layers swell, the song begins to feel like a prayer — a soft utterance to oneself to remember the dreams you had all those years ago. To hold on to that ambition. To believe again. To fight the inner-voice of doubt and see the past not as a mountain you’ll never crest again, but the foundation of who you are.

In many ways, “Bedroom Posters” feels like the emotional center of the record. It’s a song about looking back without getting stuck. Travis Barker’s production keeps it grounded; it sounds modern without ever feeling overstuffed. The best thing about it is that you don’t really notice it working. It just lets the song breathe, giving space for the nostalgia and restlessness to sit side by side. And it’s within this nostalgia that I think about just how long this band has been in my life.

When I wrote about Paper Walls over eighteen long years ago, I talked about how the band has a knack for writing better pop-punk songs than just about anyone else. The core, base, Yellowcard experience can be defined not by the singles, but by the late album track that, in less capable hands, becomes filler. A song like Paper Walls’ “Afraid,” or When You’re Through Thinking, Say Yes’ “Hide.” These are songs that anchor and elevate these albums. They do it again here with “Skin Scrapped.” It’s quintessential Yellowcard. Building to a chorus punctuated by an unmistakable Travis Barker drum pattern. The transition between the chorus and verse pulls back, and the vocals distort through an almost unintelligible shout. It’s a small touch. The guitars lock in, the hook lands exactly where it should, and it’s a reminder of how effortlessly Yellowcard can make it look.

Better Days clocks in at just over 30 minutes. It feels fast. But it’s a tight thirty with every song feeling pertinent and considered.

The album closes with “Big Blue Eyes,” a mostly acoustic song written for Ryan’s son. It’s tender, stripped back, and unguarded. It lands like a quiet exhale — a reminder that the rawest moments aren’t just in breakup songs and summer anthems, but in the milestones of adulthood. That’s the thread running through Better Days: a record about the trials of life and finding new reasons to keep singing. Life happens, responsibilities pile up, but there’s still magic in capturing those fleeting moments and turning them into song.

We spend our youth waiting to grow up. Our elders warn us of the trappings of doing so too fast. And yet we speed along, only reflecting later, on lonely sleepless nights, of those days gone by. Along the way, we fall in love with music, and that music ends up becoming our tether to our former selves. Our former selves peer back at us in coffee shop windows, in collected rainwater, and in the sing-alongs we still have with those star-crossed songs.

But somewhere along the line, we’re told the story ends. That new music can’t matter the same way anymore. That the bands of our youth are finished, or that anything they release now is just a footnote in a career defined by our teenage hormones and heartbreaks. And so people write off late-career albums before they even hear them, or more often, never even realize the bands that meant so much to them are still releasing great music today.

Fuck that.

If you let them, late-career albums can take on their own kind of power. Maybe you don’t hear them the same way you did when you were 17 and summer felt stretched like a lifetime. Maybe they aren’t the balm to a life you’ve yet to define for yourself. But that doesn’t have to mean they matter less. The emotions are just as real, just as raw. These are albums to get married to. To raise a family with. To drive to baseball practice with, to change careers with, to play as you realize your parents are aging, or maybe just to spin on the grocery store drive before sitting outside with a mortgage and a beer.

Life doesn’t get quieter as you age, and your musical journey doesn’t have to be over just because your back hurts. It just looks different. And that’s the beauty of it. You’ll have the rest of your life to reminisce on this time right now. I’ve found that some of the best memories are made during moments you didn’t even know you’d miss. It’s why we can look back at our bad haircuts, strange outfit choices, awkward MySpace photos, and pathetic Facebook status updates with embarrassment and affection. The lived life looked back on is where we find the color, where memory paints in what the present couldn’t see. Where the blurred edges start to make sense and the moments arrange themselves into something that feels like ours.

Because what grew out of those nights in sweat-soaked halls, out of burned mixtapes painted with bold Sharpie stars, and long drives where your entire personality sat neatly in a CD binder stuffed under the seat, wasn’t just a phase. A generation of bands emerged that shaped us, that bind us to who we were, and that still have the ability to saturate who we are becoming. And maybe watching all the bands reunite and put out new music makes me fight off my own morality for just a little longer. But maybe that’s all we need. These songs are proof that we lived. Proof that we loved. Proof that this scene — our scene — meant something.

And that’s why albums like Better Days matter. They remind us that Yellowcard isn’t just a memory frozen in 2003. They’re a band still capable of greatness. They deserve their flowers now, not just as a nostalgia act, but as proof that creation and connection don’t expire. That we can always face down the voice telling us our better days are behind us. That favorite bands and new albums can still shiver our spines at all stages of life.

I want to believe we’ll be remembered for both the spark and the fire. Maybe it’s what we did in our youth, maybe it’s the second chance we never saw coming. But what Yellowcard proves is that you don’t have to choose. You can carry both.

It’s too easy to let the past define you — to sit back and let the highlight reel stand in for a whole life. It’s comforting to stay trapped in a celluloid memory. To point to the accolades of the past and say goals were achieved, dreams were reached. Another day passes. But what I know now is that goals and dreams aren’t fixed points.

I am not an oldies station.

Or maybe I am.

Or maybe I’m both things. A collection of who I was, what I did, and the music that I brought along with me. And when I spin that together with who I’ve become, I get to experience my life not with regret or tales of the way it was, but with an eye on the horizon. The unwritten story of your life needs you to live it. To write it. It’s there, ahead of us, just waiting for you to hit play.

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