Alright, let’s dive into 12 by It Figures—a record that feels like a time capsule from 1987 but still hits harder than you’d expect. Released under Prospective Records in the US, this alternative rock gem is raw, unfiltered, and full of attitude. The band wasn’t trying to reinvent the wheel here; they just wanted to make music that felt alive—and damn, did they succeed.
First up, “Pull The Wool.” Man, this track sticks with me because it’s got this sneaky groove that creeps up on you. At first listen, it feels like your average angsty anthem, but then the chorus slams in, and suddenly you’re hooked. You can almost picture some smoky club where people are headbanging while nursing their beers. There’s something about the lyrics too—they’re cryptic enough to keep you guessing but relatable enough to hit home. Like, who hasn’t felt like someone was pulling one over on them at some point? This song doesn’t just play; it talks back.
Then there’s “It’s A Madhouse.” Holy crap, does this tune rip. From the opening riff, it grabs you by the collar and doesn’t let go. It’s chaotic, loud, and kinda unhinged—but isn’t that what life feels like sometimes? I remember blasting this track during a road trip last summer, windows down, wind whipping through the car. By the end of it, my buddy turned to me and said, “What even is this?” And honestly, I didn’t have an answer beyond, “I think it’s… freedom?”
The rest of the album keeps the energy high—tracks like “Superman” and “Crash And Burn” bring that classic ‘80s grit mixed with soaring melodies. Even slower moments like “Sorry Starts With S” pack an emotional punch without getting sappy. These songs aren’t perfect, though. Sometimes the production feels a little rough around the edges, and sure, a few tracks blur together after multiple listens. But honestly? That imperfection makes it feel real. Like these guys weren’t chasing fame—they were chasing honesty.
Reflecting on 12, I realize how rare it is to find albums like this anymore. Today’s music often feels polished to death, like every note has been scrubbed clean of personality. But not this. This album wears its flaws proudly, like an old leather jacket covered in patches. In a weird way, listening to 12 reminds me of why I fell in love with rock music in the first place: it’s messy, passionate, and completely unapologetic.
Oh, and fun fact? If you ever see this album in a used record store, grab it. Not because it’ll be worth millions someday (it won’t), but because it might save your sanity on a bad day. Trust me—I’ve been there.
