Scott Reynolds isn’t here to coddle you. The former frontman of punk legends ALL—the band that gave us the cult-classic Allroy Saves and Allroy’s Revenge—has returned with Magic Beans & Time Machines, a 13-track solo juggernaut that slaps harder than a barfight at last call. Recorded at Colorado’s iconic Blasting Room (a studio co-owned by his ex-ALL bandmate and Descendents drummer Bill Stevenson), this album is a raucous blend of Reynolds’ signature “curmudgeoncore” wit, hard-hitting grooves, and the kind of unvarnished honesty that’ll leave you laughing, headbanging, and questioning everything.
Scott Reynolds isn’t flying solo here. He’s backed by a crew of punk royalty, including Bill Stevenson himself, beating the hell out of the drums and bass on a bunch of tracks. John Fridmann’s brass horn punches through the chaos on “Barista,” adding a sardonic swagger to the caffeine-fueled self-loathing. While Reynolds handles guitars, vocals, and his trademark lyrical gymnastics, the album thrives on its collaborative grit. Stevenson’s presence is a full-circle moment—a nod to their ALL days, where Reynolds’ snarl and Stevenson’s percussive precision helped define late-’80s punk. This isn’t some nostalgia cash-grab, though. Magic Beans is Reynolds at his most unshackled, blending reckless momentum, anthemic tunes, and a dash of art-rock weirdness.
Kicking off with “Barista,” Reynolds immediately establishes the vibe: a caffeinated anthem about fucking up and owning it. The reworked 2024 version stomps harder than the 2016 acoustic demo, Stevenson’s drums crashing like dropped espresso cups as Reynolds howls, “I cannot quit fuckin’ up!” It’s a defiant rejection of perfectionism, served black with three sugars.
The title track, “Magic Beans and Time Machines,” is a reality-check manifesto. Over chugging guitars, Reynolds dismantles self-help platitudes with lines like “Aluminum ain’t steel / Yeah, they can kneel / And tell their god exactly how they feel.” It’s an anthem for the fed-up and frustrated, fusing Descendents-esque speed with Reynolds’ ability to turn deep dread into singalong gold.
Darkness creeps in with “Academy,” a full-band overhaul of a 2016 acoustic cut. Stevenson’s bassline throbs like a nervous pulse as Reynolds narrates a protagonist pushed to the edge by a world gone mad. Then there’s “The Price For Innocence,” a blistering reprise from 2021’s Chihuahua in Buffalo, now amplified by Stevenson’s relentless rhythm section. It’s a rough-edged, screaming beast that proves Reynolds’ old stuff ages like fine whiskey – it just gets better and kicks harder.
“Boiler Room” is a standout—a moody, bass-driven beast where Reynolds snarls about monsters at the door and luck being a “whore.” The track’s spoken-word bridge (“This is a stupid world. Don’t you forget it”) feels like a drunk philosopher ranting at 3 a.m., and we’re here for it.
Then there’s “Machu Picchu,” a haunting departure from Reynolds’ usual guitar chaos. Layered vocals and buried synths create a ghostly hymn to the fallen Inca civilization, his voice echoing like a specter in the Andes. It’s weird as hell, beautiful as indulgence, and proof that Reynolds’ brain works in mysterious, awesome ways.
“You’re Not My Friend” is a punk-rock uppercut, its chorus (“Fuck yourself”) delivered with such gleeful venom you’ll wanna scream it at your ex’s voicemail. Meanwhile, “Should She?” dials up the vulnerability, wrestling with self-doubt over jangly guitars and a chorus that’s equally hopeful and desperate.
Reynolds’ lyrics are the star here. Whether he’s mocking toxic positivity (“Magic Beans”), raging against societal collapse (“Dee Deet Dee Dee Deet”), or getting tangled up in love’s minefields (“Should She?”), his words cut deep. “Inch Worm” repurposes a childhood counting rhyme into a metaphor for life’s mindless grind, while the instrumental closer “Dreams Reprise” leaves you breathless, as if the album just sprinted a marathon and collapsed in a sweaty heap.
The Blasting Room’s production is crisp but never sterile. Guitars snarl, drums crack, and Reynolds’ voice—raspy yet melodic—sits front and center, like he’s yelling across a dive bar. The album’s accidental early release on streaming platforms (Reynolds announced it post-drop with a shrug) feels fitting—DIY meets digital age chaos.
Magic Beans & Time Machines isn’t only an album; it’s like a survival manual for punks who’ve hit middle age. Reynolds, now a solo act after stints with Goodbye Harry, The Pavers, and others, has never sounded more alive. He’s the guy at the bar who’s seen it all but still believes in rock ‘n’ roll’s power to save your soul—or at least make the ride funnier.
If you’re hungry for rock that’s smart, salty, and unafraid to bleed, crank this loud. Scott Reynolds isn’t trying to be the cool kid or begging for likes. He’s too busy writing songs for all of us who are still screwing up, still fighting, and still finding ways to laugh through all the crap.
Magic Beans & Time Machines is out now. Go spill some coffee to it.