I sometimes forget that my friend Grey is more than just a memelord. From his constant online irreverence and roasting of just about every band in existence (see: his podcast Demolisten), it sometimes feels like he doesn’t have a heart at all.

But within a few seconds of his solo full length Forget I Brought It Up, I realize oh yeah, this guy does have feelings—and an incredible talent for communicating them through poignant lyrics and a rich mixture of 90s alternative, pop punk, and emo.

Having gotten to know Grey after he had already been established as something of a cult icon, and it always surprises me. I’ve been a big fan of his shoegaze project Kill Surf City since its launch, and his post-hardcore/emo side project Wickerwolves is one of my favorite things ever in the genre, so I know the dude is good.

But every once in a while, I’ll stumble upon something like a profile on Vice and remember, “oh yeah, this dude’s kind of a big deal.” And after finding a cheap copy of this disc, it’s clear to see why.

This record distills all the best parts of the music my peers and I cut our teeth to into a thirty-minute package, blended with some eloquent Millennial ennui, and shaken well. But unlike many so-called revival bands, nostalgia alone isn’t the end goal here: it’s the vehicle he takes to get there.

Opener “Barstools and Haircuts” riffs hard on the Pixies, spitting disillusionment with lines like, “can’t convince me a trainwreck has things to say / what makes tomorrow any different than yesterday?” “Learned Helplessness” plays loud and midtempo, borrowing from Dinosaur Jr. as he spouts some tough love: “way past the bottom of line / this has to change / you bought the book / so now just turn the fucking page.” “Indianapolis 2008” recounts a panic attack on a road trip to a catchy pop punk tune. “Target” might be the best ’90s pop punk song to come out in 2014.

The production is incredible as well—which is impressive considering this is his first non-acoustic solo release. The deceptively quick tempos often mask thick layers of guitars a la Smashing Pumpkins and My Bloody Valentine (homaged much more clearly in Kill Surf City). The guitar parts often feel like sludge metal riffs played in double time to disguise themselves as pop hooks.

But what’s made clear across the half hour running time is that as much shit as he talks to other bands online, Grey’s got the pedigree to back it up. His taste is impeccable, and he just expects other musicians to have as high of standards as he does for himself. Unfortunately, that’s a tall order.