Once upon a time, the living rooms of nearly every home on the planet were haunted by big glass-tube squares—flickering, humming, and alive.

The magic lantern of television beamed out news, sports, and an endless parade of talking heads dissecting the world in real time. But sometimes, amid the static and the chatter, a giant yellow “M” would materialize, trembling under a graffiti-scrawled “TV.” What followed was a sensory overload—neon-drenched, hyper-saturated, a chaotic broadcast of a revolution led by variegated characters.

MTV’s emissaries brought music videos that were blunt, brash, and brilliant. Stories, whether euphoric or tragic, were always high-octane—glamorous death parades, cringe-laced prom comedy, surrealist skits, anti-establishment manifestos—all cut together like a ransom note. The movement was unserious in its personas but dead serious in intent. These artists, with their snot-nosed bravado and cartoonish swagger, embodied a coolness that didn’t care to be cool.

This rebellion bears the name Pop-Punk—a genre that, despite its garish and undeniable impact, has since faded into the cultural periphery. But at its core, it was never just a sound; it was a spirit—one that threw itself into vulnerability without hesitation, that refused to be embarrassed by sentimentality, and that saw no contradiction between slapstick and sincerity. It belonged to the young, to skaters and suburban outcasts, to kids who channeled their rebellion inward, turning their self-inflicted bruises into badges of honor.

Which brings us to Benihana. The band name alone suggests a knowing wink—equal parts chronicles of excess and something unexpectedly poetic. In their own words, Benihana exists to rekindle the spark of those adolescent afternoons—the ones spent eating pizza and flying virtual bodies off ramps in Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater. Fittingly, the band itself is made up of old friends, united by a shared history and a genuine belief in the defiant joy of pop-punk.

And maybe that’s the key—perhaps this genre isn’t just about sound, but about a certain disposition. One that is more careless than fearless, one allergic to irony yet indifferent to accusations of immaturity. A commitment, not to nostalgia, but to the sheer exhilaration of presence.

Their debut EP, No Rubbish, doesn’t just channel pop-punk’s energy—it embodies its philosophy. Expect energetic, moshing melodies; vocals pitched somewhere between bear growl and flute trill; and guitars that scratch and claw like an itch you can’t quite reach. It’s all here, and it hits like a sugar rush.

The energy of Benihana is like sparkling water—fizzy enough to elicit a funny feeling, but not too abrasive to hurt the spirit.

Benihana's name conjures images of absurd, unrestrained fun—but also of resilience. In Japanese, "Benihana" refers to a red flower that survived post-war Tokyo. And that contradiction? That’s the essence of pop-punk itself.

I’d recommend Benihana to die-hard Blink-182 devotees and anyone nursing nostalgia for pop-punk’s glory days. But I’d also recommend them to those who crave contemplation in their music. Because who says the present moment is a calm sea? Sometimes, the deepest kind of reflection happens in the middle of a riot.