Dog Chocolate Album: “So Inspired, So Done In” Is Punk With Toenails

Dog Chocolate turns burnout, odd chores, and daily nonsense into jittery existential pop—“So Inspired, So Done In” sounds like coping, not flexing.

A record that stares at the boring stuff until it starts talking back

Most albums pretend they’re about Big Themes. So Inspired, So Done In does something sneakier: it treats the tiny, half-embarrassing bits of life like they’re sacred clues. I’m talking overheard conversations, healing fungal toenails, Bronze Age living conditions, and the oddly tender weirdness of human-plant relations. It sounds ridiculous written out, which is exactly the point—Dog Chocolate keep dragging “seriousness” back down into the kitchen, where it belongs.

And yeah, the core keyword here is Dog Chocolate, because this album is basically the band’s personality in audio form: frantic, daft, anxious… but suddenly brushed with a calmer, more reflective glaze. Not “mature” in the boring way. More like: the panic is still there, it just has a diary now.

If you’re expecting clean catharsis, you might get annoyed. This record doesn’t resolve; it circles. That’s a choice, and I’m pretty sure it’s intentional.

The themes aren’t random—Dog Chocolate are building a messy map

Here’s what surprised me: the album’s range of topics isn’t scattershot, it’s a method. One track feels like it’s built from an overheard exchange; another gets uncomfortably specific about bodily maintenance (yes, toenails); another points straight at the Rogerian “actualising tendency”—that urge to become more fully yourself, whether you asked for it or not. Then it slams you into Bronze Age living conditions like it’s a casual comparison, not a whole existential crisis.

It’s easy to call this “quirky,” but that’s a lazy dodge. What Dog Chocolate are really doing is treating the mundane and incidental as the only honest doorway into bigger questions. Work and anti-work keep popping up like recurring intrusive thoughts. Artistic inspiration shows up too—but never as a glamorous lightning bolt. More like a flickering bulb you’re not sure is about to die.

I kept waiting for the record to pick a lane—go full comedy, or full despair—but it refuses. That refusal is basically the thesis: life doesn’t organize itself for your convenience, so why should the album?

The sound is frantic on purpose, but the gloss tells you what changed

The band’s trademark energy still hits: twitchy, dense, immediate. But it’s colored differently here. The frantic bits feel like they’re being watched from a slight distance, like the band is listening to their own chaos and going, “Okay… that’s still true, but what else is true?”

Recorded and mixed by Toby Burroughs (from Pozi) and mastered by Sofia Lopes, the album has a finish that doesn’t sand off the rough edges—it frames them. That matters, because Dog Chocolate’s whole thing can collapse if it turns into pure clutter. This time, the clutter feels placed. Not tidy. Just… deliberate.

I’ll admit some uncertainty: I can’t always tell if a few moments are meticulously arranged or if the band simply likes living on the edge of things falling apart. But maybe that’s the point. The album keeps asking whether “together” is even the goal.

The band’s backstory explains the anti-theatrical theater of it all

This record makes more sense once you feel the ghost of the band’s earlier lives. Back in the early 2000s, Andrew (vocals), Rob (guitar/vocals), and Matthew (guitar/vocals) played together as teenagers in a South-East London maximalist, costumed surrealist punk band called Yeborobo. They later met drummer Jonathan when his instrument-swapping masked band Limn played at the art space Utrophia in Deptford.

That’s not trivia—it’s the pressure the current band is pushing against. You can hear it in Dog Chocolate’s self-imposed limits, like someone who used to paint murals deciding to draw on receipts instead.

“Pencil-case punk” is a joke that doubles as a real blueprint

When those earlier bands split, Dog Chocolate formed with a shared desire to make something simpler than their theatrical past. Not “simpler” as in less interesting—simpler as in physically smaller and harder to mythologize:

• small amps
• light guitars
• no more than two drums at once
• a keyboard “no longer than a ruler”

And then there’s the ethos, which is basically a contradiction they’ve decided to live inside: caring a lot while pretending not to, without sliding into total apathy. That tension is the whole motor.

They even floated the term “pencil-case punk” for their sound—jumbled, colorful, dense, and instant. It’s a funny phrase, but it’s also dead accurate: songs that feel like someone dumped a container of markers on the desk and called it composition.

My mild criticism: sometimes the “instant” part can read as “unfinished,” especially if you like your songs to land cleanly. Dog Chocolate don’t always land—they ricochet.

You can trace the scrappiness across the earlier albums

Dog Chocolate didn’t just appear fully formed. They built the current scrappiness across several releases:

• Or (2014) — a split with Ravioli Me Away
• Snack Fans (2016)
• Moody Balloon Baby (2018)

And the gig history tells you the band has always been comfortable in rooms where audiences expect left turns. They’ve shared stages with acts as wide-ranging as Deerhoof, No Age, Dry Cleaning, Palm, Daniel Wakeford, Shopping, and Pozi.

Here’s the arguable bit: I don’t think Dog Chocolate “developed” by smoothing out. They developed by getting better at aiming their mess. If you’re looking for a glow-up, you’re in the wrong building.

The pandemic era didn’t change the band’s brain—just the band’s clock

After the pandemic, life did the thing it does: it scattered people. Some members moved to different cities. Some got new jobs. Some had babies. Some dealt with bereavement. The pace slowed, and not in a romantic way—more like the practical slowdown where rehearsal becomes a minor miracle.

Instead of forcing it, they found another route: a monthly radio show called The CDRs Won’t Last. It started as an attempt to chronicle lost music from the Myspace era, then shifted into something looser—a place to chat and play songs to each other. That pivot matters. You can hear it in So Inspired, So Done In: the album doesn’t sound like four people grinding in a practice room until the edges blur. It sounds like connection maintained through distance.

The songs came together in bedrooms, over the internet, and during a weekend writing meet-up in a large shed in Shropshire—not the usual practice-space routine. And honestly, that explains the emotional weather: stitched together, slightly haunted, still bright in places.

At first I thought the album’s jumpy pacing was just Dog Chocolate being Dog Chocolate. On second listen, it felt more like a document of interrupted time—ideas passed back and forth until they mutate, rather than being “completed.” That made me like it more, even when it still stressed me out.

Inspiration vs burnout: the album isn’t choosing sides

The title So Inspired, So Done In is almost too perfect, because it doesn’t let the band pretend inspiration is some clean, separate thing from exhaustion. Work and anti-work show up repeatedly, but not as slogans. More like the band is staring at the machinery of living—jobs, creativity, responsibility—and noticing how it grinds even when you’re technically doing what you want.

And that’s where the album gets sneaky. All the odd subject matter—fungal toenails, overheard conversations, dreaming songs into being—starts to feel like a coping strategy. Not escapism. More like: “If I can name the small stuff, I can survive the big stuff.”

A reasonable listener could disagree, but I’d argue Dog Chocolate aren’t trying to make you feel better. They’re trying to make you feel less alone in the weirdness.

Bandcamp stream

Listen on Bandcamp

YouTube videos (in source order)

Watch on YouTube

Watch on YouTube

Watch on YouTube

Watch on YouTube

How it all adds up (even when it pretends not to)

The long, confusing stretch of collective life behind this album—changes, losses, shifts—doesn’t flatten Dog Chocolate’s anxious spark. It refracts it. They’re still playful, still frustrated, still silly, still empathetic. But now there’s an added sense that they’re examining their internal and external landscapes the way you poke at a sore tooth: curious, worried, unable to stop.

If you want neat arcs, this record will probably bug you. If you like music that admits life is cluttered and still insists on making something bright out of it, Dog Chocolate are right on schedule—late, slightly frazzled, and somehow sincere.

Conclusion

So Inspired, So Done In uses Dog Chocolate’s chaotic charm to talk about labor, burnout, and daily bodily reality without turning any of it into a lecture. It’s a record that keeps choosing the small, honest detail over the grand statement—and that choice is exactly why it sticks.

Our verdict: People who like twitchy, idea-packed punk-pop that treats mundane life like sacred text will actually love this. If you need polished hooks, predictable structures, or music that doesn’t mention toenails in spirit (if not literally), you’ll bounce right off—and you’ll probably call it “random,” which is your loss and also kind of your brand.

FAQ

• What is the album So Inspired, So Done In mainly about?
  It’s obsessed with everyday details (work, overheard talk, bodies, burnout) and uses them to poke at bigger questions without turning preachy.
• Why is “Dog Chocolate” a useful keyword for this album’s identity?
  Because the band’s whole point is personality-as-structure: jittery, playful, anxious songs that make the mundane feel loaded.
• What does “pencil-case punk” mean here?
  A deliberately small, colorful, cluttered approach—like making music with limited tools but maximal impulse.
• Did the band’s lifestyle changes affect the writing?
  Yes. The songs were written across bedrooms, online exchanges, and a Shropshire shed weekend, which shows in the stitched-together feel.
• Is this album approachable for new listeners?
  If you like dense, jumpy songs and don’t need everything to “resolve,” it’s a good entry. If you want straightforward choruses, start elsewhere.

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