Only two years after their electrifying debut "Verschluck dich nicht" Vorsicht Kinder are back with their second album. Their new songs are a bomb: playful, catchy, direct and feisty, between the most anarchic site of post-punk and dada pop deconstruction. Together with that, some new layer showed up, a techno anthem ("Alcohole", also with a very cool videoclip) and some longer, melancholic psyche tunes that are as well crafted as the fast-paced ones.

VORSICHT KINDER are four friends from Berlin who released their debut album *Verschluck dich nicht* in 2023 on the Berlin-based label Kitchen Leg Records. Their sound is described as an eclectic mix of post-punk, no-wave, and Neue Deutsche Welle, playfully breaking genre boundaries and conventional song structures. It’s like Tic Tac Toe picked up some instruments and went on a wild mushroom trip. On stage, they regularly swap instruments, and in their dadaist-feminist lyrics, they explore themes like lust, rage, ecstasy, and senselessness: Fuck the Banana!

All songs written, arranged and played by Vorsicht Kinder. 
Vorsicht Kinder are: Lena, Luisa, Marie & Rosi. Aka: Lennox, LuiLui, Maschine and Rosi Rosette.
Recorded, Mixed and Mastered by RaDa
Contributing musician: Lars Börsch
Contribution musician on "Emotion on the ocean": Tom Willcock
Cover Artwork: Andrew Kemp
Graphic outlook by Kristin Schödder

Label: Kitchen Leg Records

Albumreview by Vito Camarretta @chaindlk

"Alkopop" sounds exactly like the thing you swear you won’t drink again after the third glass, and then immediately order another of. Vorsicht Kinder know this, and they lean into it with a grin that’s half dada prank, half post-punk snarl, all sugar laced with static. Two years after "Verschluck dich nicht", the Berlin quartet return not to tidy things up, but to make the mess more articulate, more rhythmic, and paradoxically more emotional.

At first blush, this record behaves like a sugar rush with a safety pin stuck in it. Short, punchy songs snap and twitch, powered by that familiar Neue Deutsche Welle nerve and no-wave refusal to behave. Guitars jab rather than caress, rhythms pogo and derail, vocals arrive like slogans scribbled on a bathroom mirror at 4 a.m. The band’s long-standing habit of swapping instruments seeps into the music itself: nothing sits still for long, identities are fluid, roles are provisional, and that instability becomes the point rather than the problem.

Yet "Alkopop" isn’t just faster, louder, sillier. There’s a noticeable widening of the emotional lens. Amid the bratty immediacy, longer and more reflective moments appear, like a hangover thought that won’t quite leave you alone. Tracks stretch out, drift slightly, and allow a melancholic haze to creep in. Even the techno-leaning pulse of “Alcohole” feels less like club bravado and more like a dancefloor confession, sweaty, euphoric, and a little sad once the lights come on.

Lyrically, Vorsicht Kinder remain joyfully uninterested in coherence as a moral duty. Their dadaist feminist stance doesn’t lecture, it detonates. Lust, rage, ecstasy, boredom, and absurdity collide in lines that feel shouted, whispered, or accidentally overheard. There’s humor everywhere, but it’s the kind that bares its teeth. The joke is funny, yes, but it’s also aimed directly at your habits, your routines, your little loops of consumption and self-performance. Alkopop, after all, is not just a drink, it’s a lifestyle glitch.

The album’s strength lies in how confidently it holds contradiction. It’s playful without being lightweight, catchy without becoming obedient, political without turning into a pamphlet. It understands that nonsense can be a strategy, that repetition can be rebellion, and that joy can be an act of resistance. Like Kitchen Leg Records itself, with its deep roots in DIY culture, collage aesthetics, and punk economy of means, this release treats imperfection as a resource rather than a flaw.

By the time "Last Sip of Lemondade" closes the record, you’re left with the strange clarity that follows good chaos. Your ears are buzzing, your head is slightly tilted, and you’re not entirely sure what just happened, only that it felt necessary. "Alkopop" doesn’t offer answers, detox plans, or moral redemption. It hands you another glass, winks, and reminds you that sometimes the smartest response to a broken machine is to dance next to it until it overheats.

Link: https://chaindlk.com/reviews/13270