Jeff Rosenstock comes with some built-in barriers. He sings in a nasal bleat that, when he's really excited, turns into a strangulated squawk. He packs his songs with dinky drum machines and chintzy synths that whiz off in every direction. His gang-chant sing-alongs belong within the pop-punk tradition, but sometimes, they sound like cheap versions of Broadway musicals. He packs lots and lots of words into his songs, and those words plainly hint at big and messy ideas, at a kind of cleverness that can be relentless and oppressive.