Turn it up. That’s the mantra when you’re young, as if music could be listened to any other way. It had to be loud enough to follow you around school or in the water for the rest of the day, and that requires a hell of a lot of volume. So you’d fry the speakers on your mom’s Dodge Caravan as you headbanged your way to the beach after school. And when your mom noticed and asked why the radio broke, you’d still blame it on the faulty stock sound system. And not because you’re a terrible son, but because music was meant to be loud. That’s why live shows exist, and microphones and amplifiers and 20-inch subwoofers. It’s why Aussie thrash-pop bands like DZ Deathrays establish a following and have kids blowing out their parents’ 6-by-9s. The Deathrays get it — they’re always loud. Loud enough to ring in your head over the gravelly rub of surf wax. Loud enough to stay with you through a four-hour session, despite the sea’s futile attempts to rinse the furious riffs off of you. Think Death From Above 1979. Think The Bronx. Think about grabbing your board, borrowing your mom’s minivan and coming up with a new excuse.