To understand White Collar Crime, to grasp this indefatigable band’s essence, to parse its almost bracingly sincere intentions at more than face value and objectively gauge the spirit of this undeniably staunch collective, this exuberantly unwavering band of brothers, you need to understand Sander Hicks. The man is as pure as they come, a true believer to a fault, the kind of guy who’d go down with the ship to prove a point. You want him on your side, and you want to be on his, even and maybe especially when he’s doing his best to rankle ya. From his earliest days in New York City, Sander has been relentless in instigating movements and birthing enterprises with every intention of subverting the status quo, questioning received wisdom, slaying sacred cows, toppling monolithic totems of capitalist excess and rupturing a corrosively binary political system, by any means necessary. 

At Soft Skull Press, a publishing house he founded, he was responsible for republishing J.H. Hatfield’s incendiary George W. Bush biography after St. Martin’s Press shelved it in the wake of the exposure of Hatfield’s substantial criminal record. The struggle to publish the book and the fateful and ultimately tragic intertwined destinies of these three larger-than-life men were captured to devastating effect in the awardwinning HBO documentary Horns and Halos. White Collar Crime was born to provide musical accompaniment for a production during Sander’s earlier career as playwright, and provided much of the soundtrack for the film.

Many years later, The Big Wedding, Hicks’ rigorously researched, relentlessly page-turning investigation into the events of 9/11, remains the most compelling writing this reviewer has encountered on that fraught subject, so elegantly lucid that amateur historians on all sides of the political aisle would surely stand up and take notice if they were aware of its existence.

Through it all, White Collar Crime has been a full-throttle engine, an incorrigible impetus, a driving force that has given Hicks and his collaborators a megaphone to broadcast their doctrine, plainly state their reasons for existing and rouse devoted acolytes with a classicist punk sound that draws too from reggae, dub, ska, garage rock and other likeminded rebel music traditions to create a surprisingly catchy, always fervent, intricately melodious musical stew. After a lengthy hiatus, the irrepressible gang reunited, untainted and still unfiltered, in the early years of the new decade, to play a live set at the Punk Island Festival. In fits and starts, this concern has continued to thrive and gain momentum since then, which brings us to the new record, Wars Undeclared.

Wars Undeclared is something of a concept album but with no pretensions whatsoever. It’s raw, achingly sincere, sometimes uncomfortably so. Hicks comes out, if there was ever any doubt, as both a lover and a fighter, bent on transcendence, refusing surrender. Embattled, beaten down, he remains undaunted, pressing on with open heart as a matter of principle. The band is in fine form, taut, cohesive, with Nick Colt’s keyboards a secret weapon here, providing a certain refined theatricality. There are vitriolic zingers (“Who shot the Kennedys/Yo Mick Jagger/It was not ‘you and me’”) galore in these passionate polemics, but the album maintains an intriguing duality throughout, veering from righteous invective to tender soliloquy from track to track, painting the portrait of an unrepentant idealist.

The record kicks off on an unflinching note, launching breathlessly into “No Conspiracy Theory,” deceptively titled only if you don’t know Hicks and this band—it’s a cri de coeur rejecting the lazily dismissive use of that namesake expression (or derogatory label, depending on your perspective), a fierce diatribe set to a bouncy beat, sunny with a righteous sneer, buoyed along by Colt’s lilting keyboard part. You can definitely imagine pogoing to this one. There’s a classic garage rock chug here too, heir to the (redoubtable!) Monks, to name just one kindred forebear.

But then Hicks and co. take us down a notch with “Nobody Taught You,” an ostensibly gentle ballad, somehow redolent of both Motown and Billy Bragg at once, tinged with regret, intended for an ex-wife, that oscillates between heartfelt and bitter in Hicks’ mercurial style. Colt brings his defining flair to this one, too. The instrumentation is spare, and potent in that. It’s earnest, plaintive, but wounded, broken…it churns. Hicks is not afraid to go to that fragile place. “Waltz for Rachel Corrie” begins stately, subdued. The track tells the story of what was apparently an abortive, impulsive, but indelibly meaningful rebound romance hatched during a production of the controversial play My Name is Rachel Corrie. The lamented lost love lingers, reverberates. A later track “Chicago”--again addressed to a former lover, seeming to urge her return to New York City to resume and revive a relationship--may be a bit wispy, a bit slight on its face, but there’s a beguiling hope and unflagging idealism inherent here that cannot be denied. There’s something to be said for an abiding faith that’s so insistent. It feels refreshingly unspoiled, resurgent, pushing against the often cynical tide of our post-millennial moment that can be so deflating, so numbing. “Who here among you/Is most alive, “ Hicks murmurs finally. Indeed--a breath of fresh air.

So really, there’s a surprising dynamic range on this putatively punk record, a coherently eclectic sound that shifts between these yearning, vulnerable numbers and the gruff, serrated rock and roll fusillades that rear their heads up in between the quiet storms.

The irascible “Columbus Day,” for example, could almost be an 80s rocker as it kicks in, shades of Springsteen but Mission of Burma as well. The rhythm section of drummer Dale Miller and bassist Jon Berger is a mighty anchor here. Hicks is not self-conscious about smashing the issue blatantly on its nose. Wars Undeclared puts White Collar Crime’s concerns at center stage, under the harsh glare of the band’s unremitting, unapologetic scrutiny. God bless the naked and proud among us. The delicate balance between the sardonic and sincere on Wars Undeclared can be an uneasy one—but it’s damn brave. Hicks sings with abandon and does not pander to his audience. He’s not trying to be a pop star. In his compulsion, and propulsion to be heard, he can grate (“Living in a Van”) here and there, but you always respect him. He even dares to pay homage to the transcendent Beatles track “I’m So Tired” (thunderous chorus on this one) in vaudevillian/carnival barker/huckster mode—the charismatic chutzpah of a born showman. In “Printed Matter,” this subtly chameleonic outfit sounds momentarily like an emo band you might imagine broke out of Boston, bouncing merrily along with gimlet eyes darkly askance, and then punctuates the whole thing with a wah-wah burst.

As they say, the past is prologue, and these first 9 tracks only hint at the scope and resonance of “In Desperation, You Go So Far,” which closes the album out on an elegiac note and distills Hicks’ own journey as a thinker and an activist with forceful succinctness. Miller sets a martial tone and Hicks’ intonation sears, cuts you to the core. It’s a paean to Hatfield with a lot of space, and it envelops you. Colt’s piano sweeps you away, a redemptive tribute to a tortured man, who went to darker places than most of us are willing to go. It’s a meditation, Hicks’ voice cracking with emotion. It feels genuine, unvarnished. Strained, urgent, Hicks hushes to a whisper and the track, and the album winds down, dissipates, drifts into silence, but not stillness, eternally alive, yearning for closure, hope undying.