Avril Lavigne’s ascent to torchbearer of the Pop Punk genre is interesting. When the “Motherfucking Princess” first asked the MTV public if we “wanna go crash a mall”, donned in her signature necktie-and-wifebeater combo and worn Chuck Taylor sneakers, she was often written-off by the tastemakers of the genre; dismissed as a manufactured pop product–a “poser”–in ways that her contemporaries in male-fronted bands like Simple Plan or Sum 41 never were. To finally see Lavigne 20 years later, revered in the scene that constantly excluded and misaligned her even as she helped build its foundations in mainstream consciousness, to watch her celebrated on many an Emo Music Nite where a crowd of millennials passionately scream along her to anthemic, soaring choruses, feels like a sort of homecoming parade.

Lavigne has never been an artist meant to eventually win a Pulitzer Prize for literature or music composition. This was once a weapon in her arsenal: you can count on one hand more effective ways to open a smash hit than, “He was a boy, she was a girl – can I make it any more obvious?” Still, her writing, even if lacking, has never been as trite as it is on her 7th LP. To their merit, singles like “Girlfriend” or “Sk8er Boi” were at least cleverly written, if juvenile. On ‘Love Sux,’ Lavigne goes for elementary rhyming structures and couplets (“Do you think I’m stupid? I keep killing Cupid,” she sneers on the album’s title-track. And that’s not to even address the cringy lyric “Forever and ever you’re gonna wish I was your wifey!” in lead single, “Bite Me”.) It’s as though somewhere in the last few years, Lavigne mistook a peppy song for a petulant one, unearned pugnacity for the basic concept of actual meaningful expression. You’d think it’s impossible to craft something clever and intentional at 260 BPM. It’s especially frustrating given that Lavigne is this far into her career, and her peers (including and especially the ones she first inspired to pick up a guitar and a notebook) have explored much more challenging songwriting and storytelling in the last few years, while her subject matter remains firmly rooted in the angst of Sk8er Bois doing her dirty.

Which isn’t to say the collection isn’t loads of fun. Lavigne seems rejuvenated in a way she hasn’t been in years. Opener “Cannonball” sets the album’s tone with Lavigne mouthing off the verses with a high-speed high-frequency delivery over a hyperpop/pop rock hybrid beat. “Are you ready? Are you ready? Are you ready? Let’s go!” she chants like a rowdy best friend convincing you to embark on a wild night of bad, age-inappropriate ideas – and it’s almost difficult to resist her beck and call. On the title-track, Lavigne rolls her heavily mascaraed eyes through the end of yet another relationship, and she skates through the hook of “na-na-nas” like the pro that she is.

Featuring a slew of collaborators from both the TRL and the TikTok generations seems symbolic of Lavigne’s mission to remind us of the legacy she comes from, as well as place herself at the front of the New School of Hot Topic Cool. “Bois Lie”, a duet with the poster boy (boi?) of white suburban toxic masculinity, Machine Gun Kelly, would be more enjoyable if you didn’t smell the warm beer-breath when Kelly spits “Tell me why you tell your friends I’m the bad guy.” More compelling (and honestly, stirring) is the nostalgic duet with Mark Hoppus (blink-182 frontman, all-round cool guy), “All I Wanted,” a duet that most successfully captures the very feeling of late summer afternoons spent with first loves that Pop Punk was fundamentally built on.

The album’s more reflective moments, “Avalanche” and the delicate “Dare to Love Me”, manage to feel sonically at home and offer a welcome moment of respite from the energy of the album without compromising or stalling its momentum. But they also buckle under the weight of Lavigne’s vague and limited songwriting. On the former, Lavigne laments about not feeling “okay on the inside” but never actually explores these feelings. Why isn’t she okay? What has she learned about herself through this experience? What about her life does she need “instructions” for? None of these questions ever get answered, but it also doesn’t feel like the ever questioning and transitional nature of life is the point either. So then what is? “Dare,” the album’s sole ballad, suffers similar struggles, and when Lavigne asks why it’s so hard for her to open her heart, it’s easy to find yourself wondering the exact same thing.

‘Love Sux’ feels like a homecoming for an artist who might have needed a few more years to grow out of it. 20 years in, how much longer will we wait for Avril Lavigne to have something just a little bit more complicated to say?