Ben Hopkins and Liv Bruce, the gender-nonconforming musicians behind PWR BTTM, were the darlings of indie pop-punk until last week, when allegations of sexual assault emerged against Hopkins, which in turn led to what seems to be the band’s immediate demise.

The release of the group’s sophomore album, Pageant, was pulled from streaming platforms as more people stepped forward with stories of abuse. Seems like where there’s smoke, there’s a garbage fire. Touring musicians and opening acts fled the band’s upcoming tour, and PWR BTTM was declared dead within days. But there is little to lament in the loss of this band. This was a bad band, and with any luck the speed with which it was stamped out of existence will make space for more and better queercore artists.

A “power bottom,” in the adorable gloss of the New York Times, means “a reins-taking, enthusiastic sexual partner on the receiving end of the experience.” The duo began recording together in 2015, after meeting as undergraduates at Bard College. Their performances, two EPs, and a debut album, Ugly Cherries, garnered rave reviews.

This praise was undeserved. The single “I Wanna Boi” is no more sophisticated than, say, the Katy Perry anthem “I Kissed a Girl,” and it’s less singable. Way less singable and shining than, say, The Scissor Sisters’s “She’s My Man,” and less punk than Sleater-Kinney’s “Modern Girl.” PWR BTTM’s songs are short and campy to a degree that suggests not exuberance but an absence of artistry. Nor do they seem to have any meaningful connection to the homocore and queercore bands of the ’80s and ’90s. This is queer music that doesn’t seem to know or care that it’s part of a long lineage of gay pop: if anything, PWR BTTM’s music seems to exist out of time, giddily oblivious to its own history.

That’s not to say that there was nothing to enjoy about the band. Hopkins plays decent guitar; Bruce plays decent drums; from what their fans have to say, they put on a rollicking good show. But there’s something about PWR BTTM’s sound that reminds me of the pop punk I used to listen to when I was a Warped Tour attendee, standing on the edge of a mosh pit filled with crater-faced teen boys. PWR BTTM isn’t any better than Blink-182. And perhaps because I spent my adolescence wearing whatever I could find that didn’t make me look like a girl (huge t-shirts, khaki shorts, Airwalks) I don’t find PWR BTTM’s shtick convincing. The pair perform in vivid drag: Bruce wearing neat, dark lipsticks, Hopkins with a face smeared in glitter. But it’s a mistake, I think, to confuse queerness with glamor and vice versa. Lots of queers are dumpy, ordinary, shy, poor, or tacky: We look to artists to sublimate our awkwardnesses into art.