The Distillers
Coral Fang

THE REVIEW

The Distillers: a glass of sour milk.
Imagine 4 "musicians", of which 3 are useless and anonymous henchmen whose faces will never be remembered, perfect little men for a typical faux punk band from a metropolis, perhaps Los Angeles, why not!
Imagine an artistically frigid singer who makes 99% of the male population go into "I'd do her badly Mode" and simultaneously becomes a role model in appearance for every crazy 15-year-old girl. Take agreements that have been overdone for the past 25 years, come on, a few riffs here and a few riffs there and... "we have the music, let's sell millions of records to pimply kids who don't know a damn thing about Punk hihihihihiohoohohehehheheahahhaah".

There's nothing to laugh about with The Distillers. But let's continue.
Get a nice contract with a major label that dictates how and when you should churn out your 12 tracks, choose who can give you the most money possible and strip away every artistic and musical peculiarity. Find someone who can make your commercial product more palatable for the bored Kidz and the fake newborn feminists who pop up like mushrooms. Take every DEVICE from the old rock world: tattoos, raspy voice, spastic grimaces, spits, and insert them in a girl with a damned image but who simultaneously remains exciting for the drooling ones. Strike the hoop and strike the barrel. Transgression and beauty, ever-increasing share: a 10 and praise show business. Let's proceed. Take the real riot grrrl bands: L7, Bikini Kill, Lunachicks, Babes In Toyland, 7 Year Bitch and copy their formulas until you water down the ferocity, dynamism, and sincerity. Take, dear Brody, the photo of Courtney Love and start mimicking her poses as the failed punk rockstar she isn't. Take every possible advantage from being the little brat of the moment for every famous rocker on the planet (Rancid... QoTSA). Take every gesture, every note, every rock stereotype from the 70s until now and spend your time convincing minors of the uniqueness and virulence of your work.

In conclusion: these Distillers are yet another scam that the majors and Mtv offer us. My grandmother is more riotous when she makes the sauce. Releasing pieces in 2004 that would have smelled old already 15 years ago, posing as Joan Jett as a living anachronism, doing the two-chord trick and the powerful raspy voice of an emancipated feminist: what a pitiful and fake band.