The Distillers
Sing Sing Death House

THE REVIEW

This is from when the Distillers were not yet known as a Punk-band for kids. This is from when the Distillers never even dreamed of being the subject of boasts from girls in Converse who can’t distinguish Punk from Crossover or the Ramones from Avril Lavigne. This is from when the Distillers professed independent faith before the altar of Punk-Rock, initiated by Tim Armstrong of the “indestructible” Rancid...

The Distillers, working for Hellcat Records, engaged in this exercise of irritation and paranoia that is “Sing Sing Death House”, in full “no fun, my babe, no fun” style... Unsurprisingly, the first song is titled “Sick Of It All”, where the venerable formula of the three chords reigns, just like the rest of the album, which certainly, as the Punk religion predicts, is not based on technical-musical intelligence or formal perfection…. Naturally, in pure Punk style, the album lasts no more than thirty minutes, during which nightmares and delusions are thoroughly dissected. It’s a mix of boredom, imbalance, it's lashing nihilism that Brody begins to scream, with her voice a bit Pink, a bit Courtney, her vintage style, her exasperated enthusiasm. But enthusiasm and musical maturity are two different things.

Stylistically speaking, the album suffers greatly from the influence of Rancid, even though, of course, we’re on more simplistic levels. It cannot be called original enough to shout, as many journalists have done, for a miracle, for the resurrection of Punk-Rock. The only note of originality might be Brody herself, the only female Punk voice worthy of note now, the only existing female Punk voice, to be truthful. Probably her formation was strongly linked to the '90s, to the riot girls of Olympia, whom we can point out as her models, who unfortunately did not produce many followers. And if that's the case, not even Brody herself fully expresses what a Rock woman should be, in the light of the foxcore experience. In this sense, it’s important to specify that this album, written and sung by a woman, has all the style of a male Punk band... This does not mean anything in an absolute sense, but it surely denotes a certain lack of personality and the need, indeed because of this, to refer to certain models, obviously represented by historic Punk bands with male voices… in this case, the Rancid.

However, credit goes to the lyrics, profound, sincere, and shocking where the themes of the troubled, distressed adolescent are intensified expressively and stylistically… stuff dear to the '90s that here is mixed with pure Punk disgust, the clear predominance of devaluation of reality, irreverent tones, the tendency to question the ordinary system and social contradictions. But, again in full Punk style, with no intention of changing things. To understand what fuels Brody’s insane mind, just read the lyrics of “I Am a Revenant” or “Hate Me”, truly disorienting episodes and perhaps among the few worthy of note. Because apart from a few pearls, including those mentioned above, the rest is quite uninteresting and predictable… “The Young Crazed Feeling” is like a self-celebratory Rap track… like “I’m the loser that rocks… I come from Melbourne… my life was shit”… while “City Of Angels” aims to be a song that denounces the condition of Los Angeles, seen as both beautiful and rotten at the same time, against the backdrop of a ‘prostituted’ sunset, as she writes herself, over which wings of death loom.

Fundamentally, an album with few ideas, played by a band with little personality, which tries, quite manneristically, to be Punk at all costs.