Distilling Brody Dalle: From Punker to Hot MILF

I wasn't the biggest Distillers fan, but I always did like them. I'm listening to them again, and its been like what? Five years since they broke up? Never listened to them ever since the break-up. Remember when Brody Dalle looked like a punk as fuck Marilyn Manson? Let me refresh your memory:

Yeah. She even got the sneer right. Punk rock Manson! With real tits! Way to go!

Anyway, a little history lesson for those who forgot or where too young to enjoy punk drama (oh those punks and their drama!). Brody is the ex-wife of Tim Armstrong. Yeah Tim Armstrong from Rancid brah. Ok, now, The Distillers, especially Brody, were always plagued by the rumors that Tim and the rest of Rancid ghostwrote Distillers' songs. This led to a messy break-up, the band and their marriage. (edit: I left out the fact that they hooked up when Brody was still 16 and still living in Australia, although she lied about her age. Can you imagine Tim smashing Brody's underage burger? Dude.)

Listening again to The Distillers, I figured out why I always liked them. Its because these are the Rancid albums that they never released because they were too pussy to do it. Yeah dude. That's not a knock against the Distillers, mind. But it seems that its either Brody gets easily cajoled by the people he hangs out with or she's a succubus. Whichever it is, whatever. I could care less. Because The Distillers had more balls than Rancid anyway. There, I said it. Fuck Rancid. Rancid sucks. Tim Armstrong is a douchebag.

But then, Brody gets married to another frontman. The one Josh Homme. J.Ho motherfucker. The huge guy that could totally beat your ass with the arms he tore off your shoulder sockets frontman of Queens of the Stoneage. And then makes a band called Spinnerette.

Now, she looks like this:

Can you say Courtney Love?

Although she looks more like this lately:

Dude! Brody Dalle turned fucking hot over the summer! Btw, that's Tony Bevilacqua, another former member of Distillers.

What's with this obsession with how she looks you ask? Well, you see, when she started hanging out with cooler people like QOTSA, Jesse "Boots Electric" Hughes and Eagles of Death Metal, Jubilee and the Buddyhead crew, she in turn dropped her so-called punk image and became, well, a hotter milf version of herself. Oh and also, did I tell you that Spinnerette sounds like a girl fronted QOTSA?

Yeah. That's right. Once again, even in a different band, even trying to drop her old image, she still gets plagued by the same problems she had in the past. Although again, this is not a knock against Spinnerette, I quite like a girl fronted QOTSA. Here's a video. And here's a video of Brody actually playing with the Queens at the Natasha Shneider Memorial Concert.

What's the point of all of this? Why did I waste everyone's time with writing this article trying to dissect two bands with the same frontwoman? And her numerous baggage? To tell you the truth, I don't know. Because quite frankly I like both her bands and could care less if she's a blood sucking succubus poser. And I guess, that's what matters. All this other superficial bullshit is not important. It comes down to liking the music or not. That, and Rancid sucks donkey balls.

12.14.08

The Volodor Dance Boss: Noise Vodoo of Magik Markers

They have an extensive (really fucking extensive) discography of LPs and CD-R releases since 2002 – but why haven’t you heard of the Magik Markers yet? Its either you’re not trendy and hip with your ear to the underground like most of the jaded hipster crowd of NYC, or you have a slow internet connection (amongst other things are: you're not from Hartford, Connecticut or you suck). Or maybe it’s because of The Volodor Dance.

Now, not being their first release, not by a long shot, The Volodor Dance is soundscapes caught on the wire, plugged into amps and blasted into great heights while hurricanes are fucking over Kansas – meaning it’s not accessible, not unless you listen to Merzbow, or at least Sonic Youth’s younger albums (Sonic Death times 10? Yes please). From start to finish it pummels you to the ground with (seemingly) noise improvisation, I’ll be quite surprised that the casual listener wouldn’t surrender their first born after the first track, The Scream of the Horses Glowing White, a 20 minute clusterfuck that would make you shit. And it doesn’t end there, following Horses is the 26 minute I’ve-run-out-of-adjectives-to-describe-it, :::::::::: Binary for Carey Loren. After this showing, you still have 2 more tracks to go, one lasting another 14, Ab'R-AChad-Ab' Ra, and the only 3 minute song, Pinkie Brown Goes To The Shore (the hero of the sea is a hero of death).

I’m not saying that just because of the sheer length of this effort that it’s not listenable, but it is part of it. Other than that, 20 minutes of feedback and Elisa Ambrogio masturbating over her guitar isn’t really party music for your buddies to drink to. This is a record you play while you’re alone, and you marvel at its greatness because the guitar “shouldn’t be played that way”, while you dream and picture Hendrix watching a Magik Markers show. The sonic majesty of a record such as this could only be mellowed out by listening to something like World’s End Girlfriend afterward. Or maybe Kenny G.

Still, this doesn’t mean you can’t get into the bandwagon. Their release last year, the Lee Ranaldo produced (natch!) Boss, is definite ear candy. Their second studio effort and second for Thurston’s Ecstatic Peace! is easier to get into. The noise improvisation is still there, but structured into them are slow burning indie songs. Body Rot sounds like a more punk version Be Your Own Pet playing garage rock and Bad Dream/Hartford's Beat Suite would be played in college radio by said NYC hipsters that go gaga over My Bloody Valentine. Also, Ambrogio sounds like Kim Gordon when she gets to sing which is always a plus factor. This album, basically, is peppered for the Pitchfork kids that would be too scared to listen to the Markers’ all out warfare in their earlier releases. Not taking anything away from this album though, it’s still a well structured album with the right bursts of noise to amuse SY fans and has enough indie hipness for those who champion The Strokes, maybe even a little bit of the blues or folk. I recommend listening to Last of the Lemach Line and to the piano(!) “ballad” Empty Bottles, which coincidentally play right beside each other.

After all this is said, listening to these two makes it obvious where you stand in the Magik Markers camp. Its either you harp what older fans are rallying, screaming “sell outs!” (like they always do when one of their obscure underground heroes go "aboveground"), or you cream over the slick Boss. Or if you’re like me, you jam both and just let the detuned mountains come tumbling down until there is nothing left but silence of static, hoping and wishing the assault won’t end with the morning ahead.

02.25.08

Sunday: A Review of Partial Sonic Youth Albums and Anthems

I have my eyes closed, a makeshift pipe stuck in-between my fingers. Inside my headphones the slow burning Wild Flower Soul churns out melodic passages and it’s like listening to… life.

TV Shit and Silver Session for Jason Knuth, these EPs jolted me back into reality. It wasn’t a rude shock, but the feedback did indeed do its job. Walls of sound of mind numbing magnitude as I slowly close my eyes again and take a long drag on the tinfoil. As the drum machine blares in the background, guitars pummeling the amps and their owners and the ears of listeners, I don’t even notice that the world held its breath and stopped spinning.

I almost forgot to breathe as well.

Pink Steam rises and falls covering our extended jams with clouds and headless heroes, we gather protection. And just like Washing Machine sending us to punk 2.0 oblivion and salvation, Rather Ripped crudely crafted pop records and songs from stone to gems to dust and back to stone. The same road traveled down to a near by Murray Street and not missing a step in Sonic Nurse.

Hits of Sunshine! For Allen Ginsberg!

The all time favorite was always been Daydream Nation, where a generation dreams up their own nation; it has parades of guitar strings and frets wedged with sticks and bones and it ran non-stop through blood, sweat, and knob tweaks. Or slides. Or majesty. But with the risk of blaspheming, The Diamond Sea makes up the bulk of everything, culmination ad infinitum – a daydreaming nation or otherwise. Blasphemer!

Confusion is Sex? Kill Yr Idols? EVOL? Nothing can touch early Orson Welles. And by god, Death to Our Friends. They sound like church bells. Pissed off church bells wielding chainsaws and hand grenades. Kiss mama g’bye and off to war, aren’t we all too lucky eh Johnny? And by the time Goo creeps in, we sign out, maybe protest a little and cry sellout. Doesn’t matter. The amazing looks and sounds better in these parts anyway.

Wow, erratic behavior. Red, red, green, green, red, red, red, green.

A Thousand Leaves is a worthy opponent for the Washing Machine. And a fight to the death would be match of the musical decade. Being more cohesive helps the surgeons sniff out the pinko cancers. But being a crude predecessor does have its perks. And like natural life progressions go, we’ll talk to NYC Ghosts and Flowers for the right pep talk.

Don’t get me started about the genius of a twenty five minute Diamond Sea or Kim vomiting through noisy sins in The Ineffable Me. Don’t fucking push me.

02.24.08