Go on, drink whiskey from the bottle, see if I care. But when you’re done, don’t jump around like gracelessly ageing Bratz dolls playing late-era Kiss and think you’re a blistering she-Crue.
The Donnas emerged in the early 1990s, a teeny-bopping novelty act playing Ramones-inspired punk tunes, and it was kinda sweet; a little bit bad-ass, naughty in the most innocent of ways, funny kid-sister types. They were tentatively accepted on the margins of the punk scene because they weren’t half-bad, but not fully embraced because, after all, they were ‘discovered’, and their songs were written by someone else.
The Donnas can be credited with some decent tunes, and – maybe – adding to the critical mass that made women’s music more visible, but they were nothing more than a bit of fun. They were personae, but instead of evolving into a band with substance, they’ve just taken on a new guise.
The Donnas emphasise their enduring thick-and-thin friendship, and friendship’s all very nice, but it doesn’t make your music any good. No matter how much talent you may or may not have, if you have a persona, it will always be bigger and badder and incredibly irritating. Go on, drink whiskey from the bottle, see if I care. But when you’re done, don’t jump around like gracelessly ageing Bratz dolls playing late-era Kiss and think you’re a blistering she-Crue, write some songs. Show, don’t tell. ‘Wasted’, ‘Like An Animal’, ‘Smoke You Out’, ‘Girl Talk’... the songs remain the same. Bitchin’ croaks along, a slack journey from the innocuous pop-punk of the new Scooby Doo theme to boring, soulless, sub-cock-rock. That’s not metal. That’s not rock. Rock belts. Metal aches. This is just plain sore and is not at all bitchin’.
Hey! Ho! Let's go (girls)! And so the band who named their debut album Teenage American Rock 'n' Roll Machine reach the ripe old age of twenty one, celebrating with a fourth record and a new, more mature sound.Read More