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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.
Jane Ruffino, 09 Oct 2007
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’.