You're Speaking My Language

Juliette Lewis always seemed too visceral, too wantonly scuzz, for Hollywood. Troubled stars are no novelty but Lewis paraded her confusion like a gunshot wound. Her perma-sneer and ragged complexion glowered in defiance of the dream factory. Frantic and feral , she stank up the screen like a noxious perfume.
Understandably, it’s been a while since she was asked to front a rom-com. In the hiatus, Lewis has plumped for a career in guttural punk-pop. The question posed by You’re Speaking My Language, her frantic and debauched full length debut, is this: does she really mean it?
Lewis certainly carries herself like a veteran of the punk wars . She can’t sing, but her breathy growl transmits a ragged authenticity. Around her, skinny guitars clang and prowl, as though in the grip of a pounding tequila hangover.
However, something in her posturing chimes hollow. Co-written with ex-4 Non Blonde Linda Perry, the record squeezes too snugly into the garage-rock archetype. Even its messiness feels pristine, calculated.
For all their in-your-face awkwardness, Lewis and The Licks prove fatally enthralled by the callow mythology of punk. Plastic but hardly fantastic, their inaugural blast has the schlocky quality of a pastiche.