The Distillers

(Hellcat)
by Scott Hefflon

Remember when The Muffs usta rip shit up and you thought Kim’d be cool as shit to hang out with, but she’d probably tear yer stupid head off? Remember when Courtney Love was an unstable, trashy bitch you wanted to fuck all nasty and shit on the floor of yer dirty apartment? Basically, remember when chicks had balls and you were kinda scared of them kickin’ yer scrawny ass? “Why didn’t you call me, you fuckin’ prick?!?” SLAM! All that said, the Distillers are trashy, violent, swear convincingly, snarl about pretty much everything you can think of, and basically rock harder, dirtier, and meaner than Joan Jett, Hole, and Bif Naked combined.

While it’s kinda unfair to compare the Distillers to female-fronted bands, that’s, ya know, the way it is. Honestly, passion-wise and songwriting-wise, they’re on par with (often times better than) such ass-kickers as U.S. Bombs, L.E.S. Stitches, and the new slew of Recess bands (The Criminals, the Grumpies, old Dwarves, etc.). In other words, these gals (there’s a guy on the band — drummer Mat Young, formerly of the ADZ and CH3 — but this is all-girl action, bub) bash it out with the best of ’em, race through songs that are catchy without being all pussypunkpop, and while there are moments of sing-along to break up the manic monotony of getting yer ass thrown around the room like a ragdoll, I’d never say this is anything but balls-out punk fuckin’ rock. A couple of the songs sound like covers of classic punk songs, but I guess it’s cuz they strike the same timeless chord of punk dissatisfaction. Yeah, dissatisfaction — that’s like calling the Grand Canyon pretty big…
(www.hell-cat.com)