50. Pretty Reckless
Electric Ballroom
24 March 2014
Ah yes, the halo effect, that cognitive sleight of hand that transforms passable humans into cultural demigods the moment someone deems them “a bit fit.” It’s the same neurological malfunction that allows the overly attractive to breeze through life with the accountability of a fox in a henhouse. Enter Taylor Momsen, a woman who seems to have parlayed one part eyeliner, one part Gossip Girl notoriety, and a fistful of rock clichés into a fully touring ego support system.
So, when she saunters onto stage nearly an hour late with not so much as a “sorry about that, folks,” you can almost hear the collective eyeroll, mistake number one. Then the show kicks off with what appears to be a backing track from the adult section of the video rental shop, mistake number two. From there, the evening devolves into a bingo card of rock clichés so well-worn they might as well come with their own leather pants.
Every cliché is accounted for: mic stand straddling, hair flips choreographed to the snare hits, and devil horns so aggressively flung you’d think someone was trying to ward off actual demons. It’s like watching a TikTok compilation of “what rock bands used to do” interpreted by someone wearing a lot of pleather.
The music was the sonic equivalent of a leather bracelet, each indistinguishable from the other eight you already own. Every track bled into the next like they’ve all been written using the same pre-set. No standout hooks, just a long, blurry smear of forgettable riffs.
As for her bandmates? Honestly, I couldn’t pick them out of a police lineup. They might as well be holograms for all the presence they have. This isn’t a band; it’s a backing unit designed to give Taylor something to lean against while executing her third pelvic thrust of the evening.
When the amps finally power down and the crowd files out, some elated, some confused, many just grateful to have survived the dry ice, what are we left with? No anthems. No emotional resonance. Just an hour of stage smoke, eyeliner, and the nagging realisation that rock 'n' roll, when stripped of actual substance, is just a costume party with interesting lighting.
Here’s the thing: rock isn’t just about swagger. It’s not just about eyeliner and a feral glare. It’s about songs. And if you can’t cough up even one that sticks in the mind longer than it takes to queue for the toilet, then no amount of theatrical writhing will save you.
You can’t pout your way to greatness. You’ve got to earn the encore.