52. Brody Dalle

ELECTRIC BALLROOM

24 April 2014

Brody Dalle, once the gravel-throated, boot-stomping banshee of The Distillers, now wandering the musical landscape as a solo artist and, perhaps more notably, soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Josh Homme. This gig was meant to be her glorious solo rebirth, a phoenix moment. What we got instead was more... rotisserie chicken left under a heat lamp.

Her debut solo album? It’s fine. Technically. Like a cup of instant coffee at a motorway service station: it ticks boxes, it’s warm, it won’t kill you, but you’re not writing sonnets about it later. The whole thing feels oddly preserved, like punk rock taxidermy: posed, painted, but very much not twitching with life. It’s as if someone embalmed a Joan Jett riff, slapped a “Punk” sticker on it, and wheeled it out with a shrug.

Live, it’s more of the same, only louder and less convincing. With just one solo record under her belt, the set’s bulked up with Distillers songs, which turns out to be a very bad idea. The old tracks arrive like salient reminders, gritty and full of snarl, instantly outshining the new material like a feral street dog outpacing the Labradoodle in a tutu.

Say what you like about “Coral Fang” or “Sing Sing Death House”, they had bite. They sounded like music made by someone who might mug you for your eyeliner. The new stuff, in comparison, feels like it might write a strongly worded email to the manager. On the album, there are flickers of ambition, some electronic elements, a faint whiff of brass, but none of it made it to the live show. Either it didn’t survive the translation to stage or was left behind with the session musician who probably cost too much.

The result? A depressingly generic punk gig. One of those where the distortion pedal does most of the heavy lifting, and the energy feels like a performance. Dalle, for her part, seemed disengaged, her vocals occasionally screeching into frequencies that suggested a mating call to local bats.

What stings the most is that there was potential. Hints of something interesting buried beneath the mulch. But it’s all been flattened into a noise soup. There’s no danger. No spark. Just the creeping sense you’ve seen this before, but better, louder, and with more blood in the water.

So, here’s hoping Brody finds that spark again. That wild, venomous brilliance that once made you feel like she might personally burn your house down and then write a poem about it. Because tonight felt more like watching someone listlessly flick through their own highlight reel.