The Distillers

It’s horrifying in here. You can feel the sweat dripping off the walls, good enough to scare a few small children with. The cider tastes like acid, good job I’m standing in the corner, I wouldn’t want those crazy animals to find me. The terror is apparent, like bulls waiting for the slaughter, with only mohicans and studded belts for safety. Some lady jumps onstage screaming for her life but the nice young man with the metal through his face next to me informs me that’s OK, this is The Distillers...

Apparently it’s cathartic. Chainsaw noises emanating from this woman with a bawl to equal Dan Quayle on speed, blares of amplified oral attacks shifting the balance of power. Those gun toting, deer eating, yokel rednecks said that feminism was just another ploy of the yogurt munching, cardigan wearing liberals to screw them over again. Holy shit were they wrong. They didn’t count on those sub equatorial Antipodean women to bomb the beejesus out of all our rock n roll clichés. I like it. But I’m scared. I want to get out of here alive. Better make sure I’ve got my escape plan sorted. I’ll ask that lady later why she’s so angry, at the moment she looks too preoccupied developing her own brand of idol worship. On second thoughts it’s those pleasant little ditties she’s got going on that seem to be the money. What a clever concept. Sounds like she’s got a bit a hoarse throat, maybe I’ll offer her a Marlboro. That’ll do the trick.

The sign on the door said punk rock this way. Those Distillers will surely have my vote when the campaign swings into town. Just the ticket.