LA WEEKLY: CORAL FANG High at the top of a vertiginous road in the pine-forested wilderness above Marin County sits a luxurious recording studio called the Site. It’s a place where musicians with serious backing from their labels can kick back in private cabins, where state-of-the-art recording equipment meets homey common rooms, where rock stars can relax in a hot tub with a spectacular view of the greenest of mountains. At the moment, its spacious listening room is filling rapidly with secondhand smoke. Brody Armstrong, the lead singer, guitarist and songwriter of the Distillers, settles into a couch toward the back of the room, a Parliament between her long fingers, her tattooed wrists resting on her knees. Everyone else — drummer Andy Granelli, bassist Ryan Sinn, newly recruited guitarist Tony Bevilacqua (the name means “drink water” in Italian) — lights up, too, and the room goes bizarrely quiet as they all take up positions on the floor to smoke and listen to the raw tracks of the band’s new record in progress, most of which consists of little more than drum tracks over placement-only vocals and minimal guitar and bass. Producer Gil Norton crouches on the floor next to Granelli, Sinn and Warner Bros. publicist Brian Bumbery. Armstrong has picked the songs herself; when an engineer comes in and protests one of her choices — “I’m told I’m not supposed to play that one yet,” he objects — she casually overrules him. “I definitely want her to hear that track,” she says. “Play it.” The engineer queues up four songs: a hardcore punk number called “Hurricane,” an improvised feedback session, a song about wombs and hymens and blood, and another about some kind of abstract love, “Drain the Blood.” The first three show off the Distillers’ new willingness — Norton-inspired, perhaps, though no one will say so — to experiment with rhythm and tempo changes; when a surprising beat or a particularly complex riff emerges, I look over at Norton, bopping his head in time; he looks back and winks. The fourth song, the one somebody didn’t want me to hear and clearly the roughest of the bunch, shows off Armstrong’s evolving skill as a poet. She does not let me miss it. Because her singing is scarcely detectable through Granelli’s drumming and the still-muddy guitars, she sits down next to me and hands me a lyric sheet, typed words scribbled over in ballpoint pen. “For every one of these I have 10 pages that I’ve already cut,” she tells me. “It sort of goes like this.” She sings the rest of the song in my ear. “You say you want a revelation/Revel in this my lover/You’re free, at liberty/Is this what you want?” A 24-year-old with fire in her throaty rasp and a fierce desire to defend aggrieved kids the world over, Armstrong is working consciously to carve a niche for herself in the world of rock music that no one has ever occupied before: She wants to be the lead guitarist, songwriter and front woman in her rock band, but she doesn’t want to be its star. When I ask her what she thinks she represents to her throngs of barely adolescent girl-fans, she deflects the question as if she’s never thought about it. “Holy shit!” she says. “They’re that young?” Pressed to define herself, Armstrong pleads shyness: “I spit on the whole fucking celebrity side of this business,” she says. “I hate people projecting on me, I hate people assuming shit about me. It’s embarrassing.” She never wanted to be Mick Jagger, she insists, just Keith Richards — a great guitarist in a great band. She seems at her most vulnerable and sincere at these moments; you want to believe her, want to think that the girl who looks sullenly over the heads of her fans when she plays live and hocks a loogie nonchalantly onstage really doesn’t want the attention she’s getting. That would be endearing, unusual, charming; you could love her for it. But then there she is, the same young woman who said she was reluctant to pose without her band (“This is not the Brody Bunch,” she says of the Distillers), unapologetically on display as the lone woman among 11 men on the cover of Rolling Stone. (Inside, she’s touching tongues with her reputed new flame, Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme.) Her aplomb has Mick Jagger written all over it. But it probably doesn’t matter what Armstrong thinks about being a rock star; the train has left the station with Armstrong inescapably on board, and it’s not likely to turn around before September, when the Distillers wrap up their first Lollapalooza tour and head out to promote their newly minted record. Celebrity is a bitch mistress, and Armstrong will likely never get her way with it. She’s set on a course to be the world’s next rock-girl idol, the one junior high school girls dye their hair to match (get busy — it changes often), the one critics will be analyzing for evidence of young women’s political evolution, the one whose lyrics will be picked apart in an effort to understand kids today. All of this celebrity talk, however, obscures the many things Armstrong seems to be when you meet her in person: among them, a big-hearted, compassionate native Australian obsessed with the peculiarly American problems of eating disorders and teenagers with guns, and willing to write songs about them in the plainest of terms. “I went to school today with an Uzi,” Armstrong sings on “Sick of It All,” from the Distillers’ last record, a small miracle called Sing Sing Death House that came out a year ago on Hellcat/Epitaph. “There’s this kid he teased me so I shot em in the face.” I ask her whether she worries the band is promoting violence. “You have to understand the irony there,” she says. “I’m fascinated by guns and that side of American culture. I grew up in Melbourne, where my mom was in a fucking parents’ group against guns in schools. She was protesting all the time. I never held a gun or handled a gun until I moved to America. “It’s so ingrained in the culture. It’s an American icon, how can you deny it? Nowhere else in the world are guns so important. Something just fascinates me about them, that something so ugly, something that can do so much fucking damage, could be so, you know — it’s like it’s almost a religion.” In Australia, she says, “Farmers have guns so they can kill fucking rabbits infesting their crops. There’s no gun culture, at least not to the degree there is here. And I don’t think anywhere in the world you’ll find a gun culture like the one here. “But I’m not saying, ‘Look, kids, that’s what you should do.’ I’m saying, ‘Everybody look at this. This is fucking not right. This kid doesn’t feel he has any other option but to do that, and that’s scary to me.’” Bevilacqua, a willowy young man with fawnlike dark-brown eyes, is sitting on the floor backing her up. “It’s like in Bowling for Columbine,” he says. “The kids in Canada learn about history and politics on the news; kids here learn about how many people got shot in L.A. It’s not like you can pretend it’s not happening.” Brody Armstrong is not here to make understanding her easy. In fact, if there’s anything she can do to thwart it, she will. She is not a political creature, not the rebel seductress wielding a feminist ax, not Courtney Love the defiant doll, not even a Patti Smith–like jolie-laid triumphantly displaying a hairy armpit on her record cover — Armstrong likes the world to see how many shades of hair she can wear without denting her natural beauty; she cringes at a superdeveloped tricep that shows up in a picture of her playing guitar, and does not call herself a feminist. “Have I ever used that word?” she asks Bevilacqua. “I don’t think so. It’s not that it’s ugly. It’s just that I don’t throw that word around lightly.” After a pause, she reconsiders: It’s not that she’s not a feminist. She’s even written a song, “Seneca Falls,” inspired by Ken Burns’ documentary on women’s suffrage: “Elizabeth Cady/Forever reminding me/I don’t steal the air I breathe.” It’s just that calling herself a feminist might somehow cordon herself off into the rarefied and curious world of Women Who Rock — those women for whom fronting a rock band is a political statement, one that factors into their place in the pantheon. It’s a fate she adamantly refuses. “People throw that [women in rock] thing in when they talk about me as though it’s some sort of novelty,” she complains. “But it’s not. This is not fucking new shit.” The Distillers started out in late 1998 with bassist Kim Fuelleman, drummer Mat Young and, a little later, Rose Casper on guitar giving ragged shape to Armstrong’s fast, messy anthems, songs like “The World Comes Tumblin’ Down” (“Start a riot, slash ya wrists red”) and a cover of Patti Smith’s “Ask the Angels,” songs that mostly read and sound like the exuberant rantings of a bunch of kids trying hard to play angry. The record was distinguished only by occasional bursts of melodic sense of humor and Armstrong’s voice, a deep, guttural howl with a staticky edge that didn’t seem to belong decisively to either sex; it sounded primitive and raw, and lent a pure emotion to songs that might otherwise have come off contrived. By the time Sing Sing Death House came out in 2002, Fuelleman and Young had gone off to join Exene Cervenka’s Original Sinners. Casper had left, too. Armstrong had acquired Granelli from the Bay Area band the Nerve Agents, who had in turn recruited Sinn, up till then a guitarist schooled in little more than speed metal. She had also learned to sing from her diaphragm, perhaps staving off the vocal-cord nodes she says plague her good friend Shirley Manson, and to write a lyric grounded in something besides her own inchoate rage: “Emptiness never sleeps at Clifton’s 6 a.m.,” she sings in “City of Angels,” the record’s most radio-friendly single. “With your bag-lady friend and your mind descending/Stripped of the right to be a human in control . . . we don’t rest in peace/we just disappear.” The record was good, solid, energetic punk; critics liked it, people paid attention. But the band wasn’t happy. “It wasn’t up to our abilities at the time,” says Granelli. “We did it in a studio on Hollywood Boulevard in two weeks, and in those two weeks [one of the tech people] went on a crack binge, which took four days out of those two weeks we had to record. It was so rushed — it was like a song was written and practiced and recorded because we didn’t have any kind of time to go back and rethink it.” I tell Sinn I’m impressed with his bass lines, which stand out on songs like “City of Angels” as agile counterpoints to the band’s hard-rock pulse. “You know that bass sound on the record?” Sinn asks. “That’s like the ‘180-degrees-from-how-I-wanted-the-bass-to-sound’ sound. That’s the ‘We’ve-been-working-for-16-hours-and-we-have-to-be-done-in-two-days-so-that’ll-have-to-do’ sound.” Still, the record was successful enough that the band went out on tour as an opener for No Doubt and Garbage in the fall of 2002; when they got off the road last March, Armstrong added Bevilacqua to the lineup after seeing him play in a band with Granelli. “It was totally instinctual,” says Armstrong. “He’s a great fucking guitar player.” She also knew they’d get along — Bevilacqua had known the band since late ’99, when Armstrong recruited him out of Epitaph’s offices to sell the band’s T-shirts. “He used to be our swag dog, but we moved him up to roadie,” she says. “Now he’s playing onstage.” In the winter of 2003, the band signed a deal with Sire, a division of Warner Bros., to bankroll and market their new record (it will be officially released as Sire/Hellcat). The move has brought to a head the band’s simmering conflict with punk purists, specifically the general readership of the intensely political, rigorously DIY punk magazine Maximumrocknroll, “the kids” who, from the Distillers’ perspective, seem to loom in the shadows like harpies poised to descend on the transgressor. “This record, it’s such a big jump for us, musically and philosophically,” says Armstrong, “and when we listen we go, ‘Oh my god, the kids are going to fucking freak out. They’re not going to be happy, and frankly I don’t fucking care. I want to branch out. I don’t want to be rigid. I’m not a myopic person, and I’m not going to placate anybody. “Those Maximumrocknroll kids, they’re all P.C. even when they’re not trying to be P.C.,” she goes on. “They’re sheep. They can’t form opinions of their own. And they’re mad at me for all sorts of reasons that have nothing to do with the music.” Like what? “Well, let’s just say I’m definitely going to make a T-shirt that says ‘Panning for Gold.’ That’s for sure.” There’s a way in which Maximumrocknroll becomes a sort of lightning rod for Armstrong’s anxiety about the way the world perceives her: According to Arwen Curry, co-coordinator at the magazine (it’s a non-hierarchical sort of place), no one has actually called Armstrong a gold digger in the pages of the magazine or even around the MRR water coolers. “We consistently cover who we cover,” she says, “which means independently produced bands not affiliated with major labels. We don’t hate them; we’re just not concerned with them. They don’t need us.” Nor, says Curry, does anyone at the magazine have an opinion to share on Armstrong’s impending divorce from Rancid front man Tim Armstrong, the man who met his wife at 17, married her at 18 (he was 30), lured her to America and signed her to his own label. “We don’t have an emotional investment in the Distillers,” Curry says. “And I can tell you that of the 25 record reviewers here, there will be some who like their new record. We just won’t review it, because it’s not what we do.” Plenty of venom has been spewed at Brody Armstrong in other places, however, including several punk-centric Internet chat rooms and the Silver Lake rock scene, where the general consensus ranges from “Brody used Tim like a ladder for six years” to “Brody is shooting up again” (“Do I look like a heroin addict to you?” she asks) to “Brody is a fucking whore.” You might say she made things somewhat worse by posing for a sexy photo shoot with Homme in Rolling Stone, but hey, it’s still none of your business. “I love Tim,” she says. “I’ll always love Tim, and my love was sincere.” Beyond that, she repeats with a hard stare, “It’s private. No one knows what goes on in anyone else’s relationship, and there’s nothing I can say to defend myself.” I think of how many partners women generally burn through between the ages of 17 and 24 and openly admire her tenacity. She’s unimpressed. People will say what they will whether she talks or not. She’s trying not to be nice about it. But being not nice is often a hard game for a young woman, even one who plays as rough as Armstrong. Her cigarette trembles between her fingers when she talks about the resistance she gets from the world, about the insults that come from the “kids,” the rumors that swirl around her. When I ask her whether the media will do to her what it did to Courtney Love — brand her as the Jezebel who ruins a beloved rocker — she declares it’s already been done, and then quickly launches into an explanation of all the ways she’s different from Love. She doesn’t have Love’s ego, she doesn’t court controversy, she’s shy. “I don’t want to be that fucking rock-star person!” she says. It’s at least half true: Armstrong talks tough and writes brutally candid lyrics, poses provocatively in rock magazines and flaunts her insubordinate sexuality. But she’s not at all comfortable with the spotlight zeroing in on her antics; she seems still at war with her inner good girl, that creature Virginia Woolf labeled “The Angel in the House,” the phantom who sits on a creative woman’s shoulder reminding her to be “intensely sympathetic” and “immensely charming” and, “above all, pure.” Woolf writes of violently murdering hers (“I caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her”). It surprises me to realize that Armstrong, born post–Roe v. Wade, inculcated in feminist thought ‰ before she knew what it was, is still doing battle. Which is why, I suspect, Armstrong’s forceful words are frequently out of sync with her actions; why she doesn’t want to be complimented on her beauty, yet glides into the room first thing in her morning (around 1 p.m.) in stiletto heels and a T-shirt precariously held together with safety pins; why she feigns an attempt at disguising her good looks with big rings of eyeshadow the color of an old bruise — a reddish brown that suggests double shiners healed over but not forgotten — which only makes her eyes deeper and greener and bigger; why she prefaces so many verbs with some variant of fuck and ends so many of her rants with what seems to be one of her favorite, and least believable, phrases: “Frankly, I don’t fucking care.” The problem is, she does care. Armstrong is a nice person; this is evident from the way she interacts with her fellow band members, who are all equally friendly and forthcoming and dedicated to the band’s collaborative spirit; there’s a frank gentleness about all four of them. And they exude a comfort and happiness in each other’s presence that can’t be faked for a visitor. “She’s rad,” says Granelli of Armstrong, “totally cool, easy to get along with. Everyone in the band gets along. For so many people it’s all about ego, but Brody doesn’t abuse the hierarchy.” “Punk is sunk,” says Granelli, sitting in the Site’s plush but not pretentious living room, speaking officially into the tape recorder with Sinn, who has just put down his big, red Motley Crue biography, The Dirt. (Evidently the book is filled with tales about the crowd his fiancée once ran with.) The Osbournes is playing on the big-screen television with the sound off — “it’s a marathon of the best hangover television-watching ever,” says Sinn, as I ponder how he has managed to dye his roots blond. Granelli is a big guy with lanky hair hanging in his eyes, like a slightly beefier and more sanguine version of Joey Ramone, which might lead some people to expect him to be less articulate than he is. At 24, he’s a musicologist in the making, a drummer who thinks about things like how to knock those kids who loiter on San Francisco’s Gilman Street out of their know-it-all groove — “It would be so cool if we could come along and show them something new,” he says, “the way Black Flag did it for us. If I hadn’t listened to them, if I’d just said, ‘Oh they suck because they don’t sound like Michael Jackson’ or something, I wouldn’t be doing the stuff I’m doing now.” He also thinks hard about the deeper implications of the audience-band relationship. “We watched the Led Zeppelin DVD last night,” he tells me. “It’s fucking rad, but there’s also a lot of wanking — I mean, it’s really the Jimmy Page show. He does a 17-minute guitar solo. It was pretty cool, but I realized that the whole time I was watching it I was waiting for something else to happen.” “Right,” says Sinn. “At some point, it’s just like, I want to hear the song.” “You want the big payoff,” Granelli says. “And ours came with the fast-forward button.” “But here’s the thing,” says Granelli. “How do you figure out how long you can make people pay? How long can you push something to make people pay before you can give them the prize? That’s an awesome thing.” I suggest that people actually want to pay. Granelli agrees. “That’s because we’re all fucking masochists.” Granelli is putting a lot of effort these days into determining his style, listening studiously to everything from the Beatles to math rockers Don Caballero. “Math rock is like listening to jazz, kind of. There’s no really set beat; it’s just doodling. There’s no melody, but I listen to it because, I don’t know why. It’s interesting. “I don’t want to be typical,” he says. “I’m trying really hard in this record to not be typical, but at the same time not playing cluttered, not playing over the vocals and the guitar. With the Distillers it’s very easy to play over the melody, not let the guitar riffs speak for themselves. I’m trying to be very selective with nuances and stuff, just holding back on the off beat of something, you know?” But is that punk? “That’s our most-asked-by-journalists question,” Granelli says. He mimics a fictional journalist with an FM-radio voice: “’What does punk mean to you?’ And I always say I don’t know. I don’t want to care. I say ‘punk is sunk’ because it’s funny. Because it rhymes. Because our friend Tim Presley was saying it, and I liked it.” The cant among rock critics is that the punk of the present can never compete with the original scene — it has no political center; its rage isn’t grounded in anything. The Ramones subverted social hierarchies; the Sex Pistols and the Clash staged class wars; the Dead Kennedys pounded on capitalist consumerism. “What do the Distillers stand for?” Granelli asks rhetorically. “We’re against injustice, unfairness, abuse,” he says, “wherever we find it. Like if I’m driving a white car, and I get pulled over for driving a white car, just because the police don’t like white cars, then we’re against that kind of thing.” “The only time I ever think about it is when somebody asks,” says Sinn. “Most of the time I don’t care.” “Yeah,” says Granelli. “We don’t think, ‘We’re a punk band,’ because we’re all into different stuff. Like we don’t kick Ryan out for listening to Emperor.” Granelli was working up in San Francisco, folding T-shirts at a snowboard clothing store by day, playing occasionally with the then-disintegrating Nerve Agents by night, when Brody Armstrong called him with an offer. The two had met through Tim Armstrong, played a few shows together and become friends. “She called me and said, ‘There’s this Rancid tour that the Distillers are doing, and we’re leaving in two weeks. Can you do it? And can you find us a bass player?’ I thought, Yeah, I can do that, so I quit my job. And I found this bass player, Dante — I said, let’s just go on tour, let’s do it, we’ve got nothing else to do. And I just sort of stayed on,” he says. “It always felt right.” Dante moved on to other projects, and Granelli brought on Sinn, whom he’d known for years as a guitar player into black metal. “He asked me, ‘Can you play bass?’” Sinn remembers, “and I said no. Then I went away and thought about it and decided to try. Now it feels more natural to me than playing guitar.” “Yeah,” Granelli laughs. “Fewer strings.” “Fewer strings,” Sinn shoots back, “but a lot more concentration.” Gazing out at the velvety pines that stretch up the hills outside the studio’s window, I wonder out loud how a band so hell-bent on anger and suffering in its lyrics and posture can muster rage in an environment so bucolic. The band has a month and a half simply to practice, another whole month to record. The MRR squad can object all they want; signing with a major label has its privileges. “It’s so nice to just have this time to do nothing but sit around making music,” says Sinn. “It doesn’t take the edge off what we do. It just gives us more time to sit around and think about that edge.” My name is Brody I’m from Melbourne Fitzroy Melbourne, Fitzboy Melbourne I grew up on Bell St. then on Bennett St. My mom kicked out my dad for battery Found a way she found a way out of spiritual penury Working single mother in an urban struggle Blames herself now ’cause I grew up troubled. —“The Young Crazed Peeling,” from Sing Sing Death House Brody Armstrong was born Brody Dalle in Melbourne, Australia, to a career-nurse mother. Mom kicked out Dad while Brody was still young. At age 8 she started taking informal guitar lessons from a “hesher dude” down the street from where she lived. “He’d just teach me to play my favorite songs,” she remembers. “Like he taught me ‘Teenage Whore’ when I was 13.” At 14, she started her first band, the all-girl Sourpuss, with her best friend, Sara Barber, and almost right away secured spots in all-ages shows with other punk bands in the city. From the beginning, the ghetto of girl rockers annoyed her. “We started rehearsing at this place called Rock ’n’ Roll High School, which is run by these psychotic feminists in Melbourne — I mean psychotic feminists, like Nazi sows, out of their fucking minds,” she remembers. “It’s a rock & roll girls’ school, designed to help young women learn how to set everything up and plug shit in, which is great. It was a cool setup — American bands like Sonic Youth and Babes in Toyland would come in and donate instruments and money to the cause, and they’d watch us play.” But the girl bands were curiosities, their players indulged not because they were good musicians, but because they were female, and Armstrong soon tired of the special treatment. “I hated playing under this banner of a girls’ school,” she says, “because it did more damage than it ever helped us. We weren’t taken seriously at all, and I resented it so much that I just didn’t want to be a part of it anymore.” After a bitter argument with the school’s founder, Stephanie Bourke, Armstrong left the school, and vowed she’d never let anyone call her a girl rocker again. Two years later she left home to rent a room in Jalong, a small industrial beach town an hour from Melbourne, “a shithole, fucking white-trash place. My house was actually on the freeway, so I felt, metaphorically, that I was never settled — vrrm, vrrm, vrrm all night long — like my bedroom window was the freeway. It was fucking chaos in there all day, all day.” She moved back home a year later, because she’d run out of money. “I was kind of in a little bit of a stitch,” she recalls. “At that point, living on my own, I realized that I couldn’t really function that well. So I went home, and when I walked in my mom was doing the dishes, and I just stood there and looked at her like I’d never seen her before — as her own woman, not as my mother, as a person who had thoughts and feelings and a life of her own before I even fucking came out of her. I thought, ‘Oh shit, we have to become friends now.” She and her father are close these days, too. “They’re my support in the world. I’m fucked without them. “And,” she adds, “they’re going to love this record.” Averse as Armstrong may be to any kind of gender-specific analysis of her place in the rock & roll canon, her songs remain militantly about girls and women and their troubles, particularly a haunting character she calls Gerti Rouge who emerges in bits and pieces on the Distillers’ debut album and to whom she dedicates an entire song, “Young Girl,” on Sing Sing Death House: “It’s a lie when you are telling the truth/It’s the truth when you are telling a lie/Spread your legs then get down on your knees/And pray it never happens again.” “That’s not her real name,” Armstrong explains, “but she’s my childhood best friend, and she was molested by her father since age zero until she was about 14. Her mother was a child psychologist, which made the situation even sicker. In the ’80s her mom was just addicted to pills, and knew what was going on but didn’t know how to stop it. She was obese, and just fed her pain and fed her guilt. “When me and my mom took her out of that situation, we told her mother what was going on, and her mother came over to my house. I was sitting there, and her mother pulled out a clipboard, and instead of holding her child she just asked, ‘So, tell me what happened?’ And Gerti’s sitting there crying. My mother was so disgusted. It was so fucking unbelievable. We were like, ‘This is your child, not someone else’s child.’ It was unfuckingbelievable.” Gerti wasn’t anorexic or bulimic, and she wasn’t addicted to drugs, says Armstrong, “but she cut. Yeah, she cut herself. I’ve known girls who are anorexic, too,” she says. “Someone real close to me now is anorexic, and it’s just thrown her family into hell. It’s so scary, so sad that some women feel that they have to starve themselves, and this woman I know, she knows she has a problem and she just can’t stop. I see these girls, they’re 14 years old, taller than me and weigh half what I weigh.” “Girl needs to get a sandwich!” says Bevilacqua. “That’s what we say to those toothpick girls.” “Fucking right,” says Armstrong. “Who wants to make love to a bag of bones? What do you do with that? It’s not healthy; it’s hard on your organs. “I weigh 140 pounds,” she announces boldly. “In fact, I weigh 148. When I first moved to this country I weighed 120 pounds. A year later I weighed 160 pounds — 160 pounds! — purely because of the way they serve food here. One serving here is like four servings of fucking food anywhere else. “I’m 5-foot-8, so I carried it,” she adds. “But my boobs were fucking huge.” "We got Tony playing at the last minute,” says Armstrong, as Bevilacqua, still sitting on the floor, looks up at her admiringly. “Right before we went to Japan,” Bevilacqua adds. “It always happens that way,” Brody continues. “Everyone that’s ever been recruited comes in right before a record. Rose I got a couple of weeks before we did the first record, Ryan a couple of weeks before the second record, and then you,” she says to Tony, “look at you with those lashes. What do you need those lashes for? Hopefully you’re not going to fuck up and then we have to fire you!” “You’re going to fire me?” Tony pretends to be shocked. “Yeah, you’re fired! You’re fucking fired! “Or maybe we’ll get you up there singing, so I can just lay back and play guitar. He’s a good screamer,” she says, looking at Bevilacqua. “I’d like to get him up in front. Then you can be the gold digger, too. You can be sucking on gold.” Before I leave, Armstrong shows me Tim Presley’s artwork for the album — several illustrations based on the twin motifs of dismembered women and razorblades. In one drawing, a tree bears leaves of razorblades; in another, a woman’s torso is hanging bloody from a tree’s limbs. “I gave him a lyric about a woman who was murdered in a park in Melbourne,” she says. “It was so horrible. And he came up with this. Isn’t it totally tits? “Art isn’t dangerous anymore,” Armstrong declares. “I hardly ever see art that makes me go, ‘Holy shit!’ I want art to be dangerous again.” On my way out the door, while I’m scarfing down a shrimp salad and avocado sandwich left over from the band’s lunch, Armstrong stops me. “Wait,” she demands. “One more thing. You’ve got to try this. We had butterscotch pudding last night, and it’s so fucking good.” She pulls a dish out of the refrigerator and hands me a spoon. I do what she says — I dig down for the crunchy pieces of butterscotch that have settled toward the bottom. She’s right; it’s excellent butterscotch pudding. I figure I haven’t eaten it since I was 12 or so, and the taste of home-cooked, lumpy butterscotch brings back a torrent of adolescent memories. As Armstrong insists I have a second, I marvel over the disorienting sensation of a woman two decades my junior pulling me into her confidence, involving me in one of those conspiracies girls have: shoes, boyfriends, butterscotch pudding. There’s still an angel in Brody Armstrong’s house.

MTV: CORAL FANG The Distillers' major-label debut promises to be a collection punk fans can really sink their teeth into ... or vice versa. With the addition of guitarist Tony Bevilacqua, the newly formed quartet began recording the dozen or so songs it has written for Coral Fang, the follow-up to last year's Sing Sing Death House, last week at the Site, a studio in San Rafael, California. Gil Norton, who's produced albums for the Pixies and Foo Fighters, and has most recently worked on the new Dashboard Confessional LP, is at the helm. One of the things the follow-up to a breakthrough album affords a band is more time. While Sing Sing and the members' 2002 eponymous debut were recorded in a couple of weeks between tours, the female-fronted punk group can take its time with Coral Fang. And taking one's time in the studio almost always results in a musical stretch. "We kinda wanted to do something different, just not the same-old, same-old," drummer Andy Outbreak said. "Something that's more exciting, but at the same time, still who we are — still the Distillers. Don't expect your typical punk rock record from us. We've kind of shown we can do that, so let's explore more of the different styles of music that we're into." Outbreak, Bevilacqua, bassist Ryan Sinn and singer Brody Armstrong hope to finish recording Coral Fang before hitching their wagon to the Lollapalooza trek from the July 3 kickoff through August 10. The album is expected to drop in October. Coral Fang was named for one of the album's tracks, though Outbreak won't say much more than that of the title. And it's still to be determined whether the LP will include a cover of the "Walls Come Tumbling Down" by Paul Weller's post-Jam project, the Style Council. Outbreak did, however, reference a song about one of the band's most preferred metropolises. But just when you're thinking there are already too many tunes about New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Chicago, the Distillers pitch one of those curveballs Outbreak was bragging about earlier. "It's one of our favorite cities," he said of the song "Cincinnati." "Every time we've been there, it's been a good experience. The people there are really cool. It's just so much different than California." Besides the extended time frame, the other major difference between Coral Fang and Sing Sing is personal. Part of the media's attention toward the LP centered on Brody Armstrong's marriage to fellow funny-haired rocker, Rancid guitarist Tim Armstrong (see "The Distillers: How Stella Got Her Punk Back"). In the time since, however, the couple divorced. While Outbreak said that the breakup hasn't affected the Distillers' music, it has given them a more honest perspective of the scene. With their singer wed to a member of Rancid and the band signed with Epitaph Records, the Distillers were embraced by all aspects of the "hardcore mafia." That doesn't seem to be the case anymore. "The thing that was a real bummer was the way some people were treating us," Outbreak said. "There was definitely a change in attitude in a lot of people and it just goes to show you that those people aren't your friends. That was a bigger letdown for all of us than anything else ... It definitely gave us some perspective of where we stand with certain people."

In a howling contrast to Gwen Stefani’s colorful and bouncy punk playfulness, The Distillers took the stage on November 17th for a night of anthems that bled themselves raw from Brody Armstrong’s sand paper voice. As the object of the punk world’s affection, Brody, along with bandmates Andy (drums) and Ryan (bass), jumped into a rip roaring set of perfectly constructed three chord concoctions. By the time “Young Crazed Peeling” off their latest disc, Sing Sing Death House was blasted; all fists were raised in punk rebellion. Punk was very much alive, and who would’ve thought; at a No Doubt concert. Brody snarls into the mic as she tussles her disheveled hair around, noticeably missing her stalagmite six inch trademark spikes. She sinks her fangs into each track as she strums her guitar. Often times Ryan is seen jumping into vocals. The most energetic of tand is usually far from his mic only to end up running up to it in a frenzy of spitfire vocals. Andy’s drumming is charismatic and all together collected as he keeps ferocious tempo with Brody’s bouncing tough as nails demeanor. The Distillers put on a strong live show. Like the songs they play, their performances are straight forward, no nonsense, and snappy. They play, they tell the audience to jump, and then get off the stage. Brody only addressed the audience once during their moderately length set. All in all The Distillers are a strong live act, worthy of the recent praise they’ve been gathering from their recent tour. Armstrong proves a perfect balance to the saccharine slathered appearance of No Doubt. Her voice is transformed into a fiery pit of social issues and tortured agony. All the while she maintains her demeanor and keeps herself distanced from her emotions, letting us do the feeling. With tattoo ink running through her veins, tonight is a perfect reminder of why she’s punk’s reluctant princess.

Modern Fix Interview When you first heard Janis Joplin's raspy vocals and unforgettable folk songs, when Gloria Gayner claimed "I Will Survive," when Tiffany took over the mall scene, Mariah squelched over the airwaves, Courtney Love wore baby doll dresses, red lipstick, played guitar and gave a big fuck you to the world, and Gwen Steffani took over the late '90s scene that was mostly male dominated. Now there's a new female voice saturating the scene, one with a furious growl. She's talented, smart, and sexy all at the same time. The Distillers front woman, Brody Armstrong doesn't take shit from anyone. She plays just as hard as the boys in her band, she's not afraid to tell it like it is and get a little dirt under her nails. The Distillers have quickly gained attention in the music scene as their second album Sing Sing Death House has become a must have for new-day punk fans. With a Rancid meets Hole sound the band practically assaults the crowd with their in-your-face style and has 22-year-old Armstrong standing out in the spotlight. While on a mini-tour with friends The Transplants, The Distillers sold-out the House of Blues Anaheim and opened their arms to a new group of fans. Even Epitaph Records creator, Brett Gurewitz was in the crowd. Downtime pre-show permitted me to sit down with Brody and Andy from the band to talk about their newfound fame, the new record, the music scene and Brody vs. Courtney Love. How'd you guys get your band name and what does it mean? Brody: To distill something is to take the essence out of something. It's most related to beer, but I got it off this old, falling down distillery. How long have you bet together? Brody: Two or three years? How did you guys hook up? Brody: He [Andy] was in The Nerve Agents and The Distillers played an outdoor all ages show with The Nerve Agents, and then we found our bass player [Ryan]. Brody, were you in other bands before the Distillers? Brody: A long time ago. Being from a place like Melbourne, Australia, how is the music scene there? Brody: It was great. There was a huge all-ages scene and I grew up on bands like The Beanies, you probably never heard of any of these, but the Hard On's and stuff like that. What kind of music influenced you to be in this type of band? Brody: Discharge, Black Flag, The Ramones, and Blondie. Do you like doing interviews with the various medias? Andy: It all depends on the person interviewing. Like me, who forgot to put in fresh batteries on the tape recorder? Andy: [Laughs] It all depends on personality and things that they ask…when they say, what's it like when you…I don't know, insert something stupid here. I'll shut up now. How did you [Brody] end up hooking up with Tim Armstrong? Brody: I met him in Australia before I ever even lived here. He's my husband and I moved here to be with him and I had been playing music since I was 13 and he was just starting Hellcat and he asked us to be on Hellcat. Of course we said yeah. What else were we going to do? Ask Fat Mike for a record deal? Or ask Dexter Holland? Of course we're going to go with Hellcat! How would you describe your relationship with both of you being in bands and touring and so on? Brody: It works fine because we both do the same thing. It makes more sense than anything. We both have a real understanding on how it all works so it's perfect. What was it like for you to record your second album? What were your thoughts in the writing process? Brody: When you make a record it's not premeditated we never thought of "how it's going to happen." Andy: Well unless you have like a themed record. Brody: Yeah like a rock opera or something. We don't think about that stuff. We have our songs, we go into the studio and record it and whatever comes, comes. It's like growing - you don't really know how it's going to turn out. Well how does the writing process work within your band? Brody: Andy writes all the songs. Andy: It's true, lyrics too. Just kidding. No, Brody will write the songs and lyrics, then we'll kind of get together and structure it all. Brody: I bring it in and we all work on it. What kind of stuff do you focus on when you're writing? Brody: Social issues, relationships, other people's stories. What's it like being a female singer in band such as this? Obviously there aren't a lot of females out there doing what you do. Brody: I think I'm more man than the two of them put together [Ryan and Andy]. It's no different than any other band I've ever been in besides the gender and they are like my brothers. Obviously our anatomy is different but the way we think is exactly the same. That never comes up; it's not a big issue for us. How do you respond to critics that say you have a very "Courtney Love" sounding voice? Brody: I can see how people could say that but honestly on this new record…I honestly don't go out of my way to sound like her. Their [Hole's] first record was huge for me, I was 13 and I had never heard anybody scream like that. I don't know, do you think Courtney could be in this band, play hardcore and do what I do? I don't think so. She doesn't even play her guitar. Much respect to her though because she has helped pave the way for a lot of women, she speaks her mind and that's awesome that she's kicked down all these doors. She's brutally honest and I appreciate her for that. Could you see yourself paving the same sort of path? Being the inspiring female figure? Brody: If I just keep doing what I'm doing it might just become an automatic response. But Courtney is crazy smart academically so I don't think I'd end up being as vocal about it. We'll see what happens. I don't know. What do you think of the music scene today? What you hear on MTV and KROQ? Andy: It's changing. It's obviously changing right now because what you hear on KROQ is us right now. Two or three weeks ago you didn't and out of fucking nowhere here we are on the radio every day, five times a day or whatever. Do you feel that was a much-needed change? Andy: It all started with The Strokes record because it came out and it was a revival of '60s garage rock. Then The Hives came and it's crazy because this is all within the last six months. Everyone stopped looking at metal bands, if you think about it, new metal to us is like what Poison was in the '80s. This over the top glam metal, untouchable, un-real idols. It's so over the top and huge the normal kid can't even fathom. It's like wow, those are rockstars and the cycle of that is just over and it needed to be done. It's not appealing. That image doesn't appeal to me…or a lot of other people. Do you think this new trend in music is going to continue? Andy: I think so because it's been so long with so much crap. Just like how Nirvana turned…wait, it was that one Behind the Music, it was Vince Neil that said, no. It was Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson had an album come out the same time as Nevermind and the Michael Jackson hit number one and then all those albums Jackson sold got returned. Michael is like a cartoon character. He's not even real; he's not even real to himself. He doesn't even have a real face! NSYNC is the same deal! The worst part about that is how they are blatant about how fake it was! They made a damn TV show about how they manufacture bands! And that O-Town still had a gold record! What the hell!! Do you think that whole aspect of music is starting to fade? Like it's not appealing as this new sound is coming in and those artists in the pop-fake scene are starting to deteriorate? Andy: Yeah because it's not stylish. What do you see as the "next big thing?" Andy: The new thing is going to be just incredible in general. Any band that really has something to say, like AFI. Just like Nirvana, they weren't popular at first but then comes Nevermind and they're the biggest fucking thing in the world. How do you like going on tour and how do crowds that haven't seen you guys before respond at your shows? Andy: I don't know? They seem to like it! It depends I'm sure some hate it. How would you describe a Distillers live show? Andy: I think we're just playing. It's not premeditated. Brody and I have been doing this for what, 14 years? That's just what happens. I've been doing this almost longer than I've been in school; it's been a better part of my life so it just kinda happens. Kinda like breathing. How do you feel about having your song being played on the radio and being part of MTV2? Andy: It's pretty cool and weird at the same time. Brody: When you're number one on KROQ above System of a Down, New Found Glory and Linkin Park…that's weird. Andy: Above bands that have sold millions upon millions of records. And then there is us with our 1,000 records and it's fucking weird! It doesn't make any sense! I think it goes back to what we were saying about how everything is changing. Andy: We like it though! You mentioned AFI being one of the next big acts but they received a big backlash for being on the radio. Brody: There's a fine line between ultimately giving yourself away and allowing other people to change your thinking. We're not doing this to please other people, it's great that other people like it, but really we do this for ourselves. We can listen to all that and we love our fans and we're trying to set up a fanzine and stuff for us, but ultimately the decisions are just being made. This is a career. Without being arrogant, understand that this is what we do. We never said we wouldn't be on MTV or on radio. We never preached any of that. It's unfortunate because we might lose fans. Andy: Those that choose not to like our band because we are on the radio, then I don't understand why they liked us anyway. When Greenday came out everyone freaked out and couldn't believe they were on a major label, but the thing is, who the fuck cares? "Dookie" was like their best record but people called them sellouts. They just made their music more accessible. There was less shit out on the radio so you just kinda take the place of shit. Fine, say we never were on the radio and shit ruled the airwaves, everything would be shit, art and all that stuff becomes shit. Art, music and everything. The only things that can be popular are shit? If something is good, people should like it. People shouldn't like shit. Right? uh, I suppose. Andy: Well, I don't like shit. What's your favorite thing about touring? Andy: The food. Brody: We just came back from Europe. It's awesome to go and do what you wanna do and play in these places with so much culture. Where is your favorite place to play? Andy: Home. Brody: Definitely home. Andy: It depends on who you're with. If you're with your friends then it's fun. If you're by yourself then it's not that cool. Especially if you're alone with bands that are kinda dicks to you anyways, then it sucks. What kind of advice would you give to up and coming acts? Brody: Keep doing what you want and don't take shit from anybody. Be wary that there are people out there that will take advantage of you, stay focused…damn I sound like a fucking coach! And practice, practice, practice! Have you run into problems with business people trying to manipulate you or take advantage? Brody: Yeah. We confront them and let them know we don't take that shit. Andy: We try to avoid it.

New Times Interview "Are you ready to be liberated/On this sad side city street/Well the birds have been freed from their cages/I've got freedom and my youth! " The whiskeyed snarl evokes Mia Zapata and Courtney Love. The anthemic guitar riff brings to mind Prison Bound-era Social Distortion. It's the Distillers' "The Young Crazed Peeling," easily the best rock single since Seattle went ka-bang in 1994. In just seven years, Distillers singer/MTV punk pinup Brody Armstrong has made the unthinkable transition from Australian teenage gutter punk to America's great female punk-rock hope. While bouncing among Catholic school, an abusive home, and life on the Melbourne streets during her preteen years, Brody found an outlet for her rage in British hardcore dinosaurs Discharge. "It was so fast and so crazy," she says. "I'd never heard anything like it. All that screaming! It was exactly how I felt. It was exactly what I wanted to say." A new life opened up for Brody as she began hanging out at the Art House, Melbourne's all-ages punk dive, eventually finding a like-minded crew of 14-year-old hardcore girlies who formed Sourpuss, her first band. "We were awful," she says with an audible grimace. "We thought we were playing fast, but we couldn't play our instruments, so it was a big mess." On New Year's Eve 1995, Sourpuss played Australia's Somersault festival alongside Rancid. When the then 16-year-old Brody and Rancid's 30-something singer, Tim Armstrong, bumped into one another, Cupid yanked out the crossbow. "Love at first sight," Brody states. After two years of long-distance romance, a barely legal Brody left the land down under and moved to Los Angeles to wed Armstrong. A year after her transplant, Brody found drummer Matt Young at a record store and bassist Kim Chai in her hubby's office at Epitaph/Hellcat Records and began the Distillers. After guitarist Rose Casper filled out the lineup in 1999, the quartet recorded its self-titled full-length and released it the following year on Hellcat. A rousing punk record featuring piss-in-your-eye snottiness, breakneck verses, rousing anthemic choruses, and a blistering cover of Patti Smith's "Ask the Angels," The Distillers racked up good reviews and sold well, but virtually every write-up of the band mentioned her famous hubby and compared their music to Rancid. "I can hear a lot of Rancid in the first record," the amply tattooed Brody admits. "But if that's all they have to say, I think it's lazy journalism." More annoying to Brody were the charges of nepotism stemming from the Distillers' residing on her husband's label. "Tim started the label for his friends," Brody explains. "Lars [Frederickson, Rancid guitarist] is on Hellcat; so is Matt Freeman [Rancid bassist], and so are the Dropkick Murphys. It's definitely a family business." Unfortunately for Brody, holding the band together proved tougher than telling her critics to kiss off. After touring the States for a year, both Chai and Young came to loggerheads with Brody and were asked to leave. Now without a rhythm section but with an upcoming slot on Rancid's winter 2000 tour, Brody recruited Andy Outbreak and Dante Sigona -- the rhythm section of Bay Area punk combo the Nerve Agents -- to fill in for the dates. "She was ready to break up the band," Outbreak recalls. "I couldn't let that happen. The Nerve Agents played the second Distillers show ever, and they were one of my favorite bands." After the tour, Outbreak was invited to join permanently and recruited a fellow Bay Area punker named Ryan to play bass. "I had a choice between going back to school or dropping out to tour. I'm a loser, so I decided to tour," Outbreak chuckles. With this lineup, the band entered L.A.'s Westlake studios in May 2001 with Bad Religion guitarist/Epitaph headmaster Brett Gurewitz producing. There, the band drew inspiration from Westlake's infamous "Michael Jackson Room." "When he recorded Dangerous there, Michael had a special room built with a skylight and a swing for Bubbles the Chimp," Outbreak explains. The resulting record, Sing Sing Death House, joins Antiseen's Boys from Brutalsville and Recover's Rodeo & Picasso in the 21st Century's first wave of punk-rock classics. While the record has its share of whiplash-inducing hardcore tracks like "Bullet & the Bullseye," the interior of Sing Sing Death House reveals a massive leap forward in Brody's songwriting skills. Gone are the days where her choruses stood out like a truffle on a hamburger. Tracks like "City of Angels" feature bridges as gorgeous as the Golden Gate and a Bukowski-like lyrical style unnerving in its directness: "It's a ghost town, rabid underworld/Dionysian night, vitriolic twilight/A mirage comes up, it never ends/Once you get burnt, you're never the same/Left behind, erased from time/Ain't no decency in being boxed up alive/Look around, ain't no RIP signs here/We don't rest in peace/We just disappear." After being tabled due to September 11, Sing Sing Death House finally emerged in February 2002 and won the attention of L.A. alt-radio behemoth KROQ, which added "City of Angels" to its rotation within a few months. Suddenly, the Distillers owned a much higher profile that has snowballed into two videos on MTV ("The Young Crazed Peeling" and "City of Angels"), arena tours with the Red Hot Chili Peppers and No Doubt, and a major-label deal with Sire Records. "We didn't ask for any of this; it just happened," Outbreak states. "But it is nice to not have to starve on the road." Outbreak is blasé about the outrage expressed by horrified punk purists (dismayed by the now-well-fed combo) who have posted more than 100 times on Distillers.net under the heading, "Why the Distillers Are Fucking Up." "No one ever says anything to our face," Outbreak drawls. "It's just a bunch of kids hiding behind their computers who still live with Mommy and Daddy. I don't know what they're worried about. According to the 'experts,' we're just a flash in the pan."

The Retreiver Screaming over biting guitar riffs that seem to cut into your very skin, Brodie Armstrong of The Distillers wastes no time in declaring the theme of her righteous punk band in the opening track of their latest record, Sing Sing Death House: "We are kids, we play punk rock-n-roll, if we didn’t we got no soul." The desperation and simplicity of this statement resonates throughout the rest of this Epitaph-signed punk act’s second album. Seamlessly, the band ricochets from one blistering punk anthem to the next, each track relating to the next in an urgent effort to define the emotional turmoil of life’s experiences and climb to the top in the face of great adversity. Though a common topic among the punk rock genre, rarely is it tackled with such passion and honesty. Australian Armstrong is a key factor in making The Distillers a voice that stands out among the ever-growing punk crowd. Her vocals are often gritty and harsh, but when slowed down, express a tenderness that can melt the most cynical punk rocker. Admittedly, Armstrong’s singing style has more than a passing resemblance to that of her husband and singer/guitarist Tim Armstrong of seminal punk band Rancid. But honestly, who cares, if anyone has the right to mimic the guttural but strangely catchy and rhythmic vocal style of Rancid, it’s Armstrong. This punk queen obviously knows her strength and flexes her presence on songs like "I Am A Revenant" and the title track. In "Seneca Falls," Armstrong recalls the women’s movement of the 19th century in its quest of universal suffrage. It is oddly refreshing to hear a singer of a rock band refer to Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady as personal heroines. Just as she is not afraid to address politics, Armstrong is also not hesitant to get downright hostile when confronted. In "Bullet and the Bullseye" Armstrong states that, "when I hit, there’s nothing left." It is probably a safe bet that there are few who would dare to find out. Armstrong continues to preach with social commentary on "City of Angels" where, reflecting on the slums of Los Angeles, she observes, "They say this is the city, the city of angels, all I see is dead wings." Tackling growing up as a girl in a hostile world in "Young Girl and then suicide in "Hate Me," The Distillers make it clear they are serious about using music to provide a voice for the downtrodden and depressed. Of course their playing is more than capable in supporting the grave relevance of their lyrics. The frenetic strumming of guitars and rhythmic plucking of bass strings provides the perfect background, along with the crazed drumming of Andy Outbreak, to Armstrong’s voice. The band’s flowing tightness is a tribute to their skill and familiarity with each other. A powerful act, even more explosive when served live, The Distillers never fail to satisfy with their overflowing zeal and sincerity. As Armstrong humbly declares in the closing track, "Lordy Lordy," "this is a song from the heart, ain’t nothing else."

NY Rock April 7, 2002 — After I squeezed my butt into the sold-out Knitting Factory, it was Mohawks as far as the eye could see. Lots of youngins were abound, sporting ratty old-school punk T-shirts, camo pants, braces, studded jackets, piercings. Ah, image – so huge in the punk scene. The irony was as thick as the hot, humid air I was trying to breathe. Denmark's Nekromantix were onstage, and lead singer Kim Nekroman was wielding his upright coffin-bass – yes, it's an upright bass in the shape of a coffin – like the freak he most certainly is. Five albums under their noose, and they haven't lost any balls. Songs about sex, death, and all that fun-loving macabre stuff make this psychobilly trio (which includes Peter Sandorff and Kristian Sandorff) spawns of everyone's favorite b-movie band, the Cramps. Stomping through tunes like "Gargoyles Over Copenhagen" and "Who Killed the Cheerleader," from their latest CD Return of the Loving Dead, Nekromantix had the crowd jumping and yelling lyrics, while the braver souls knocked about in the pit. "When I say 'Britney Spears' you say 'Fuck that bitch!!'" Nekroman barked. The crowd gleefully complied and jeered when prompted. I guess the pop star gets no punk love even after covering "I Love Rock 'n' Roll." The band did a disco break, and Nekroman flaunted his best Saturday Night Fever moves while Peter got friendly with his wah-wah pedal. They brought up Geoff Kresge from Tiger Army (who had to cancel their spot on tonight's bill) to play with Nekroman's big coffin, and the crowd paid due respect by ramming bodies into each other. Slick with sweat, Nekromantix exited the stage to make way for the Distillers. I think I speak for all estrogen bombs when I say, Brody Armstrong, you make me tick faster. The 22-year old Australian lead singer/guitarist for the Distillers is the monkey's punk-rock pajamas. She's also the wife of Tim Armstrong (lead singer of Rancid and founder of Hellcat Records). Brody's songs highlight desperation, struggle, and rage. And she's got a feminist streak that never goes unnoticed. Her shielded persona isn't the most welcoming presence. The woman looks like she'd chain-whip you if you happened to look at her funny. I'm not about to look at her funny or unfunny or any other way, for that matter. Not everyone in the crowd was as intimidated as I was. When the skinny, short Brody climbed onstage, with her spiked crown, thick black eye makeup, bitch-red lipstick, and ratty, black Ramones T-shirt, a girl behind me lunged over my shoulders screaming, "You are SO COOOL," and you best believe she didn't mean me. Brody Armstrong of the Distillers Knitting Factory, NYC, 3/2/02 Photo by Jeanne Fury, © 2002 NY Rock The band has a new line-up since their birth a few years ago. Brody still leads, but with her tonight were Ryan (bass) and Andy Outbreak (drums). I'm compelled to mention that this band takes full advantage of Andy's incredible drumming talents. The guy goes above and beyond the bass-snare combination of traditional punk songs to concoct barreling drum sequences that'll have you jumping out of your socks. Note to all other bands: make us jump out of our socks and we'll love you more. Hell, by the end of this set, the frenzied outpouring of energy made my socks melt in my boots. I wasn't the only one. The crowd had an emotional response to the performance, something that doesn't happen unless the music is really amazing. Punk songs, by nature, are incendiaries, so a worked-up crowd is nothing shocking. But what makes the Distillers so amazing is that their music is so well arranged. Like Rancid's songs, the Distillers' songs don't all sound the same. Harmonies soar out of the speakers. There's just enough definition to make every chorus and every riff stick to your ribs, but it's nowhere near streamlined so you never forget that this is punk fucking rock you're listening to. Just buy the new CD, Sing Sing Death House, and you'll understand. When the crowd literally and flagrantly reaches for a band, well, that's something special. The Distillers have that something in excess. Brody's voice is a mix of the pre-Prada Courtney Love's and the scorned sneer of Wendy O. Williams' – raw, snide, throaty, a bit nasal, and with the bitch-o-meter cranked up to a 10. When Brody's voice tore through the air, chunks of her soul were sloughed off, and every individual body surged forward. By the second song, I think it was "Sick of It All," the crowd was so tightly packed together lunging to get near the guitarist, that I didn't even have to support my own body weight. Bodies continually crowd surfed, boots met with heads, and the catharsis was knee-buckling. Brody's chin was glossy with her saliva, and her runny eye-makeup couldn't hide the look of longing she projected. Often, her glassy eyes would gaze into the balcony with this kind of searching-stare that was eerily blank, yet gut-wrenching to witness. It's a look many kids know all too well, especially girls. Gender equality was riding high. It's incredibly important that girls have a real bad-ass that they can identify with in a female lead singer. And the girls in the crowd fought hard for their heroine, someone who looked and felt like they did. When Brody was singing the Elizabeth Cady and Susan B. Anthony tribute song, "Seneca Falls," two girls managed to get onstage and sing along with her, and the entire Knitting Factory was crying out a chorus of "Freedom rise up for me!" Ever have a moment during a show that makes you want to claw at your skin so you get maximum exposure to the carnal energy? Am I in heaven? Throughout the set, the band spoke very little. Here and there, Brody would say "thank you," and at one point she dedicated a song "to our new friends, you know who you are." But by and large, the Distillers rocked out, pausing briefly between songs. Ryan dove into the crowd twice, and I'm not referring to a whee-look-at-me kind of jump – these were Olympic vaults. There wasn't a still moment, even when Brody said they were going to slow things down a bit and then played "Oh Serena" (at least, I think that's the song I heard). She noted that this particular crowd was the best one on the tour, and said, "You're working just as hard as we are." Perhaps she reckoned that from the number of collapsed Mohawks that literally couldn't take the heat. Ever feel like you've been ravaged by King Kong and you still want more? That's like witnessing the Distillers live.

Punk Riders Over the years, the rock world's been scarred by dark, acetylene-throated singers who unleash screams that could scrape the filth off city sidewalks. The first two Hole albums were full of Courtney Love's rot 'n' rage; Kurt Cobain could yowl like a rabid animal; and listening to Appetite for Destruction was like hearing Axl Rose crawl up from the gutter to hiss about Hollywood zombies. For anyone wondering about the next hell-sent growler, check out the Distillers: Brody Armstrong, guitarist and vocalist for the Los Angeles/Bay Area act, may just be the next generation's leading howler. "I don't think anyone can sing like her," says Bad Religion's Brett Gurewitz, the Epitaph Records owner who mixed the Distillers' most recent album, Sing Sing Death House. "She has an amazing voice. She sounds like a gravel truck with a broken axle, but she never misses a note." On Sing Sing, the 22-year-old Australian native channels her ulcered Melbourne past into gritty tunes with big hooks, using her "gravel truck" vocals to run roughshod over years of family conflicts, drug addiction, and culture shock. "I was a pretty gloomy child," she admits from her current home in L.A. As an adolescent, she wrote poems about darkness, rape, and rage. Her mom, a career nurse, kicked out Armstrong's biological father for physical abuse, then remarried and had a kid with her new husband. Armstrong felt like an outsider at home and at school, where she wasn't exactly leading spirit rallies. Eventually she took off for the streets, figuring that living in alleys beat the fighting at home. "Around 13, I started getting really angry and hating my mom--I mean, really hating my mom," admits Armstrong. "She hated me too. We ended up strangling each other in the kitchen. I was always an angry kid, so I started running away and doing [angry] teenage girl stuff--cutting myself, getting high, not going to school." Match vitriol with vinyl, though, and you've got the makings for great music--something Armstrong discovered through Why, British hardcore act Discharge's 1981 album. "I just loved it 'cause it was so fast and it was fucking crazy," she says. "I'd never heard anything like it--all that screaming. I'm sure I didn't really understand a lot of the politics, but it was exactly how I felt. It was exactly what I wanted to say." In the mid-'90s, Armstrong jumped into the act herself, pulling a few friends together to play in a band called Sourpuss. On New Year's Eve 1995, Sourpuss landed a spot on the side stage at Australia's Somersault Festival, where the lineup included Sonic Youth, the Beastie Boys, and Rancid. During that gig, Brody met her future husband, Rancid's Tim Armstrong--"It was kind of love at first sight," she says matter-of-factly--and kick-started her career in music. When Brody turned 18 in 1997, she moved to L.A. to live with Armstrong. She formed the Distillers with bassist Kim Chi, who worked in the Epitaph offices; ADZ drummer Matt Young; and guitarist Rose "Casper." In 2000, Tim Armstrong's Hellcat label (home to Rancid, Joe Strummer, and US Bombs) released the Distillers' self-titled debut. Since then, the Distillers brought in a new drummer, Andy (no last name)--who Armstrong met when the Distillers were on tour with Andy's other band, the Nerve Agents--along with new bassist Ryan (also no last name), who she met at a record store. With a new lineup (the band is now a three-piece, as Casper recently left the group) and a new album, Armstrong also revels in her newfound voice, a spit-gobbing yowl that claws its way from low and husky to hard and heavy. Every song is served with a snarl as Armstrong leaves fang marks in a number of social issues, from classroom shootings to eating disorders to slams on heroin addiction. The songs are short and bittersweet, with revved-up old-school riffs and catchy melodies. Throughout, Armstrong creates anthems for the disaffected, and the band parades them around with rowdy singsong sensibilities. Her songwriting has also improved noticeably. Gone are the endlessly repeated fuck you's and vague references to bludgeoned love affairs and misunderstood girls. Sing Sing shows Armstrong's ability to realize her present strengths while taking an honest look at her past. Listening to the album is like watching a Super-8 film that takes you along with Armstrong from the alleys of Melbourne to the streets of L.A.--zooming out to reach fucked-up teens and zooming in to wrestle with Armstrong's personal issues. And while the stories may be the same ones told by junkies, punks, and runaways across the country, Armstrong delivers her messages with an unmatched ferocity, making her one of the best fucking singers around.

TASTE LIKE CHICKEN IF PUNK ROCK WAS A FORTIFIED STRONGHOLD, THESE KIDS WOULD BE MANNING THE GUN NESTS. AMIDST THE VOCAL SHELLING FROM BRODY ARMSTRONG AND THE RAPID-FIRE DRUM BURSTS OF ANDY OUTBREAK, TASTES LIKE CHICKEN'S DEBBIE PENETRATES THE RAZORWIRE TO HAVE A WORD WITH TWO OF THE DISTILLERS. [IN THE WOMEN'S BATHROOM] debbie: How did the changes in the band lineup come about? Brody: We were on tour and it didn’t work out with Kim and Mat. So I got Andy and Dante from the Nerve Agents to fill in during the Rancid/AFI tour. We loved Andy, so we wanted to keep him. He was in both bands, but Nerve Agents broke up. So he’s now full-time in The Distillers. Dante didn’t work out, and then we found Ryan. He worked at a comic, record and toy store in Fremont. (to Tony, the road manager) Is that right? Fremont? Tony: (nodding) Fremont. d: Fremont? Where is that? Virginia? B: California. d: I knew that. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the first album. But Sing Sing Death House is so solid all the way around. What has changed about you guys and your approach to making music between the first album and this new one? B: Well, I think Andy is a better drummer than Mat (Young) was; not to dis Mat or anything. Andy’s like this fucking powerhouse. He just slugs away and he’s really innovative. A drummer is usually like the backbone. I play off Andy and he plays off me. So it works out really well. And Ryan’s only been playing bass for like, a year, and he’s really good. So it’s like a family now. d: So there’s this whole energy transfer thing going on between all of you guys at once? B: Yeah. d: The songwriting on the new LP is really intelligent. I was just blown away by how you were expressing these very sharp emotions using this really intelligent vocabulary. Honestly, I had to grab the dictionary a couple of times while I was listening to it. B: (laughs) d: You’re using words like "Dionysian", "acerbic", "vitriolic", and "revenant". Is that an aspect of the lyrics you strive for, or does it just sort of happen? B: No. It just happens. I really wanted to work hard on my lyrics. The last record is more abstract. That’s the first record I ever made, so I was just sowing the oats. I’ve just been reading a lot and I’ve got a lot of smart friends. (laughing) It helps, ya know? d: (laughing) Yeah. What are you reading? B: A lot of ghost stories and fiction. I have a good mythology dictionary, which is where I got “revenant” from. And, on the last record, “oldscratch” as well. So a lot of that stuff is in there. It’s like my little secret stash. d: What main goal has stuck with you since before-- [ENTER: LOUD SQUEAK OF A WALKIE-TALKIE, ALONG WITH A NEWPORT SECURITY GUARD] Security: (with a true air of authority) What’s going on, folks? B: We’re just doing an interview. It’s a little loud out there. [EXIT: SECURITY GUARD] d: Uh, okay. What main goal has stuck with you since you started making music? B: I guess to just keep playing music; to just keep outdoing the last record. I think we’re pretty ambitious. I want to pay my parents mortgage. You know what I mean? All I’ve ever wanted to do was play music and go on the road and make records. It just worked out that this was the perfect opportunity. Just to work hard. We work our asses off. d: Hell yeah. Touring is no joke. You know, I was surprised with how-- [RE-ENTER: NEWPORT SECURITY GUARD] S: (with even more authority) I’m sorry. Your interview is over. We gotta go “doors”. d: Uh oh. We’re moving. [NOW IN AN ALLEY OUTSIDE] d: How do you deal with the popular image of punk music and kids who are into it for the wardrobe, not the message? B: Well, I guess you just help those kids find a message. Help them assimilate in the real wage. I don’t meet a lot of kids like that. And, if I do, I don’t really notice and I don’t really discriminate. Everyone starts somewhere. I hate all that higher-than-thou bullshit about, “I’m more punk than you.” It’s bullshit. I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me. d: This is kind of embarrassing, but do you have any advice for someone who likes punk music but doesn’t know much about it? B: Buy a lot of records. Buy a lot of old school records. Find out who the bands you listen to are influenced by. Go through the lineage. You got your English punk, you got your American punk. You got your East Coast American, your West Coast, your Ramones, Circle Jerks, Black Flag, and X. Then there’s a big mix in between. d: Who would you say are your essentials, then? B: Discharge is my first. I love Black Flag and all those guys. And Ramones, of course. And then I like Blondie,.. a little lighter. d: (laughing) The old CBGB’s Blondie. B: Yeah. d: Do you ever read the press on the band? B: Occasionally. I try not to. d: Is there anything that you absolutely hate about it? B: No. If you get over-embroiled in it, you’re probably gonna get yourself pretty pissed off. At the same time, we get a lot of really great reviews. It’s not important to how the band functions or to what we do. That’s just many people’s opinions on what they see. A lot of people project stuff on you, but that’s okay. d: Yeah. I probably shouldn’t be asking that question, considering I am the media. B: (laughs) d: We’re not the “mass” media. We just try to have a good time. Honest. Is there anything in your life that you think would shock and surprise your fans? B: (long pause followed by laughter) I don’t know! I don’t think so. Like I said, that’s people projecting certain things on you. Everyone’s their own person. When you meet someone for the first time, that’s not the whole book. That’s just the first page. d: Being an Aussie yourself, what quirk about Australia do you think American pop-culture and TV has just bastardized beyond belief? B: Victoria Bitter. No, that’s what I drink. What’s the other shit? d: Foster’s? B: (grabbing her head in disgust) Foster’s! Ugh! I can’t even remember the name. No one in Australia drinks Foster’s. It’s piss. d: But it’s got the big can! B: It’s piss. realtoon: (who has been standing by the whole time) But it’s Australian for beer and bottled in Canada. B: (laughs) What do you drink here that’s low on the totem pole? d: I’m from a Miller family. tastes like chicken’s mascot beer is anything Miller, preferably High Life or Red Dog. That’s just our beer. But low on the totem pole-- actually, that is low on the totem pole. B: (laughs) Not even the punks who hang out on the corners drink Foster’s. We drink VB, Victoria Bitter, which is way better. That and “shrimp on the barbie”, because I never had a fucking shrimp on the barbie until I moved to this country. d: (laughs) Oh, God. I’m sorry. I apologize for America. B: (laughs) No, no. It’s totally cool. The image that’s portrayed over here-- that we live in the Outback and stuff-- we don’t. r: Crocodile Dundee ruined you guys. d: Yeah. No wallabies in the backyard? What the hell? OK, this is our staple question. We ask everybody this. Do dogs have lips? B: Do dogs have lips? d: We got into an argument years ago, and it’s just gone on since then. B: I think they do. Just really little, real thin ones. d: Hell yes. B: They gotta have something over their teeth. They lick their lips. I think they do. I think you’re right. [ENTER: ANDY OUTBREAK, THE DISTILLERS' DRUMMER] d: (to Andy) Hey, what’s up? Andy: Hey. B: This is Andy. A: Yeah. We met earlier. d: Is it hard keeping up the pace with true hardcore punk acts like No Doubt and Sugar Ray? B: (laughs) Aren’t we obsessed with them? A: Yeah. B: We’re kind of obsessed right now. d: With who? A: No Doubt. B: Every time we go to a hotel, we’ll be watching tellie just to see that one video. What is it? “Hey Baby”? A: Yeah. B: We’re all like waiting, begging, praying that it’s gonna come on. We’re just totally obsessed with it. It’s so retarded. d: Hey, you gotta keep your eye on the competition. B: (laughs) d: What musical influences do you guys have outside of punk rock? A: Well, like Nirvana or The Pixies. All kinds of stuff. Oldies, like Sam Cooke. B: I like Smokey Robinson. A: Smokey Robinson, yeah. B: We also listen to PJ Harvey; a lot of driving music. You need something a little more relaxing in the car. A: I really like Queens Of The Stone Age and Rocket From The Crypt. d: (gasping) Fuck yeah! Is there anyone you guys wanna tell to “fuck off”? Like anybody who’s pissed you off in the last few months? A: Peter And The Test Tube Babies. B: Yeah. That guy can fuck off. That guy’s a dick. d: Did he fuck you guys over or something? A: No. He was just a dick to us. He was a total asshole. We played this thing, Holidays In The Smoke, in London-- B: --at the Astoria. We were upstairs in this tiny dressing room. We’d been up since the day before, because we had to get on a ferry to go across to London. So we’re all fucking exhausted in this tiny dressing room. There’s like, ten bands playing, from GBH to Peter And The Test Tube Babies. We’d done ten interviews. We’re sitting there, trying to relax, and in comes this fucking guy; this fucking English lad guy with these ten huge duffel bags. He just throws them in the fucking room and is just looking at us. He’s like (in a cocky English accent), “Who the hell are you?” And we’re like, “We’re The Distillers.” And he looks at the list. He goes (in Brit-speak again), “You gotta get the fuck out, now.” We’re like, “What? Who the fuck are you?” He’s like, “I’m Peter of Peter And The Test Tube Babies.” He’s all disgusted that we didn’t know it was him. We were like, “Fuck you, man!” We ended up sleeping on amps and shit. That was the worst night of my life. A: It was the worst “rock star” experience I’ve ever had. Who the fuck is this guy? d: Yeah. Who the fuck is he? A: It was worse than meeting Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson probably would’ve been a nicer guy than this fucking guy. r: Well, that’s the trend. The smaller you are, the bigger you think you are. B: Right. d: Well, piss on him now. Our readers will know to stop buying his records. B and A: (laugh) d: Do you guys have any final comments or anything you want to say? B: (bouncing up and down) Oi! A: (laughs) Oi!