Although my mum always warned me about search girls, if I was a 15 year old again I’d probably fall head over heels with The Donnas. But which one of the four would have my unrequited love and undivided attention? Probably Torry, as I’ve always found the idea of ladies playing drums oddly appealing. Even the late Karen Carpenter added a sexual frisson to her wholesome squareness, simply by picking up those sticks in her garish 70’s evening gowns or tent-forming flares and stroking those skins as she sang her bitter-sweet heartaches. And as for Mo Tucker...well maybe not.
Which is totally irrelevant I know, but before you start throwing accusations of sexism in my direction I promise from here on in to keep my testosteroned tendencies in check and to focus my attention solely on the music at hand.
Woah! Talk about hitting the ground running and reminding everyone that they still have a pulse. The Joan Jett stomp and cry of “Hey” at the start of ‘I Don’t Know Want To Know’ sets the mould for what follows; hard, fast and choke-tight post-punk power chords that threaten to induce a permanent state of air-punching and violent head-nodding. If ever an album needed a ‘Play Loud’ sticker to remind diffident record buyers that there is a difference between listening to music and feeling it (i.e. between ‘4’ and ‘11’ on the volume button of their stereo) then this is the album.
Quite simply ‘Gold Medal’ is the straight ahead rock ‘n’ roll release of the year. Marinated in old time riffs from the AC/DC school of rawk this is nonetheless a melodic and superbly resolute collection of ‘all killer and no filler’ tracks. Clocking in at a sprightly 35 minutes The Donnas set a breathtaking pace throughout, rarely easing their foot off the accelerator and consistantly punching their weight in the current revitalised pop/metal ring. Only by track 7, ‘The Gold Medal’ is there some respite in the driving tempo; it’s a song that pitches their attempt at the latest revisionism of 60’s folk-psychedelia as crafted by the likes of The Coral and it’s beautifully executed.
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The album’s lyrics concern themselves predominantly with men and their varying degrees of uselessness: a diary of leeches, losers and lousy lovers who, in one way or another, are told to buck up their ideas or sling their hook. ‘It’s So Hard’ is the p(r)ick of the bunch, a triumphant homage to ‘getting it on’ a.s.a.p but with the pay-off line that can only come with the battle-hardened experience of one night stands, “Remember this baby cause I won’t”.
The introduction of Avril Lavigne’s producer Butch Walker has added just enough of a candy-coating to make the songs more palatable to those who “discover” their music through MTV. But this is still the sound of a rocking good band who deserve to be feted and celebrated as much, if not more, than the likes of The Strokes and The Kings of Leon. And not because they’re girls but because they’re bloody good.
They do look lovely though; especially Torry.
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