OK, so I saw The Distillers this past weekend. What souvenir did I pick up? My best guess is either a cracked or bruised rib. Signs pointing to bruised: it didn’t really hurt until Monday (read: it only hurt when I took a deep breath). Signs pointing to cracked: from Monday onwards, it feels like Doubting Thomas himself has decided to poke around my chest, eschewing his fingers for a hot poker.
<p>Anyhoo, the show was a blast. Anytime the headlining act clears the floor for an all-female slam-dance affair with the phrase, “Vaginas <em>Only</em>” it’s worth the price of admission. Especially when the song (punk rock song, mind you) was all about women’s suffrage. So their detractors will call them a bunch of Hole wannabes. I’ve yet to see their detractors stand up to meself or anyone there. Huff huff.</p> <p>Punk’s not dead, and with cool chicks like Brodie, it’ll be a long, wonderful, painful death while peeing on the graves of the Backdoor Boys.</p>