This came out in 2003 – or at least that’s when I got it. Here’s what I said about it back then (with some minor editing):
Los Angeles punks, I am told, have a new term for being backstabbed: Getting Brodied.
The inspiration? None other than Distillers singer-guitarist Brody Dalle, who recently and in rapid succession dumped her bandmates, her husband (Rancid’s Tim Armstrong), her married name and her indie punk label in favour of a big-time record deal, a romance with Josh Homme of Queens Of The Stone Age, a ticket to rock-magazine stardom and a reputation nearly as seedy as Courtney Love’s. All of which, quite frankly, I could care less about. Trouble is, though, Brody is also losing touch with the one thing that does matter — her fearsome sound. The whiplash punk ferocity and wrist-slash desperation that distinguished her first two CDs have been worrisomely diluted on her disappointing third disc Coral Fang. Slower beats, bigger choruses, stronger melodies, strummier guitars, restrained power and numbers that are veer dangerously close to radio-friendly terrain could fool you into thinking this 11-song disc is the new Hole record. Admittedly, thanks to Brody’s throat-shredding snarl, guttersnipe sexuality and chunky punk riffage, Coral Fang would be a really good Hole album. But next to a hardcore masterpiece like last year’s Sing Sing Death House, it’s a bland example of how good isn’t always good enough. She may be corporate punk’s new It Girl, but in order to get there it looks like Brody may have Brodied herself.
