the Regrettes’ debut album fits the mood of the moment, and should put lead vocalist Lydia Night and her bandmates—who are all still teenagers by the way—on the map." /> L.A. Record

THE REGRETTES: FEEL YOUR FEELINGS FOOL!

January 13th, 2017 | Album reviews

THE REGRETTES
Feel Your Feelings Fool!
Warner Brothers

It’s no secret that a lot of ladies are pissed off. January’s Women’s Marches saw millions of gals flipping the big one to misogyny and His Royal Orangeness. With its visceral punk energy and feminist anthems, the Regrettes’ debut album fits the mood of the moment, and should put lead vocalist Lydia Night and her bandmates—who are all still teenagers by the way—on the map. They’re young, brash, and armed to the teeth with lyrical barbs and sharp riffs to slice and dice the patriarchy. Right off the bat, you’re assaulted with “I Don’t Like You,” which claps back at “nice guys” everywhere. Then comes “A Living Human Girl,” where Night lists off stretch marks, pimples, prickly legs, and other things generally considered unattractive to men, and turns them into a fist-pumping affirmation of women getting to be actual human beings. Night’s songwriting style is reminiscent of Courtney Barnett—i.e. many songs read like diary entries of her everyday life—but there are also jolts of Bratmobile and other lady-punk legends. Musically, it’s classic punk, with astringent takes on 50s/60s rock riffs and melodies, with dashes of honeyed backing vocals to add just that perfect drop of sweetness. Night still has crushes (“Hey Now” and “You Won’t Do”) and feels inferior to the hot girl (“Picture Perfect”), but ultimately triumphs and knows she doesn’t need a boy to make her complete (“How It Should Be”). “Ladylike/Whatta Bitch” which begins with hymn-like, somber commandments of I-Like-Ike-era femininity, then erupts into the vicious delivery of on-the-nose lines like “I heard she is a feminist/So she must not shave her pits,” feels like the thesis statement of the album. Feel Your Feelings constantly attacks the idea that women have to fit inside some kind of a box, all while rocking—hard.

— Madison Desler