By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
A July night is arguably the worst time to see a rock 'n' roll show in Phoenix. Even though it's half past 11, the temperature is still pushing triple digits. Tempe's Boston's nightclub is drenched in the lingering humidity of the afternoon's monsoon; the smell of sweat and beer palpable in the sticky night air.
The club is bursting at the seams with bodies. An open-air stage is surrounded inside and out by a tattooed army of punks clad in black tee shirts and matching jeans. The assembled throng cranes heads, mouths lyrics and launches fists into the air. Its attention commanded by a group of young, female figures holding court with instruments in hand.
For close to an hour, the strains of power chords slam against snarled vocals and a whopping backbeat -- 45 minutes of raw rock 'n' roll abandon. Abruptly, the band exits the stage amid a torrent of cheers and whistles. The crowd has clearly not been sated. Minutes go by, and the appreciative din of the audience goes unheeded. Maybe next time around, baby.
It's a pure tease. A display of showmanship that would be impressive if only for the sheer cheekiness of the act. By the time the audience figures it out, the band is in the van and ready to go. Off to the next city, the next show and a new legion ready to be converted.
Teen pop, meet your nemesis: the Donnas.
A quartet of bad girls a couple years out of high school who take inspiration from KISS and the Runaways, the Donnas are like a gang, adopting pseudonyms (Donna A., Donna F., Donna R. and Donna C.) and a uniform of punked-out style. With big, bombastic guitars and tribal drumming, the band's noise is a much-needed blast of smoking-in-the-girls'-room attitude in a music world filled with prepackaged, target-marketed pap sung by shrill teen divas.
Not that the Donnas don't cover similar ground as other teenagers in music. "You Don't Wanna Call" features a couplet that would make Tiffany proud: "So I guess I'll just go to the mall/'Cause I know you'll never call." It's just that the line -- as spoken through a gum-popping snarl -- comes off as more valley-girl snobbery than brokenhearted nerdishness, but according to drummer Donna C., it's all true. "We do all the stuff that we say on the record," she says. "I think that our personalities as the Donnas are our personalities as us. There's not really a difference. [It] might be embellished to make it more exciting, but they all came from experiences that we've been through. I think it's pretty true to life, but I also think that we're not stupid. We're not going to be just tough and go crazy on people just for the sake of doing that -- then you just don't get any respect. You've got to choose when you're going to be like that."
The foursome first started playing together in Palo Alto, California, when they were in the eighth grade. Over the years, the group slowly transformed from a garage outfit that covered the Muffs and L7 to a self-directed, noisy riot grrrl group. The Donnas were born when the girls were approached by songwriter/label owner Darrin Raffaelli to collaborate on a straightahead rock project. The band released a self-titled record in 1996 and two years later dropped American Teenage Rock 'n' Roll Machine (also co-written with Raffaelli), an album that couldn't have been more appropriately named.
Soon the hype machine took over -- features for MTV, Spin, Rolling Stone -- and there was the implication that the Donnas were a prepackaged group. A punk rock Spice Girls under the thumb of a man -- Raffaelli playing Kim Fowley to the Donnas' Runaways. Never mind that the Ramones have never been called a novelty act, and forget the fact that the quartet had been a band for a couple of years before ever hooking up with Raffaelli. Girls can't write raw music. "We always get compared to the Runaways and stuff," says Donna C. "Anytime there's younger girls and an older guy involved, [people] just assume [that the man calls the shots], because that's what history has always been like . . . but that's not really what happened with us.
"[Raffaelli] came along, and we did [the Donnas as a] side project while we were still doing our other band. I guess people want to turn it into something like that because he's a guy and he is older than us. It was really more like a friend-type thing. We always talked about everything, the five of us. He was really cool, and he never really made us do anything we didn't want to do."
Patronizing attitudes are what the Donnas have dealt with since they began practicing in Donna C.'s family garage after school. "The boys were totally condescending to us in our school," she says. But now the Donnas have to deal with the grown-up version of those boys: club owners, sound engineers and radio station disc jockeys. The world is full of these guys, flunkies who can't appreciate female aggression. Contempt sometimes follows.