Brody Dalle - Diploid Love

I’ve little doubt that, back in her heyday with The Distillers, you’ve have gotten long odds on Dalle ever shunning rock and roll for a considerably more conventional home life, but that seems to be the short version of what she’s been up to since her last band, Spinnerette, released their one and only album back in 2009. She has two young children with her second husband, who’s apparently also a rock musician, and appears to have put her day job on the back burner accordingly. A quick YouTube comparison of Distillers-era interviews and their more recent counterparts suggest she’s softened considerably; given that Spinnerette were already quite a bit mellower than her first outfit, this solo album - rumours about which have been circulating for quite some time now - was always going to carry with it a sense of intrigue.

Perhaps predictably, the aggression level doesn’t really get close to The Distillers; the sound Dalle’s shot for is considerably more refined, and looks for more nuanced ways to portray a sense of drama than the larynx-shredding vocals and rough-and-ready guitars that she previously made her calling card. Opener “Rat Race”, for instance, elevates what would otherwise be a fairly identikit indie rock affair with a bolshy brass section on the chorus; it’s cliched, sure, but plenty effective. They return on “Underworld”, too, this time in slightly more inventive fashion; the guitar’s at full pelt throughout, but when Dalle’s snarled turn - probably her angriest on the record - drops out half way through, the horns suddenly enter Beirut territory. God knows it shouldn’t work, but neither that nor the abrupt arrival of a mariachi band at the end of the track seem particularly out of place.

That said, they’re not particularly striking, either, and that’s the problem with Diploid Love; it’s not a bad record, but it is largely unremarkable. “Dressed in Dreams” is supposed to simmer, but Dalle’s vocals are lethargic and the fizzing guitars thumpingly formulaic. “Carry On” brings some synth to the table - stuttering New Order beat present and correct, too - but neither really suit Dalle’s voice, which seems exclusively tailored to rock and roll; it’s cold and ineffective when its backing enters uncharted instrumental territory.

The first song made public from the album, “Meet the Foetus (Oh the Joy)”, is a blindingly generic pop punk cut that commits the heinous crime of utterly wasting the not-inconsiderable talents of Garbage’s Shirley Manson and Warpaint’s Emily Kokal. It’s obnoxiously overlong, too - at just over five minutes, it comes in at about twice the duration you expect from the genre it’s trying to ape. “I Don’t Need Your Love”, meanwhile, throws us a total curveball; it’s a slow, piano-driven effort that actually has Dalle singing melodically; it’s jarring, on the one hand, because she sounds almost unrecognisable, but credit is also due for making a break from the status quo, after six tracks that you suspect Dalle could’ve written in her sleep. At the midpoint, it all gets a bit Regina Spektor, with dainty strings backed by recordings of Dalle laughing with her kids; it’s a strange choice, but simultaneously a genuine relief to hear her let her guard down a little. The version of herself that she spends much of this album projecting seems to be her playing up to what she must imagine is the standard public persona of a rock singer; when she suddenly affords us a glimpse at her real character, it’s undeniably a breakthrough.

The hat-trick that closes the album actually comprises its strongest songs; “Blood in Gutters” is replete with noisy menace, whilst closer “Parties for Prostitutes” is excitingly off-kilter, with the sort of measured pacing that’s sorely lacking elsewhere. It’s a frustrating hint at what might have been, really, because Dalle sounds as if she’s on autopilot for much of Diploid Love; she’s obviously got talent to spare, but she’ll need to provide herself with a sterner challenge than she has here if she’s to truly capitalise on it.