Sophomoric, repetitive, yet marginally catchy, The Veronicas’ debut album makes me want to sit on my bed in nothing but Juicy Couture panties and attempt to French tip my nails. The album might be a good soundtrack for pre-gaming with the girls, cutting up pictures of ex-boyfriends, or driving cross-country with Britney Spears (pre-mom), but it lacks originality.
If you enjoy feeling like a fifteen-year-old sexually frustrated prep-school brat, then The Veronicas will be your cup of tea. It’s that “I’m-pretty-and-privileged-yet-so-messed-up” genre of punk. The tune “Secret,” reminiscent ofsSka, jams out “I never looked at you that way ‘cuz I always thought you were gay;” and serves as a break in the stream of vacuous whining.
All the same, I think I might buy the album, get that AAA map, and trace Route 66 out to California with a tube of frost pink lipstick. Heck, I may even invite Brit; she has nothing better to do.