Dinosaur City
June 27
Words by Mark Polst
Thus Spoke the Broken Chanteuse is a filthy, fabulous, batshit glorious triumph. Wet Kiss are back, and they’ve slathered their second LP in so much lipstick, leather, and existential filth that you’ll need a cold shower and a stiff drink just to make it through side A.
Led by peroxide priestess Brenna O – part Fassbinder muse, part Bogan Bette Midler, all fire-breathing vocal goblin, this record spits in your face and dares you to say thanks. And you will. You’ll fucking love it. She purrs, snarls, and screams through tales of dingy clubs, gender clinics, Berlin debauchery and the existential ache of wanting to be a star with only last night’s ciggie and a torn fishnet to show for it. It’s cabaret for the damned. It’s punk for the weirdos. It’s glam rock reanimated from the bones of Bowie, snorting glitter and howling through a megaphone in a Brunswick squat.
Let’s talk sound. This isn’t some twee, preened indie rock wankfest. Nah – it’s a glammed-up, grease-stained slap to the face. Produced by Andy McEwan, the record’s got honky-tonk pianos, basement dweller riffs, and backup vocals that sound like a choir of fucked off night queens. It’s sexy, chaotic, and just sincere enough to hit you in the guts between the laughs and the leers.
First single Isn’t Music Wonderful is both a piss-take and a genuine, ecstatic love letter to the drug that is music. It asks the eternal question – is chasing the dream worth the breakdowns, bus fares, and busted makeup compacts? Brenna belts the chorus like she’s half in love and half fed up, flanked by a band of absolute maniacs with names like Ben Addiction and Agnes “Screamin’” Wailin’. It’s like someone tossed The Rocky Horror Picture Show in a blender with The Birthday Party and sprinkled a little Amyl on top.
The record’s title is a gag, of course – some tosser music journo called Brenna a “broken chanteuse”, so she leaned in and paired it with a Nietzsche reference like the smartarse she is. It’s highbrow filth. Poetic sleaze. A philosophy thesis written in eyeliner on a toilet wall.
There’s Weimar scum theatre all over Chick from Nowhere, a slinky, sleazy banger that morphs into a rock opera about fucking strangers and becoming someone new in Berlin. Then there’s Skirt, which opens with a catcall and ends with Brenna dragging the creeps with a wink and a war cry. “Girls get paid in fascination” she coos, and if you don’t get goosebumps, you’re probably already dead.
Elsewhere, Pink Shadow tackles the mess and magic of transition and scene politics – like if Hedwig and the Angry Inch did ketamine in a Berlin back room. Gender Affirmation Clinic hums with Bowie-esque melancholy, while Metal Silhouette cuts through the glam fog with Burroughs-style weirdness. The cover of Rick Penta’s Babe is pure, lovestruck sincerity in a sea of chaos, a glitter-drenched cigarette break from the carnage.
And then there’s The Gay Band, a sugar-coated funeral for past lives and lost friends. It’s beautiful, bold, and devastating in its simplicity. A reminder that under all the fishnets and fucking noise, Wet Kiss have heart. Big, bruised, beautiful hearts.
Since dropping their debut She’s So Cool in 2022, the band’s been a chaos engine, moving to Berlin on a whim, blowing up live stages with costume changes, bunny ears, sweat-drenched euphoria and gloriously unhinged banter. They’ve played with Amyl, Spike Fuck, and bloody PJ Harvey. And they’re not slowing down.
So yeah, Thus Spoke the Broken Chanteuse is a fucking riot. A costume party at the end of the world. It’s high camp, low rent glamour with the kind of guts you can’t fake. A record that laughs in your face, pulls you into the alleyway, kisses you rough, and disappears before sunrise.
Put it on. Play it loud. And pray you survive it.
