The rather inglorious tradition of shouty punk women began with the Slits, but trio Sleater-Kinney take their cue from long-forgotten compatriots Ut, whose celebration of discord and amateurism inadvertently blazed some sort of trail for grunge. Six albums in, Sleater-Kinney still exhibit most shouty-punk touchstones. Corin Tucker has a screechy howl of a voice, they don't produce their records properly and their guitars are often alienating and angular where even Kurt Cobain understood that something less slothful is always required.
So far, so horrid, yet there is a problem. Sleater-Kinney simply cannot stop their songs peeking through. And, curiouser yet, what life-enhancing songs they are. The opening title track is sparse pop writ large; 02 is a sweeping anthem, propelled by Janet Weiss's drums, and Prisstina is as poppy as a Blondie demo tape. There is even a hint of synthesiser on the jolly Funeral Song ("Nothing says 'for ever' like our very own grave"). Perhaps they are really ready to go for it: on this evidence, they have the ammunition.
