Sleater-Kinney's The Hot Rock

It's one year later, I'm one year wiser, and I won't make the same mistake again. I will unconditionally and unquestioningly praise Sleater-Kinney's new release, The Hot Rock--and I will do so without ever having heard it.

Yes, due to the many perils of the fickle indie-rock world, The Hot Rock has eluded my every purchasing attempt. Opting for blind adulation rather than informed response, this review may come off as somewhat uncritical. Any cynics interested in more measured consideration of the album are welcome to look for it in Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, or Spin--but since they're all calling The Hot Rock one of the greatest achievements in modern rock (and this after actually listening to it!), I figure generic hyperbole is a completely valid response.

Praise has never been difficult to heap on Sleater-Kinney, an all-female trio from Portland, Ore., who swap and layer vocals and guitar riffs as if every song were a musical model of the barter system. Their raw 1995 debut on Chainsaw Records introduced their fusion of infectious pop melodies with anthemic riot-grrrl howls and an ADD-stricken drum line. Anyone fooled at first by lead vocalist Corin Tucker's dry-ice screech or guitarist Carrie Kinney's violent chord-crunching was let in on the joke with 1996's Call the Doctor. The conceit (three chicks sabotaging bubble-gum hooks with vicious electric rage) was impossible to miss, with lyrics that wore their hearts on their sleeves: "This is love/ and you can't make it in a factory."

On Dig Me Out, Sleater-Kinney revealed themselves to be storytellers, chronicling in the sparsest of lyrics elusive characters like "Jenny": "I am the girl./ I am the ghost./ I am the wife./ I am the one." Not only was Sleater-Kinney kicking ass, the band was literally taking names. "Don't tell me your name," Tucker sneered, "if you don't want it sung."

With a pedigree like this , The Hot Rock will be about the glory of rock, the recklessness of sex, and that gooey candy filling we call a heart. It will be the only album which could justify such generic hyperbole. After all, these may be the only women Leonard Cohen couldn't have bedded in the

Chelsea Hotel. (Kill Rock Stars)

--Barry Levey

Back to A&E...