Regarding that blared down various microphones throughout the duration of their eponymous debut, an inexorable parallel with Kate Jackson lingers like buzzing Fender feedback however while most bands here cited are now all but defunct, the loss of the past is to the great gain of the present. Opener Romance rattles along flamboyantly, a doo-wop interlude twirling through unapologetically brattish, unforgettable riot grrrl pandemonium, while the segueing Something Came Over Me is a rather more wistful number, a list of ailments, both emotional and physical, reeled off to the sort of polished grunge raucous Michael Beinhorn once haphazardly smeared all over Hole's Celebrity Skin. The record may be written almost entirely in just the one relative key, but it's one that proves majorly formidable, whether on Boom, a track as ramshackle as a child's first, yet fifth-hand bike, the cocksure riffage of Glass Tambourine, the juxtaposition of stilted gnarl, screeches of a "rusty little razor" and saccharine choruses on Endless Talk, or the yelped savagery of Short Version. There's then the marvellous Electric Band, a mellow guitar solo that sounds about as marshmallow-like as possible for a Jazzmaster chewed through a neck pickup stuck to its sole, and the empowering, triumphant, if scrappy post-punk of the record's closing minutes, Black Tiles. One of the record's pièces de résistance this way comes in the shape of the sultry, gymnastic grunts of Racehorse as guitar lines chase their own tails prior to what sounds like a wig out in the musical instrument section of a cornerstone pawnshop. It bristles with an irrepressible exuberance, like a jockey-less prize horse tearing away from the track with all three rosettes between gritted teeth, gnawing on them vigorously, then spewing them out in spurts and streams of psychedelia. Brownstein gasps "Pony up! Pony up!" as if the affirmation were more vital to her well-being than respiration, before puerile chanting of "we're in the money", toutes ensembles, displaces previous wheezing as if the quartet look to rub viridescent dollar winnings in the face of convention. "If you're gonna be a restless soul then you're gonna be so, so tired" Brownstein yowls on Future Crimes, the alternative centrepiece of the long-player and an off-kilter jolt that hurtles earwards at supersonic speed, fully charged with potent voltage and perilous venom.
Brownstein invites all within earshot to "come on, join our electric band" and with such a golden opportunity thrust forth, it's nigh on unfeasible to oppose. Hoist the white flag, as it to be best to purely surrender and enjoy. Because you can't succeed in resisting Wild Flag's hectic allure...
