September 25, 2008

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Civet, Hell Hath No Fury
Hellcat Records, Sept. 9

Blindly accepting the mission of writing up an all-girl rock band has traditionally spelled an opportunity for male rock critics to advertise that they’d like some sex, as if there’d ever been a pop-culture writer born who hadn’t taken on these thankless tasks out of a warped need to post huge-ass personal ads for free while hoping in vain that their readers couldn’t see through every stunted metaphor.

So, Civet, where have you tattooed, inappropriate babes been all my life, anyway? You have to hand it to these girls for avoiding “punk ballads” like the plague; there’s little danger of their ever indulging in something as monstrous as a duet with Ozzy, as they’re more simpatico with Joan Jett, and, arguably, blessed with a better gift of hook, which has thus far paid for apartments in L.A. if nothing else. Every song is a four-chord wonder as heavy, loud and aggressive as Powerman 5000 but deeply rooted in what made the Ramones and Runaways tick —think Motorhead with Joan Jett in front and she’s really pissed. A — EWS