Sleater-Kinney

In the past, you really had to see Sleater Kinney live to realize that they were one of the best bands around. On The Woods, it's apparent immediately. Sounding immense and positively explosive, the group pummels through some of the most dense, articulate songs of its career while also rocking without impunity.

Corin Tucker's abrasive warble is made for a Zeppelin move that seems inevitable now that it's here, and when the lyrics fail to mesh, or veer toward the sociologically corny, her proven ability to plow such quibbles is beefed up from the backup muscle. Nevertheless, the metal affinities are basically spiritual. Flaming Lips/Mercury Rev hand Dave Fridmann ain't John David Kalodner. Although the album is definitely loud, it's also raw, with no hint of the symphonic, yet at the same time it's a melodic highlight of an honorably tuneful catalog. And come down to it, the words are pretty good. I like the one about the boho losers. And the hungry-so-angry one. And the one that disses Interpol. (Grade - A)