The Vibration

The Vibration hews closer to midtempo, noncombative postriot grrl than anything else. Make no mistake, though: Ann Fitzgerald could score frontwoman work in any Olympia, Washington dorm basement, for she embodies that particular scene's favored bratty, up-in-your-grill-like-it-or-not vocal quality where sarcastically genial shifts seamlessly to borderline enraged. On Amarilla she chews through boy troubles while everyone else kicks up just enough rock ruckus to get her through whatever crisis is at hand before tackling the next one. When this arrangement crystallizes perfectly — see jingle-jangling requiem "87," an ideal candidate for a breakup mix CD — they're golden. When it doesn't quite, it's instructive to remember that these young women are still fairly green — Sleater-Kinney sucked at first too.


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