too rare and are surrounded by pools of flat balladry.

Thighs' most piercing songs twist elements of fuck-all punk and alluring pop around lyrics that explore the underbelly of the American psyche. "All Hail Me" begins with a churning rhythmic line, and with a melodic wail it becomes a disturbingly enticing, ripped-from-the-headlines defense: "So sorry, lady/So sorry, now/I've killed your baby/I don't know how.... I'm a bad man, I do what I can/All hail me." By the time Post and Gordon hit those last three words, they have brought the psychotic fury down to a honey-coated whisper, and it's hard to see how a jury wouldn't be swayed. "Seether," the single that put Veruca Salt on the map, punctuates a searing riff with words of maternal confusion: "I try to rock her in my cradle/I try to knock her out/I try to cram her back in my mouth/ ... keep her down, boiling water, keep her down/What a lovely daughter." Satire like this is as easy to gulp as cheap wine, the buzz is so good – and then its potency stings you.

But the energy on Thighs fizzles just as it's starting to get furious; too many songs meander without reaching any destination. "Wolf" has big vocals, but with Post and Gordon dragging through the words, their accompaniment achieves depth only through fuzz. "Celebrate You" is a melancholy tale of bad blood that shows no range. The first moments of "Fly" seem stark and pretty, but it lags without reaching any climax.

While not the most pointed record, American Thighs does serve as a solid springboard for a young band that needs to harness its energy and exert the musical muscle it has proven it can wield. "I'm stuck in my ways," one particularly buoyant chorus on the album asserts, but Veruca Salt seem fully capable of unsticking themselves.

American Thighs is available from Minty Fresh, P.O. Box 577400, Chicago, IL 60657; 312-665-0289. (RS 694)

KIM AHEARN