It's pretty amazing and pretty great how this keeps happening: Every once in a while, marginal folks who can't play their instruments turn into a fine little punk band. Songs are essential to this transmutation, and these four Atlanta girlfriends scratch out one after another. The first digs into the likely death of a young man addicted to Auburn University football; the second complains bitterly about the crackhead stomping around upstairs, and so they go--no big issues, and only as much love as a normal person can stand, yet urgency and attitude by the shitfitful. Declining full-bore four-on-the-floor, the sound is the kind of Gang of 4 herky-jerk taken up long ago by such female bands as the Raincoats and Bush Tetras. These gals sound like they can do it forever. But they can't, so act now.