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Apparently, Kathleen Hanna's relocation to NYC hasn't sapped all the unfashionable protest of her lyric bank. In fact, this stopgap EP is a self-conscious, possibly guilt-ridden return to the sledgehammer analysis of her old band, Bikini Kill. And like Bikini Kill, her arty punk-wave gets over on ideas which make the songs easy to describe: counting out the 41 bullets that killed Amadou Diallo at the end of the "Bang! Bang!" as well as interspersing various newscasts; giving some anti-feminist feminist lines to a "clueless male" in "Gone B4 Yr Home;" looping pre-phonemic grunts and giggles for "They want us to make a symphony out of the sound of women swallowing their own tongues"; chants galore. Now and then, I fret about analytical nuance, especially since "Yr Critique" critiques superficial, fake rebellion; just who exactly are the "they" who want that symphony and why did the artists go ahead and make it? But bullshit is a given with indie rock. It's what you do with it that counts. And Hanna makes her bullshit stick. And screech. And chill. And dance.
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