Every so often, my rock 'n' roll daydreams go beyond merely fancying myself as Iggy Pop circa 1974, belting out "Search and Destroy" while spreading peanut butter across my bare, bleeding chest, and puking on various audience members. Admittedly, though, these fantasies sometimes acknowledge my feminine side, too. My anima begins nagging my subconscious mind. And suddenly, I'm Patti Smith singing "We're Gonna Have a Real Good Time Together," live at the Bottom Line in 1975. Or maybe I'm even X-ray Spex's PolyStyrene, screaming that classic opening to "Oh Bondage, Up Yours!"

I've been following Penelope Houston's confounding punk- turned- folkie- turned- alterna- rocker career for a while now. But I only recently got to see see her kick out the jams onstage. Now I'm now having a recurring daydream that takes me back to January 1978, at San Francisco's Winterland Ballroom: it's me as Penelope, onstage with the Avengers, the last band to open for the Sex Pistols. I grab the microphone, stare out over the crowd and shout, "This next song you all know-- it's called "Fuuuuck Yoooou!!" Then I slip back into consciousness and realize I'm on the subway during rush hour with my shirt on backwards and my fly unzipped.

Well, granted, Houston's calmed down a bit since the late '70s-- matured, if you will. She's not as concerned with the loud guitars now, but does retain her feisty lyrical edge. Now in ostensibly a pop- punk mode on Tongue, she's a small step closer to her Avengers roots. And after toiling in virtual obscurity for almost a decade-- putting out homemade cassettes throughout much of the '80s while generally being ignored by the music industry establishment-- Houston miraculously finds herself signed to Frank Sinatra's Reprise Records.

Crusties be forewarned, though: Houston's sound is still quite a departure from the Avengers' steamroller power- chording. In many ways, her last album, the acoustic neo- folk of Cut You was a stronger effort than this enjoyable, but not completely satisfying latest release. Cut You seemed to effortlessly achieve the sort of melodic indie- folk perfection that an overpraised melancholic drone like Edith Frost will always merely touch upon. And on top of that, Houston's voice proved to be rangier than had previously seemed possible. As a writer, she's capable of verbally grappling with the best, showing a poet's eagle eye for detail and the ability to express complex emotions and thoughts in very simple, graphic language.

Also, the electric guitars on Tongue come to the fore, while the acoustic plays more of a backup role. Some calculated sampling and drum programming crop up for modernity's sake, I guess. Her songs have become more self- consciously wordy; yet she rarely turns a trite phrase. And as always, her songwriting topics center around unrequited longing, residual hurt from dashed relationships, and pent-up resentment. Occasionally she'll opt for more bizarre free- associative imagery gathered from the shady recesses of her mind. "Grand Prix," arguably the album's strongest track, focuses on odd idle moments where the mind wanders in inexplicable patterns, yearning for simple pleasures, and dealing with the inevitable absence- makes- the- heart- grow fonder frustrations that inevitably build up in long- distance relationships.

Tongue loses its momentum, though, with the meandering tune "The Ballad of Happy Friday and Tiger Woods," and the banal sentiments on "My Angel Has Lost Her Wings." The slower, downbeat numbers sometimes lack the inspired feel of her previous acoustic work. Still, the album's structurally simple songs can be engaging. Houston gives a Beck- like "Loser" feel to the title cut-- about the urge to interconnect both lingually, and beyond ("but mine has never touched it/ I'd really like to suck it/ Legend has it that I'm faithful to the end").

There's an exercise in self- loathing on "Worm," and a nice twist on the traditional broken heart- theme on the moderately- rocking "Frankenstein Heart." Houston dabbles with some light Stereolab- influenced synth dance- pop on "Subway." Sometimes, though, she just reverts back to the good old straightforward insult song, as on "Scum." But even this track is marked by a subversively bright, catchy chorus and Houston's scabrous but playful sense of humor: "No one but a lawyer could befriend you/ I doubt even your mama would defend you."

All told, Tongue goes in one ear and out the other pleasantly enough. I applaud Houston for juggling genres and not being afraid to experiment and vary her sound. But this recorded output doesn't come close to capturing the essence of these songs as you'd hear them live (although the songs do benefit from the backup vocal talents of legendary punk princesses from the Go-Go's). There's also a nice boost from the stellar guitar of slinger- for- hire Chuck Prophet, who has become sort of an alternative Cliff Burton for the '90s.

So maybe Houston will continue to build on Tongue's foundations of serrated- edge pop instead of veering off into another completely different direction. And although it's tough to retain that punk cred forever, rumors of an Avengers reunion are now circulating. Maybe soon she'll squeeze herself back in that old black biker leather, and revisit that shock- blond butch haircut of yore. Maybe her music will wind itself full circle back to where it began (though I wouldn't count on it). But who knows what she'll do next? I guess that tinge of uncertainty is part of what makes being a Penelope Houston fan far more interesting than being, say, a Hole or Cat Power fan.

-Michael Sandlin