Ultra Baby Fat is one of the many image-driven bands for whom music seems almost incidental to the inevitable glamorous photo-ops, the backstage makeovers, the two-page layouts in rock magazines, and the posing and preening for MTV cameras. I'd say the male-dominated equivalent to an ultra-bogus outfit like Ultra Baby Fat would be Sugar Ray, or possibly Girls Against Boys. On the back of the CD cover, we see three slightly attitudinal fashion model types-- one's giggly, and the other two glare at the camera with ultra- cold, castrating stares. The one male member has a somewhat perplexed look on his face, suggesting he may be the group's drummer, but he's not quite ultra-sure.

And speaking of drummers, a major contributing factor in all this immature pussyfooting is the drumming. Not only is it too distracting and busy, but it shows so little creativity and range, that the band may as well have hired a drum machine. It's as though the drummer is some snotty, spoiled kid who desperately needs attention.

Well, here's some skinny on Ultra Baby Fat: these ultra-kinky party gals suggest they've cultivated an ultra-subtle masochistic bent on "Twist." ("Can I be your lucky charm?/ Don't say yes, just twist my arm.") Later, the switchblade sisters have wet dreams about rough boys with James Dean death-drives. "I like a man/ who is bent on self-destruction," they gleefully chirp, while some shiny Pretenders guitar jangle chimes in from behind. Oooh, baby, these chicks are so ultra-bad. They even get ultra-metaphorical on our asses: "This cup of tea, she's not too sweet." Too much, baby. Finally there's the ultra-cliched, woe- is- me Courtney Love act on "Water," and the unintentionally self-referential "Stupid." "Sweet little stupid thing." Exactly, baby.

After they've stripped Veruca Salt's American Thighs bare for all the reference material they'll ever need, Ultra Baby Fat makes a feeble attempt to project a little diversity and originality. "Jonesin" is yet another example of self-conscious Luscious Jackson-inspired white funk, about a "shady lady" named Geraldine Jones. For this band, throwing convention to the winds takes the form of obvious we're- trying- incredibly hard- to- be- different songs like "Ringside." It begins as quiet, standard dream-pop, then it suddenly self-destructs into a cacophonous screechfest, causing your teeth to grind and your temples to throb. These precious dainties may as well record their manicured fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. And just to prove they're hip to the latest musical fads, on "Peacock Throne" we find Ultra Baby Fat's Middle-Eastern influences at work (oooh, a female Cornershop), with a light sitar seething in the background. Ultra-predictable. Ultra-pandering to the lowest common denominator.

As unmistakably great and influential as the Breeders, Liz Phair and Josie and the Pussycats have proven to be, they did inspire a lot of third-rate copykittens. Nowadays bands like Ultra Baby Fat are probably signed on the merits of their publicity photos alone: "What? They play music, too?" yells some bozo record exec. "Great. Always a plus. Spice Girls with one guy and some guitars. Lovely!"

But if you like a little intelligence to go along with your female-pop-punk, there's always Sleater-Kinney, Sue Garner, the Dirt Merchants, Amy Rigby, Madder Rose, Tuscadero, and so on. Don't settle for Ultra Baby Fat's inferior schoolgirl schlock. This is music born out of laziness and privilege, the girls' instruments played by ultra- baby- soft Palmolive hands, their equipment probably financed by bloated trust funds or ultra-convenient inheritances. Silver Tones Smile, in a nutshell, epitomizes indie rock at its ultra-worst.

-Michael Sandlin