If you've been keeping up with other music magazines-- and why bother, when Pitchfork is a one-stop destination for everything cool?-- you've seen American Teenage Rock 'N' Roll Machine compared over a dozen times to the trashy punk- pop of the Runaways and the Ramones. But let's get real-- the Donnas are four high school chicks from Palo Alto, California, a posh Silicon Valley suburb on the outskirts of Stanford University. This means (among other things) that the aforementioned bands had their heyday before these girls were even born. The Donnas' aesthetic can be traced more accurately to '80s hair- metal bands. You know, like Skid Row, Winger, Motley Crue and Cinderella.

This, the second proper Donnas album, clocks in at just under 25 minutes. In that time, Donna A. spews out ten compact doses of teenage bravado: songs about trying to hook up with guys ("You Make Me Hot"), being cool ("Checkin' It Out"), and getting a little action ("Leather On Leather"). Donna R. drives the tunes with fuzzed- out guitar riffs of the Johnny Ramone/ Izzy Stradlin variety, while Donna F. and Donna C. provide a competent (if less pretty) rhythm section. Yeah, you probably remember girl bands like this from when you were in high school, but the Donnas stand out in two respects: their songs actually have enough bite to validate the press attention, and no other band's guitarist looks hotter in tight, pink leather pants.

If American Teenage Rock 'N' Roll Machine doesn't exactly grab you by the nipples the way uber- kids like X-Ray Spex or Bis have in the past, maybe the band's Silicon Valley upbringing is to blame. Here they are, four chicks from insanely wealthy families sporting cheap, matching outfits and their best pouty- lipped expressions. The problem is, you have to wonder if the Donnas bought their trashy personas at Bloomingdales on Daddy's credit card. If you can ignore this historical inconsistency-- and if you don't go digging out any of your old Britny Fox albums-- the Donnas are sure to become your favorite poster girls of pubescent punk.

-Zach Hammerman