Has the VH1 riot grrl special made it onto the air yet? I didn't forget to set the VCR, did I? Now that the statute of limitations has passed, and we're nearly 10 years removed with hardly a thought backwards or a mention outside of a Sleater-Kinney press release, it's pretty safe to say that the movement has entered the dusted, hallowed archives of rock, alongside Jimi Hendrix's headband (which still, incidentally, tests positive for traces of LSD) and Grace Slick's diaphragm (which still, incidentally, tests positive for traces for... well, never you mind). Hard to believe that the prime participants of the riot grrl scene are now all in their 30s, possibly raising families, with nothing more than a little pilot light of irk where once burned a bonfire of gender rage. Makes for cold winter nights, I imagine.

Pussycat Trash was one of those bands you might have missed if you didn't turn over enough rocks, though not for lack of rage, or output even. The band never even came close to achieving "example of genre" status that was reserved for the likes of their betters: Huggy Bear, Heavens to Betsy, Bikini Kill, and Bratmobile. Yet, miraculously, every song Pussycat Trash ever recorded has been carefully and meticulously gathered and released on this one CD. That's right-- three years, 40 songs, 9 releases = 71 minutes, 32 seconds of fame (in the right circles). Warhol must have low-balled it.

The first thing you notice about The Brat Years: 1992-1995 is that it's an extremely dated piece of music. The dates in the title were practically unnecessary. It's the musical equivalent of picking up a decade-old diary and re-reading the entries aloud. That's not to say it isn't half-decent, but it'll never merit designations like "classic" or "timeless," or for that matter, "favorite." And a warning to audiophiles: this is likely stating the obvious, but you shouldn't expect anything above the most abysmal sound quality on 90% of The Brat Years. When the girls apologize in the liner notes for "any aural deficiencies" due to losing the master DAT for several of the songs, it's downright laughable. Matching the recording deficiencies mark-for-mark is the band themselves. You get the same sound quality playing this disc in a rusty Emerson boombox as you do on expensive stereo equipment. In fact, the Emerson almost sounds better.

Searing guitar lines, spastic drumming and enough traditional musical skill to fill a thimble-- all the hallmarks of the riot grrl modus operandi are present in spades. However, Pussycat Trash manage to distinguish themselves from a bucketful of genre clones in their slower numbers. Unlike most of their contemporaries, Pussycat Trash actually have a slow and sultry side, exhibited most prominently in songs like "Big Sulk, "I Need Science Fiction," "Crushomatic" and "Pussycat Stomp." Though each of these is as awkward and clumsy as the next, they nevertheless add a dash of variety here that's more necessary than desired.

Finally being blessed with the opportunity to hear the debut four-song seven-inch, Plink Plonk Pink Punk, originally issued on Chocolate Narcotic, is a real treat. Going from sweet to sour over the course of their career, Pussycat Trash started out playing surprisingly sugary-- almost twee-- melodies matched to swirling, distorted lo-finess. This is the 45 that attracted the attention of amateur A&R; men Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo, and rightfully so. Non-Stop Hip Action, their only full-length, also yields standout tracks like the vitriolic duet "Fuck" (a love song), the chatty, purist "Existentialism," and "Galore."

By the time they recorded Amore for Kill Rock Stars in 1995 the band was finally growing more technically competent. Of course, that's a bit like saying Pat Buchanan has become slightly more liberal, but it was still enough to be noticeable. This is sort of a mixed blessing, though. For whatever reason, the songs at the end of Pussycat Trash's short career, while certainly catchier and more reliant on hooks, lack some of the earlier naïveté that got them by on charm as much as skill.

Other than being an interesting concept filled with sort-of alright music, The Brat Years: 1992-1995 is also noteworthy for containing one of the most foul 57 seconds of music ever. Sounding like a shoggoth giving birth, "Overture" is spectacular in its awfulness. Lumbering, inept guitar provides the backdrop for a duet of mindless screams. And as if to prove how hit-or-miss the band was, this track was paired with one of their catchier, pure punk tracks, "1, 2, 3, 4" on Slampt's Elastic Jet Mission compilation. Bizarre.

The Slampt re-issue series idea is actually pretty well-conceived-- I'm holding out hope that future installments attempt to present complete discographies like this one. But a band like Pussycat Trash, the bulk of whose output was a result of a series of promiscuous one-night stands with different labels yielding a maternity ward full of seven-inches, isn't really worth the time, energy and money spent bent over dusty vinyl bins in obscure London record shops. The reward-to-effort ratio is just too low. Still, given the whole package on one, handy digital modern audio format... well! That's a whole 'nother story. And one worth at least one spin, just to hear what you missed out on while you were shooting up novocaine during the grunge years.

-John Dark