Sleater-Kinney
Cockpit, Leeds
**

It's hard enough being a 21st-century, radical feminist post-punk band, but Sleater-Kinney have a further enemy in the sound system. "This is our fourth member," says the trio's exasperated singer/guitarist, Carrie Brownstein, "the feedback!" Seconds later, guitarist Corin Rucker complains she can't hear herself play. "Rock 'n'roll!" shouts somebody, as the band grin through gritted teeth. Suddenly, Janet Weiss's drumkit collapses, meaning the poor girl has to sit out the second number. The crowd are - as they comment - "very nice" to them, but not only are Sleater-Kinney taking on centuries of patriarchal society, but medieval percussive technology and rock'n'roll PA systems still set up for hairy men with heavy metal guitars.

Their politics are not Sleater-Kinney's only distinguishing factor. Like about five bands in the history of rock (notably the Doors and Roxy Music), they have no bassist. Weirder still is Brownstein's unique, almost operatic wail. However, take these facts away (and the cultural baggage - former Riot Grrrls and so on), and the band are suddenly left looking ordinary and even dated. At their most melodic, they reach the heights of 90s Throwing Muses and Shudder to Think, but most often recall the early 80s Au Pairs. It is a sobering thought that for all the feminist progress in society, the music has gone backwards. Where the militant Au Pairs intrinsically understood the power of funk/dance rhythms in getting a message across, if you tried to dance to Sleater-Kinney's too-trad punk you would end up with ligament damage. (Whisper it: a bassist might not be a bad idea.)

Maybe they make sense in the US, but here, Rucker's ironic Aerosmith rock poses border on the archaic. A bit of Patti Smith's sassy attitude wouldn't have gone amiss. The band come across as really nice girls but, somehow, really nice girls aren't expected from blistering modern lyrics such as "looped her death on the internet, and a woman's life got cheaper that day". After 50 minutes, Brownstein's bellow recalls the sort of thing you'd shoo away with a broom. The sound system does them no favours, but their noble intentions deserve greater support from the sound of the band.