Is a music critic’s objectivity contaminated once he allows his gonads to throw in their two cents? I suppose so. Well, fuck objectivity. Objectivity is for fictional dorks like John Galt and Howard Roarke and frigid old Russian wheeze-hags like Ayn Rand. I can’t help it—unless a female vocalist has a Mack truck voice like Andrea Dworkin, I tend to develop a crush on them (Wendy O. Williams being the lone exception to that rule.) I especially fall for female vocals if they’re coming out of the pipes of some edgy/smart-ass punk rock girls. The Bleeding Hickeys are fun and catchy and edgy and smartass and full of garage-rocky goodness—plus they have female vocals to boot, so me and my gonads like them just fine.