The Peels are unrepentant and rowdy, full of swagger and conviction. They play hard, sexed up rock, can easily make friends with the camera and are currently anticipating the release of their debut LP on Dim Mak. They're also reviled in their former hometown of Seattle for being overly ambitious fashionistas, adored in their new home, San Francisco, for almost the same reason, and unheard of almost everywhere else. Their straightforward middle-finger-to-innovation rock is almost too good to be true, and, because of some baseless bravado when the band first formed they've garnered a degree of skepticism in indie circles that makes this writer have to explain, to his skeptical editor among others, why the Peels should be embraced as the best one night stand that rock "n' roll has to offer.

Fortunately, the people that care the least about the hype and the hate are The Peels themselves. The fiery foursome, centered around Robin Miller, a 21st-century Chrissie Hynde with the menacing growl of Iggy Pop, only wants to give you pleasure. It's refreshing to see a band that's so honest about its ambitions. They don't want to change the world, just your evening plans. They're certainly not dumb, but they also realize you're not going to a rock show for intellectual stimulation.

It's obvious to The Peels what rock is all about. It's about the body. And though Seattle may have taken issue with their initial confidence to competence ratio (which was heavily weighted towards the former), the move to S.F. and a lot of hard work have justified their brash, bold, and earnest aspirations to all things rock.