With its hardcore tempos and sensitive-guy lyrics, its casually profane verses and Muppets-movie-style sing-along choruses, and its optimistic anthems tempered by a deadened-soul delivery, Rancid's Indestructible finds power in the paradox. The album's central conflict and its most combustible contradictions stem from singer Tim Armstrong's split with his wife, Distillers vocalist Brody. Rancid was almost done with Indestructible at the time of the separation, and the album was shaking up to be a robust rant, addressing everything from American consumerism to Ivory Coast death squads. However, after a brief hiatus from the studio, Armstrong turned his attention to his own woes, with strikingly sincere results. The politically charged numbers provide perspective, preventing Indestructible from feeling like a self-pitying project. ANDREW MILLER



(Beggars XL Recordings)


Like Princess Superstar, Peaches plays the role of alpha female bearing an unfettered id with crotch-thrusting bravado. Her 2000 debut album, The Teaches of Peaches, sounds great in theory. (A white female Kool Keith? Dope!) But by "Diddle My Skittle," you yearn for a smidgen of subtlety, maybe a little lube before having that boom-chikking Groovebox dildo jammed assward. Ultimately, Peaches' punchy, low-budget electro and perverted verse are as fleetingly titillating as watching coked-up strippers slide down poles. On Fatherfucker, Peaches rediscovers her inner rocker, including "I Don't Give a... ," in which she squawks, "I don't give a fuck/shit!" to a sample of Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation." Shocking! She also duets with Iggy Pop on the trite Blues Explosion knockoff "Kick It" and bites Nashville Pussy on "Rock 'N' Roll." Elsewhere, Peaches alternately purrs and bellows over rudimentary, come-hither electro. It's better than Gold Chains' Young Miss America--but that's like saying a boil's better than a chancre. DAVE SEGAL





Philadelphia art ensemble Need New Body spans genres, switching up beatboxing with sharp guitars, Mothers of Invention style, and outré vocals--punk freaking jazz in the most gonzo of ways. They write lyrics that, on paper, they probably shouldn't have--"pen, pen, pen, where's my pen?"--and sing in a '60s orchestral jazz style, the kind with car horns and total free drum jams. Other times, it just sounds like barking. With more electronics and piano than their last record, NNB refines/reigns it in a tad, but they've got a long, arty, squiggly leash, and you won't be able to tell unless you're looking. They're still one of the most interesting groups within the punk idiom, matching their love of experimental shit with skill, making lots of pseudo-artistic, situationist freakers look like total poseurs. JULIANNE SHEPHERD

**** Mary-Kate & Ashley's Mall of America Party

*** Mary-Kate & Ashley's Space Camp Mission

** Mary-Kate & Ashley's Hawaiian Beach Party

* Mary-Kate & Ashley's The Case of the Hotel Who-Done-It