For those of you in a hurry, some quick things of note about this record: the lead vocalist sounds a lot like Bis' Manda Rin (the words "adenoidal" and "bratty" spring to mind). Most of the discernable lyrics offer themselves up as a more risqué interpretation of Karen O's Sheena-is-a-bitch-in-heat shtick-- a High Society to play off the YYY's Playboy. Note the following instructions from "Pretend I'm Sleeping": "I want your baby/ So you'll have to come inside me." If you've ever heard Weasel Walter's guitar work on the Lake of Dracula album-- chunky, thick, dissonant, frantic-- you might think Sick Lipstick's guitarist owes a tithe or indulgence to Skin Graft for such sincere flattery. But the perpetual nerves that permeate this disc owe their frazzled state to the supposed Now Wave scene of the mid-90s (cf. the Scissor Girls, US Maple, Arab-on-Radar, that group of film-school drop outs opening for Blonde Redhead in 1995 wearing Q-Bert masks and tie-died hospital smocks while playing detuned E chords on guitars strung up with fishing line-- no, wait, that last group sucked ass, nevermind). As much as the supposed Now Wavers owe their MO and livelihood (relatively speaking) to No New York and Screamers bootlegs, Sick Lipstick brush against an equally well defined preexisting pedigree. This might be a good album for those of you in a hurry, though: no song on Sting Sting Sting wears out its welcome, with each of the twelve tracks working itself out in 3 minutes or less. But