Although my Catholic soul trembles at the sin I might or might not be committing by encouraging these poor demented girls, my honesty (decadent as it might be at its source) compels me to state: Rasputina's Cabin Fever is the most fun I've had since my sister and I discovered a glass case filled with dying bees in our grandmother's attic. Melora Creager's lyrics consist of the finest poetry to be found in contemporary pop muzik-no tedious ambiguities or oblique verse for this gal: she takes aim with words and hits the bulls-eye every time. From the opening "Gingerbread Coffin," which describes some dreadful ceremony in which a fetish from childhood is resurrected into gothic twilight, to the closing, "A Quitter," an ode to suicide that will evoke guilt from the most spotless soul, Melora stitches together genuinely surreal tales (Leonora Carrington-wise) from the jumble she has discovered in some Victorian attic of the mind (aside from the spoken word "PJ + Vincent + Matthew + Bjork," which is quite simply an exhilarating fall-to-the-floor laugh-cap). Musically, each track opens like a surprise package, filled with cellos organic and distorted, and delightful little (again) demented touches, like the sharpening of knives heard throughout "Rats," the unsettling drum thumps and jingling thingies that punctuate "Cross Walk," leaving the listener with the unsettling sense that these Rasputina girls are up to something nasty in the wood shed. I am not sure that I would want to meet them on some dark street, but when it comes to songs that reflect an individual vision owing sfa to anyone or anything else, I would crawl into their attic anytime.