Screaming Females were so good at being unhinged no-frills basement-punk shit-rippers that it’s amazing to hear how good they are at other things, too. On Rose Mountain, their scrappiness is intact, but they’re after bigger things: Riffs and grooves and hooks so big that they demand to be blasted from open windows of 1975 Camaros, catharsis too vast for a basement to contain. This is the moment they stop being one of our great punk bands and become, instead, one of our great rock bands. After all, how many working bands can write choruses like these? –Tom

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