Last Saturday at the Linwood Grille, Betty Blowtorch — a fearsome foursome of lizard-skinned LA ladies decked out in leather, lace, and leopard print — picked up the hatchet for slut metal in all its neanderthal glory. A tight hard-rock band comprising loose women, they opened with a medley of famous riffs by Kiss, the Ramones, Sabbath, and Quiet Riot, then bit into their own " Shut Up and Fuck. " Bikini Kill would’ve been appalled — especially when singer/bassist Bianca Butthole called some girl in the audience a " whore, " though Bianca seemed to mean it as a compliment.

The rock-slut genre, hard rock’s contribution to gender equality, didn’t really get busy until the ’80s. Its rules were simple: look good, rock hard, and cultivate the aura of the kinda girl who would be happy to screw the mullets off schoolyards of pimply 15-year-old heshers. Lita Ford was their queen. But there were tougher, heavier proponents, like Vixen, who were unfortunate enough to arrive at the end of the glam-metal rush, so most of their prospective audience just assumed they were really good-looking guys. Best of all were the Cycle Sluts from Hell, whose one semi-hit, " I Wish You Were a Beer, " twisted the formula just slightly, setting the stage for the just-as-skanky-as-the-guys debauchery of L7. After seeing Betty Blowtorch, L7 might want some of their shit back — like their anthem " Pretend We’re Dead, " which Betty appropriated in its entirety for a song called " Size Queen, " which is about how much they love big cocks.

Shamelessness, though, is one of Betty Blowtorch’s nicer qualities. It’s what’s endeared them to such fans as the Dwarves’ Blag Dahlia, Faster Pussycat’s Taime Down, and Guns N’ Roses’ Duff McKagan, who produced the Bettys’ first EP. It’s also part of what makes the Bettys’ debut album, Are You Man Enough? (Foodchain), more enjoyable than most of what’s been coming out of the motorpunk underground: a determination to be whoever you want them to be, an over-eagerness to please. Blink-182-style pop-punk hooks? You bet. Offspringy low-self-esteem power ballad? And how. Supersuckers-style raunch? Come to papa. Their musical credentials were impeccable: lead guitarist Blare N. Bitch played like the second coming of Slash; their lap-dance harmonies beat the Go-Go’s even as they were clobbering you with the sickest licks this side of Zeke; their Hollywood Boulevard sleaze anthems were ready for the world. But you could also smell the Nashville Pussy shtick a mile away: here comes the lesbian kiss, here comes the pyro. The lesbian kiss wasn’t even on the lips; and the pyro was just a pair of roman candles. Those gestures were unnecessary: Betty’d been on fire all night, and every hesher in the joint already wanted to shut up and you-know-what.