When James Erdman slaps the pedal to the metal in "Muscle Car," the first cut on the Putters' debut, Fear of Women, it's evident that the lead singer and bassist is cagey – like he has a distributor cap full of fresh spark plugs and knows there's no law that'll stop him from flooring this indielabeled son of a bitch hot off the mean streets of Seattle.

What makes Fear hot-wired rock at its best is simple math: Take Bryant Grace's tie-it-down-and-beat-it-to-death drumming, add a double dose of Ramoneshexed guitarmanship (courtesy of Nate Hill and Robert Scafe), then divide it all by Erdman's hook-'em-and-keep-'em bass philosophy, and you end up with the most right-on punk offering since we learned what nirvana really meant. Because Erdman's beer-soaked yowl is often hauntingly reminiscent of Kurt Cobain's, the Nirvana comparisons are unavoidable – plus these guys rummage through the same themes that became Cobain and Co.'s signature: self-exile, insobriety, loneliness and so on.

The Putters wail about fighting ("Three of Me"), the promise of love ("Concubine"), the regrets of love ("Mistakes"), pot ("Tom's Farm"), guns ("Guns 'n' a Bullet") and friends on dope ("Stays home/Looks at TV/Fishes for veins," from the searing "Dead Horse"). But unlike Nirvana, the Putters customize their discontent with concrete Americana, offering a consistently enjoyable assemblage of isolated road songs.

Like true punk bands, the Putters, in all of their sloppiness, are slam full of piss and vinegar. But they're also cruising on a full tank of gas. It only takes one spring of Fear of Women to see that engaging, nasty-ass punk rock roars in underground America.

Fear of Women is available from Empty, 206-623-5260. (RS 700)

CHUCK DEAN