When Jenna Tyrade of Chicago punk outfit Tyrades was apparently “discovered” by her three male bandmates on a “crazy, alcohol-driven search,” those dudes got so lucky—her big-time screaming is the most riveting and charismatic of any non-defunct band I can think of. In terms of defunct bands, I hear Bikini Kill, but I bet the Tyrades don’t; the Avengers are usually name-checked and there are also strong shades of a meaner, more legitimately unhinged Poly Styrene. Tyrades’ debut LP—nine thrashing songs (“Cut Your Feet Off,” “I Hate Your Wave,” etc.) in under 23 minutes—is totally dominated by Jenna’s open, fluid, abjectly furious scratching, yelping, and snarling. The lack of intelligible lyrics is part of the record’s appeal: One is simply encircled in satisfying scowl. The only line I can pick up is a sardonic “ahhh, couples,” delivered with perfect sulking disgust. Tyrades’ music has been described as a “deranged slab,” and three out of four reviews posted on the website of Shit Sandwich (who released the band’s newest seven-inch, “I Am Homicide”) apply the adjective retarded as a compliment. But Tyrades don’t sound “retarded” at all; Jenna Tyrade compels because the very muck and mess of her articulation feels like a razor-sharp indictment.