by Bob TarteA sassy, pop-smart disc produced by Hijaz Mustapha, in which the women tear through Ingrian rune chants, ancient wedding songs, and centuries old village insults like there's no yesterday, twisting odd metered 13/8 or 5/8 snips of history into maddeningly affecting jump-rope jingles. As defeated sounding violin, accordion, sax, even a tin whistle burble along behind them, the four-headed, single-voiced mutant offspring of ABBA kicks its heels in a giddy blurring of the chaste and libidinous with results that often transcend novelty-act status.