Jacqueline Santillan makes me mad. Pot throwing, tobacco cud spitting and spittoon missing, fist through the just-repaired-and-even-more-maddeningly-squishy-plaster-patch- on-the- wall mad. Santillan of WAIT THINK FAST infuriates me because she reminds me, nay, shoves into my face, the blistering inequity of the music world in general, and women's "place" in the music world in particular.

While the world drools, damns, then demands more of the minutiae that passes for "news" of female musical darlings/devil spawn, the likes of Santillan quietly (though increasingly not so quietly) go about pouring their life and soul into creating music the world has not even begun to "get", let alone appreciate.

Fortunately, this sad state of affairs appears to be bothering me far more than it does Santillan. And for THAT we can be grateful. As we should equally appreciate the Los Angeles' band's introductory self-titled cd. To attempt to get an inkling of this band's "gravitas" (finally an opportunity to use that), sit back, close your eyes, and try real hard NOT to conjure up this image when you first hear the opening cut: Marlene Dietrich, all smoky, don't mess with me or I'll spike you in the swastika haughty and haunting-like. See? Impossible.

Santillan commands attention, with an iron fist and vocals to match. Which is fine if you're heading an underground political movement, but not exactly endearing for a chanteuse? Still, you (or at least I) get the feeling that label---any label�isn't about to keep Santillan up nights fretting over whether she'll get bad press if it's a slow Britney day (i.e.: she has her Starbucks delivered rather than pick it up herself, all with nary a sign of a license, car seat, undies or brain activity).

Those raw, sultry/sexy/slash your tires in heartbeat vocals don't quite deserve�yet--- comparisons to the gritty-ish Chrissie Hynde/Pink/Kelly Clarkson. But neither should you expect Santillan's resume to include stints in the Mickey Mouse Club. Just as you've finished absorbing (and alternately, being assaulted by, but in a good way) dark, moody, this-nicotine-patch-ain't-worth-squat vibe, and are about to declare the band's style as being as anti-bubblegum as the Spice Girls are pro-musical, track 4 greets you. Bad Men, with an almost upbeat effort that showcases simultaneously versatility and a stick-to-itness, squelches the otherwise justified conclusion that this band's got only one speed. There are layers to Wait Think Fast that you just know are waiting to be peeled back.

Mandatory declaration time: I'm a sucker for the true, unencumbered appeal of your basic, meat and potatoes piano (or in this case, meat and potatoes with a velvety side of gravy made from the bottom of the roast pan drippings' not the rip-the-envelope, add �water-type of gravy) AKA: a Fender Rhodes) .

And so there's one more reason to fall for Santillan, who not only sings and plays the piano, but also produced and wrote the album. Forget Girl Power. This Argentinean embodies Woman Power. Squared. or Pied. Or whatever mathematical mumbo-jumbo best describes oodles of strength.

And lest I be accused of being a man hater, or worse a man IGNORER, WAIT THINK FAST's male members (oops) can more than hold their own (oops x2). They are, for the record (or cd): Matthew Beighley, bass percussion, Apolinar Quintero , guitar sampler noise, and Ramiro Saucedo, drums. Given their vocalist's obvious musical talents, they're likely used to sharing the spotlight. But that's not to denigrate their contribution to the band, for it is, in the truest sense of the word, a band: in this case a democratic meshing of artistic strengths, which is really all a band can ever aspire to�regardless of gender, right? (or perhaps more politically accurate, left?)