It took a while for British songstress Holly Golightly to sashay out of the shadow of modern garage-rock cult figure extraordinaire Billy Childish. Holly began in the early '90s in one of Childish's numerous side projects, Thee Headcoatees. Soon, Holly slipped out a few of her own singles, then albums, then more albums. Seems she's picked up Childish's penchant for obsessive output. On a songwriting level, Holly has long since surpassed her mentor. Taking a similar '60s primitive garage base, Holly paints on anything from cowgirl eyelash-batting to Dusty Springfield dramatics, from Nico navel-gazing to riot grrrl bird-flipping. A cool, wizened tone carries her ceaseless tales of lame dates. And were she to shmooze Ryan Adams or some such marketing tomfoolery, she'd be an adult alternative staple. Instead, Holly spends all that shmoozing time on writing good songs and employing kindred spirits, like members of Thee Headcoats and the Greenhornes, to help flesh them out. Admittedly, her subdued live act wouldn't translate very well in big halls anyway. But settle into a nightclub with a few pints down, and her songs will carry you off to that weathered brewpub down the corner of your broken heart.