These days it's hip to like a singer who sounds alternately like metal grinding against metal, fingernails scraping a blackboard, and a squirrel being choked to death. Diamanda Galas has both the eardrum-popping screeches of Björk and the teeth-grinding low notes of Tom Waits, without either of those artists' redeeming qualities. Sure, she's got a wide vocal range, but must we endure auditory torture for the sake of recognizing an unusual physical ability? Should talent be measured by the amount of Tylenol one needs after a show? For equivalent cheaper thrills, try stepping on a nail, smashing your thumb with a hammer, or placing your head in a meat grinder. Melody Moss