What if they’d called themselves the Uproars? Even by 1994, when 40 years of band names had left the rock-dictionary cupboard pretty bare, and even within the indie-punk lexicon, it was still possible to build a name out of regular English words — the kind people know how to pronounce, the kind they remember. For a new group to call themselves Sleater-Kinney — uh, what? — read as an act of deliberate obscurantism, of introvertedness. Was it Sleeter or Slayter? The hyphenated-proper-noun thing made them sound like prog-rock vanity-noodlers, which was pretty much the opposite of what they were. There was no one named Sleater in the liner notes, and no one called Kinney, either. If you did some research, you could maybe unearth the tidbit that they’d named themselves after a freeway exit in Lacey, Washington, where they practiced. Even by the collapsing post-grunge consensus of the moment, though, the name seemed defiantly anticommercial. It was the sound of a band actively not wanting you as a fan.