So, the 'new rock revolution' will not be new in any form. That much is clear. It's been like waiting for Jesus, the resurrection coming in the shape of a shabby old man on the back of a donkey, who wants to banish modern medicine and dismantle the information superhighway for pulped, leafy brews and an abacus. Progress? Don't be ridiculous.
If we've learnt anything in the last couple of years, it's that the chronic lack of vision and short-term dollar signs ringing in the eyes of record company terrorists, armed with a tethered and unsophisticated musical flock, provides guaranteed returns. So, we spin the rock'n'roll wheel one more time and exit our time machine with the provocative image of The Raveonettes before us. Dark, moody, monochrome, bold eyes and serious expressions - it's a good look. And you can't fault the influences either. 'Whip It On', their debut album, is over after an adrenalised 28 minutes, tearing-up The Velvet Underground, The Jesus and Mary Chain and Blondie, and weaving the shredded sonics into a frequently blistering buzzsaw noise attack.
First single 'Attack Of The Ghost Riders' screams into shot, feedback sparking from the punctured wheels, and immediately you're in feral, if well traversed, territory. Undoubtedly, this is an addictive sound. 'Veronica Fever' takes the squalling JAMC blueprint and guitar hooks your brain with decadent disdain, while the marauding 'Do You Believe Her' throws samples and police sirens at a wall you just know is pasted with glue. It all follows the same formula, reaching a seething crescendo on the claustrophobic 'My Tornado'.
However, within the evident limitations of The Raveonettes swaggeringly successful zerox, there is an obvious suspicion that we're just being taken for another zombie ride - this time mapped in Scandinavia. Sune Rose Wagner and Sharin Foo, the creators of 'Whip It On', are from Denmark and yet their smacked-out, louche subversion is so New York it might as well turn-up in a yellow cab.
Obviously NYC has been the epicentre of the 'new wave'. And rightly, considering the likes of Interpol, The Strokes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the outrageously gifted Out Hud. But these groups reflect a life they've lived, not downloaded from the junkie handbook, learnt from 'The Wild Ones' or CBGB's folklore. Frankly ridiculous lines like "Wanna die in Beat City and run run run/Wanna hang with girls and shoot my gun" - from the fuzz rush of 'Beat City' - litter 'Whip It On', but they are little more than comic book soundbites, wilting in the jagged, feverish shadow of their illustrious forefathers.
Who, clearly, did it so much better.
