Being both Scandinavian and exponents of garage punk music, The Raveonettes couldn't be more now if they tried. A photogenic Danish quartet playing scuzzy 3-minute pop songs. A clash between Suicide, Blondie and prime time Mary Chain. Talk about right time right place. If they didn't exist then surely some wily record exec would've invented them by now.
What's more, they arrive with a fearsome reputation. Legendary Rolling Stone writer, David Fricke, says they're the best band he's seen in years. Original Blondie producer, Richard Gottehrer, goes further. "When I first heard the Raveonettes," he says, "it took me back to the great days of the punk revolution in New York City. The energy and excitement of that time is captured in their music, with all the added power of today's sound. This [new LP 'Whip It On'] is a great record and this band is going to be huge." High praise indeed.
Yet tonight, the hype is not delivered. Not by a long shot. It's not that they don't look great - they do. Lead singer, Sune Rose Wagner, has a certain gawky charm while his bass-playing counterfoil, Sharin Foo, is peroxide cool personified. Detached and beautiful, their voices lock together as one, the synthetic drones of the album fleshed out by real drums, keyboard and additional guitarist. The songs have exciting titles like 'Cops On Our Tail', 'Chains' and 'Bowels of the Beast'. For at least two songs it's a winning formula.
But ten minutes in and the limitations of their vision are all too apparent. Each song blends into the next and the band continue doing their cool detached thing. It's all Suicide meets Debbie Harry - perhaps no bad thing given the accolades poured onto tribute bands for the Velvets, Iggy and Nirvana - stand up Strokes, Hives and Vines and that's it. Nowhere are these influences transcended.
What made the original NYC punks so great was confrontation. Ditto their UK counterparts. Alan Vega attacked the audience with a whip. He incited riots playing support to Elvis Costello. He had something to say. He was an individual. Here, there's just a shrug of indifference - we've seen it all before. Warner and Foo sing, "Wanna die in Beat City and shoot my gun," and it sounds preposterous. They're from Denmark, not the Lower East Side, and, like The Strokes and their Swiss Finishing School take on Lou Reed, it's just pastiche. Beneath the regulation retro clothes there's no substance at the core. You just don't believe them.
They finish with 'Attack of the Ghost Riders' and walk off to light applause. Maybe Suicide was a bad comparison this was more like a Danish Slowdive with different effects pedals. As the man said: "Is This It?"
