The Raveonettes - Camden Barfly, December 2002

Buddy Holly is writhing in his grave, his hips grooving in ways he never knew they could while he was alive. Meanwhile somewhere in a bar in Camden, aloof Danish upstarts The Raveonettes [Rave On? Geddit?] are dragging one of his songs through a blizzard of white noise, snow and feedback. It's an emotional moment.

There's such a fucking buzz around this band - and God bless 'em, the in-the-know hordes actually got it spot on for once. This is rock 'n' roll with soul; devoid of posturing, stark and beautiful. It's so damn simple, it's ludicrous that it doesn't seem to have been done before - take one generous portion of 50s rock 'n' roll, the naïve, drive-in's-and-bobby-sox kind, add a dash of the Ramones' punch-drunk punky spirit, then ram it all headfirst through the Jesus & Mary Chain's amps until it emerges on the other side ragged and bleeding, slumped on the floor in a mess of wires and circuitry. Every innocent little melody is drowned in fuzz, framed by distant, eerie dual MBV-style male/female vox that shimmer and fade in and out of the guitar scree; it's icy and malevolent, yet it drips with gorgeous elegance, making you shiver and grin at once. Within minutes of taking the stage, The Raveonettes rip the competition apart with sleekly gloved hands and a demure smile. They could be very very big indeed.