emember when you were just around the corner from realising love was a game you wanted to get in on? It was a Pandora’s Box – both begging to be opened but inevitably unleashing a dragon. Well, The Raveonettes are the sonic equivalent of straddling the divide of not really knowing what the hell is going on and crossing over to the dark side of love.

The Danish duo revels in a longing for late 1950s America – a time when the polite and the subversive entered their first ever smack-down. It's everywhere - from the title Chain Gang of Love to the album’s artwork – done in the style of a pulp dime-store novel. But they mix in touches of thoroughly modern (i.e. early 90s) burnt distortion and reverb. Kinda like if Buddy Holly came back from the plane crash and decide to work with The Jesus and Mary Chain. In fact the riff from first track “Remember” is a slowed-down, slightly more twinkling “Happy When It Rains”. Sune Rose Wagner is the feyest teenage delinquent ever. Says right here in The Wild Ones handbook that bikers don’t wear eye-make up. Ever. And Sharin Foo’s permanently pursed lips give her the expression of someone who just got a wedgie, but secretly liked it.

Cleary flair is an important piece of the Raveonettes puzzle. But let’s get back to the tunes. First of all, the whole thing is recorded in the SAME key. And the tandem woozily cooing vocals only increase the identikit feel of the album. But this is surely in keeping with the simplicity of the ethos behind the music. This isn’t rocket science – its garage rock. But there are standout gems. “The Great Love Sound” is a surf-inflected ditty that you can imagine pill-popping beach bunnies grooving to. And “Let’s Rave On” is almost David Lynch-like with it’s behind closed doors seediness.

Like a leather whip encased in a spun sugar cage, it is simultaneously deeply sexy yet innocent. And it’s that push-pull tension that keeps this album yanked together tighter than a PVC miniskirt. Granted, it’s really the same miniskirt worn over and over again, but when did wearing really tight mini-skirts start to suck? Put the album on, close your eyes, and imagine making out in the backseat of your Dad’s Buick with that certain someone from the wrong side of the tracks. Nothing this good could ever be wrong.