he male female duo used to be so quaint. Think Sonny and Cher or the Carpenters and images of kittens and flowers spring instantly in the cranium (unless of course you're a genius film-maker like Todd Haynes and envisage Cambodian carpet bombing to the tune of “We've Only Just Begun”). Then there's Richard and Linda Thompson, whose soul burnishing misery reduced grown adults to quivering, tear irrigated wrecks.


Now it's the twenty first century. Things have gotten sexy. And I blame the style magazines. Here in the UK, the likes of “Dazed and Confused” summoned up The White Stripes and The Kills for their own nefarious ends, and the rest of the press, music or otherwise, was quick to chew ferociously on their looks as much as their music. Now Denmark, land of the Little Mermaid and Lego, has thrown up the next raggedly photogenic pair to butter the hip young things' bread.


At first it's difficult to shake the feeling that it's kitschy schlock that they're radiating, rather than the sinister malevolence they may be aiming for. Perhaps it's garish Fifties B-Movie font arrangement and doom-filled glares on the CD cover. Maybe it's because Sune Rose Wagner looks like Griffin Dunne. The answer to this lingering impression is to turn it up. LOUD.


A few years ago we would have thought up dazzling comparisons with Jennifer Herema and the Reid brothers stealing Cramps riffs, now people will merely cite the far less exciting proposition of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Somehow I'm happier with the previous mish mash of references. After all it's better to be a mutated hybrid than a weak clone (I'm being contemporary here, remember Dolly the sheep died recently - God rest her murine fleece).


Their debut single 'Attack of the Ghost Riders' sounds very much like the tribute to Suicide the title suggests. Frantic, fucked up and thick with the sort of atmosphere you can cut chunks out of with a butcher's knife, it sets the tone. 'Do You Believe Her' sounds like the devil tempting the song's subject into murder. 'Cops On Our Tail' uses its raging, choppy riffs to override any smirking induced by the silly police sirens. Six foot tall Sharin Foo, every bit as gorgeous in the flesh as you might dream from the cursory description 'leggy Scandinavian blonde' suggests, sings huskily under Wagner, who sings like an emotionally detached dark lord as the gigantic garage riffs crash down in thunderous waves. I could go on but all I seem to remember the adrenalized racket of guitars scraping my eardrums. That's a good thing by the way.


In truth the lyrics are banal cool-speak of the sort deeply serious non-English speaking Pulp Fiction fans might think is the shit. And hopefully Wagner will remember to sing more about his lovely 'fried tomato' than resort to hackneyed 'shine on' and 'fuck you' repetitions. Then again I don't think The Raveonettes is a band that attracts its adherents through the beauty and power of human language.


Simply, Whip It On never lets up. The band vowed to keep every song around the three minute mark and kept to their word, so what we have been blessed with is a 21 minute 41 second short burst of booming, stylish rock alchemy. It leaves you wanting more, which in this day and age of foul and pestilent tunage is quite a feat.