Yeah Yeah Yeahs/Sammo Hung : London Camden Barfly NME 'On' Night

The time is yours, devour every instant...

"This is OUR TIME!/OUR TIME!" chants the genetically cloned

cyberchild of Souxie Sioux, Gwen Stefani, Suzi Quatro and that

randy dragon out of 'Shrek'; the android sex queen of New York

trash-flash named Karen O. She's bang on the money. With NYC spewing

out stupendous bands like a diseased dog puking stardust, meet the

next wave. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

They're sexier than The Strokes, more savage

than The Stripes, more

kick-ass than The Vines and infinitely superior to The Next Bunch Of

Miserable Indie Barmen We Hype To The High Hills, but if the Yeah

Yeah Yeahs were from Cardiff they'd be bollocks on toast, right? Wrong,

they'd be Sammo Hung, who sing about sharks and shagging and generally

make a slavering racket.

Enter the Yeah Yeah Yeahs; all

kung-fu highkicks, '80s Bowie poses,

searing Clash dynamics and

vocals like PJ Harvey in a tumble drier. When

they're not jittering through incredibly catchy juggerpop anthems like

'Bang' or 'Our Time', their songs are like rats with burning rags on

their tails, restlessly darting and swerving. Metallica, The Breeders,

Wire, the Jesus & Mary Chain… every immaculate alterna-rock influence

is chewed up and spat in our faces. By the end of psycho-Pixies finale

'Mystery Girl' this reviewer is hoping Karen will leap from the stage and

bike-chain him half to death, just to cement the legend. For the rest of

your life, swear you were here, at the very epicentre of this generation's

Year Zero.

The time is yours, devour every instant.

Mark Beaumont

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