The time is yours, devour every instant...
[I]”This is OUR TIME!/OUR TIME!”[/I] 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
The time is yours, devour every instant.