Last year, The Raveonettes came popping out of Copenhagen with an armload of press-ready gimmicks: a quirky boy/girl rapport, a preoccupation with 1950s, noir-heavy American kitsch, The Jesus & Mary Chain's discography memorized in full, and a 20-minute debut EP recorded exclusively in B-flat minor, without a single track eeking over three minutes long. It was late 2002, and (kudos, NME!) the public's interest in consuming a boundless barrage of backstory-hype had been waning for months; Whip It On! was a tiring proposition, both sonically and contextually, its thick, repetitive post-punk guitars and yawning, aimless vocals making its brief playtime feel like a whole shitload longer.
Chain Gang of Love, The Raveonettes' shiny major label debut, is a far less off-putting introduction: they've kept up the pop posturing (check founding members Sherin Foo and Sune Rose Wagner bedecked in black leather and perched atop motorcycles on their retro film-poster cover, or the fact that this one is played exclusively in B-flat major), but all the peripheral jigging is, finally, apropos to something real-- trading in the dark J&MC; theatrics for bubblegum harmonies and pleasantly saccharine coos, Chain Gang of Love is blatantly inspired by coifed, mid-century American pop, with thick, Phil Spector-esque production and tightly controlled melodies, each mesmeric hook sufficiently roughed up but still intact.
The Raveonettes' reigning aesthetic principle seems to be density, and the heavy, concentrated bulk of these songs can occasionally seem impenetrable, a characteristic that's only aggravated by their doubled-up vocals, ever-rushing feedback, and ringing, distorted guitars. Still, if your ears are freshly cleaned, it can also be a glorious buzz: now with Manjos Ramdas on guitar and Jakob Hoyer on drums, The Raveonettes' incessant B-flat majoring pits scratchy garage effects against sweet, copasetic songwriting, creating an internal tension that's curiously compelling.
"Noisy Summer" opens with handclaps and impeccable harmonies; soon, distorted guitars crash in, throbbing until the very end, blanketing everything in an opaque layer of hum. "Remember" is Chain Gang's best, an atmospheric, billowy track with chiming guitar and frothy vocals, a breathless exhalation as full as it is weightless.
The Raveonettes' rote reinterpretations inevitably grow a little tiresome (closer "New York Was Great" is imminently forgettable), especially after you've patiently swallowed ten or eleven fizzy versions of the exact same thing. But sweet/sour juxtaposition is their bag, and, lyrically, they've splattered these otherwise innocent songs with just enough disjointed teenage sex-drama to stretch interest for a few seconds longer than expected: the cloudy bedroom entendres and veiled invitations that haunted the bubblegum tracks of the 50s and 60s are suddenly transformed into explicit admissions and/or requests, like "Little Animal"'s honest proclamation that "My girl is a little animal/ She always wants to fuck/ I can't find a reason why/ I guess it's just my luck," or "The Love Gang"'s astute observation: "Chains, black leather, and sex/ Yeah, it's not that complex."
The kick is that their quips are still delivered with wide-eyed, Leave It to Beaver earnestness-- "Dirty Eyes (Sex Don't Sell)" sees Wagner and Foo whispering, "Jimmy says that sex don't sell/ I think he's just..." right before a blissfully sighed, overwhelmingly innocent "oh well" swells up. Blame The Raveonettes' questionable grasp of the English language, or their self-imposed key limits, but this is the kind of content/delivery, virgin/whore dichotomy that should make Britney Spears quake with envy.
At thirty-three minutes long, Chain Gang of Love cuts off right before you start getting up to flip off the stereo, proving that The Raveonettes have finally learned how to bow out before their game gets unbearable. Ultimately, Chain Gang suffers from a lack of depth, but it's not so painfully hollow that listening isn't kinda fun.
