Several lifetimes have elapsed since then, pandering to the music industry's voracious appetite for new talent, the effect a little like dog years in reverse. Tragically, British "indie" - for most part aligned to big publishing deals and the muscle of global media conglomerates - is still largely the domain of four pieces' living in the embers of the iconic Libertines. In the face of such an obvious creative dead end an evolutionary step was required, and lately perhaps a shift has begun to occur, a direction posted by Bloc Party on their "Flux" EP, with especially the remixes being a seemingly guitarless redux in thrall to techno. Add to this the emergence of smart, punchy outfits like Late of The Pier and with The Editors now proclaiming that their new direction will isolate their traditional drums-bass-guitars following, and the unmistakable sensation is of something new emerging to satisfy the intermingling drainpipe/flouro crowds.
It is an opportunity not to be wasted and from the outset, Friendly Fires serve emphatic notice that they're in a hurry to capitalise. Taking your hand and dragging you towards the dancefloor insistently, they open up with a quartet of songs that were designed to be equally as effective in sweaty back rooms and sunlit roof terraces, boundless in energy and conviction, almost wanting more than you can give.
Opener "Jump In The Pool" is all breathless, torpor free Air-esque harmonies, chiming guitars and the hands in the air bliss of a night of youthful vacation hedonism. "In The Hospital" contrasts radically, deploying the lugubrious brass of seventies soul, a little like Isaac Hayes would sound like if he'd been brought up in an english town in the eighties, whilst the choppy guitars and Macfarlane's anthemic vocals on "Paris" are a spectacularly pristine melding of bygone heavyweights A-ha and Duran Duran. But it's "White Diamonds", the climactic fourth act, which reveals the band's naked ambitions; at a slightly more corpulent tempo, the pummelling synths and butt shaking rythmic chassis wouldn't - without any notion of disrespect - sound out of place on the last Girls Aloud album.
A little like a child in a particularly well stocked sweet shop, you can't possibly be kept at this level of serotonin production. If there is an inevitability about coming a little down the mountain after the opening salvo, then it's only because expectation have been blasted so sky-high. Of the rest, "Photobooth" comes closest to New Rave's benchmark sound, funk strained of it's sexuality, guitars scratching unsatisfyingly. Both "Strobe" and "Skeleton Boy" undeniably recall that early dance pop chug of New Order, whilst only the messy untogetherness of "Ex Lover" fails to satisfy.
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