Palma Violets: 180

Every year brings another new UK guitar band, riding the crest of a wave made almost entirely of hyperbole, spin and over-sell. Step forward, Palma Violets, this year’s model. Sometimes the pre-press is justified, yet for every Arctic Monkey, there’s a Crib, a Klaxon or even a Gay Dad.
Signed to Rough Trade on the back of some ferocious basement gigs, where up to 50 of their pissed-up mates crammed into a tiny cellar to see their frenetic live show, Palma Violets are a quartet from Lambeth, London, made up of twin vocalists Sam Fryer, who also plays a very fuzzy guitar, and the wonderfully monikered Chilli Jesson, who doubles as a bassist, along with drummer Will Doyle and Pete Mayhew on keyboards.
Produced by former Pulp bassist Steve Mackey, their debut mixes the sound of ‘60s’ garage acts like The Sonics with early Stones and hints of newer kids on the chopping block, like The Vaccines and The Libertines. It’s raw, shouty and catchy in all the right places, and sure to have thousands pogo-ing during the summer festival season. Current single and stand-out ‘Step Up For The Cool Cats’ shimmies in on a simple organ lick (ooh-er, missus), that could’ve been nicked from Inspiral Carpets (and we mean that as a compliment) and an insistent drum tattoo, before some Edwyn Collins-esque knowing pop sensibilities kick in on the chorus.
If you were to create a Frankenstein’s monster-style indie supergroup, they’d probably end up sounding something like Palma Violets, who don’t so much wear their influences on their sleeves as light them up in fifteen-foot neon. ‘All The Garden Birds’ has them giving it their best Morrissey impression; ‘Chicken Dippers’ borrows from The Walkmen; ‘Rattlesnake Highway’ out-hey-ho’s The Ramones; ‘Johnny Bagga Donuts’ pares down The Who, and ‘14’ is the best Editors song you’ve never heard. Sure it’s derivative, but they’re so damn good at it, it’s fun picking out the soundalikes.
We might not be talking about Palma Violets in a decade or even a year’s time, but when they’re so vibrantly, raucously now, does it really matter? Probably not. And for some 16-year-old, yet to raid their dad’s record collection, Palma Violets could be
their Clash.