Pretty Girls Make Graves

Pretty Girls Make Graves, Good Health. Matador Ole)

Dave Simpson. The Guardian

It's usually misty-eyed thirtysomethings who grumble on about when the music "meant" something, but these Seattle twentysomethings have a belief in the power of song that has little to do with nostalgia.

Andrea Zollo's cry of "Nothing else matters when I turn it up loud" is as much a manifesto as a hint of how PGMG sound. Based around interlocking fuzz guitars, at least one car horn and the musical sensitivity of a cheese grater, they sound more like an amalgam of the Slits and Fugazi than the Smiths, from whose songbook they took their name.

However, titles like If You Hate Your Friends, You're Not Alone imply they have listened closely to Morrissey's well-articulated spite. Alienation in modern America and deceptively vitriolic reflection further colour their lyrical palette, although musically there are so many ideas going on at once that they really should learn to relax.

This minor Molotov of an album won't suit everybody's taste, but it's refreshing to hear a band this uncompromisingly furious.