After a series of low-key single releases and an increasing reputation for high-octane live shows that have them seem support kindred spirits The Cramps, The 5-6-7-8s and The Damned, North London’s queens of trash The Priscillas have made good on their promise with this, their debut album proper.
With the emphasis more on fun than originality, the quartet displays an innate pop sensibility that beats at its frothy core. As with all the best pop music, The Priscillas do sterling work at creating a universe all of their own making. This is a place where the world has turned day-glo and X-Ray spex really do work and in just seven days Charles Atlas really can make you a man. It’s all about glitter, killer heels, seamed stockings and where every night is a Saturday night.
Crucially, the move from the garage to the sphere of pop sleekness has done little to soften their infectious mischief. The glam racket of ‘Demolition Kids’ evokes an era of brickies in stack heels tottering along as they briefly weigh up the merits of copping off with a hod carrier before deciding on hitting the Party Seven and a packet of No 6 instead. Elsewhere, ‘The King Is Dead”s mariachi punk and the warped disco that drives ‘Fly In My Drink’ prove to be bubblegum joys while the provincial humour of ‘All The Way To Holloway’, complete with references to Joe Meek and the local bus routes, finds the girls with their tongues firmly in their cheeks.
A hoot from start to finish, The Priscillas make no pretence at reinventing the musical wheel. They hark back to a time of simple pleasures, delinquency and the triumph of beating the night with or without cheap and nasty stimulants. They’re hitting the floor and how. The question is: you dancin’ or what?
