Given the chance, Fake Club would have you believe they’re ripped from the annals of punk/rock’n’roll history, from a time where Jett, Currie and Quatro ruled the roost. The London four-or-maybe-five-piece have a sound eerily familiar of the soundtrack on Guitar Hero games, or the early ’00s hard rock revival such as Jet or early Kings Of Leon. Deap Vally, in terms of sheer attitude, are probably a good contemporary reference point; where DV are preoccupied with shredding and puffing chests, Fake Club nurture a cumbersome melodic streak they have trouble controlling. On their debut LP, entitled Fuckable, you get the feeling they restrain this passion for hooks in a bid to shovel grit and grimacing fury, perhaps to jolt away from their early “Spice Girls with instruments” claim. However, you get the distinct impression they’d be way more confident channelling Avril Lavigne than The Runaways.

Don’t get us wrong though, this haywire, confuddled concoction is frickin’ boss.

“Midnight At KOKO”, yoinked from the OST to Powder Room, which features Sheridan Smith and Kate Nash (whose recent reinvention is like a cousin-timbre to Fake Club), is an understated masterpiece. Gravel-gulleted Rosie Bones (that is a nom de guerre if there ever was one) croons a 40(0) a day quasi-ballad that pretty much sums up the ritualistic disaster of going clubbing: “I’ll love you ’til the lights come on/ while you scream until I scream along/ I lost you drowning in her eyes/ dirty lips and snakebites.” There’s no clipped letter Ts though, it’s all very slurred and solemnly tipsy; it’s the simultaneous hedonistic, hyped-up hysteria of bawling too-drunk eyes and oblivious giggles, grinning garishly at everything and nothing. An oddly poignant cut.

The cadre of industry vets behind the scenes – Bob Ludwig, Guy Chambers, Kevin Killen – ensure that there’s some semblance of steering the ship. Not that there inherently isn’t, but with a riotous, raucous ball of noise á la sex, drugs, rock’n’roll-era, erm, rock’n’roll, there tends to be mayhem. Even Motley Crue had someone telling them where to be and when. Ludwig and Killen’s Midas touch with all things rock has surely helped the record along to its final, sharp, explosive resting place, guiding the innate firepower of Fake Club and ensuring their music sounds the best it possibly can on disc.

While you can easily gaze upon a whoppin’-great ’70s feel to the record, there’s a splattering of ’90s rock too – think Hole (“Over and Over”) and proto-pop-punk/emo acts like Jimmy Eat World (“Do It Like Me”). “Beauty Queen”’s a tale of scorn and bitterness, a Mean Girls-type denunciation of the social elite and vacuous Hiltons. Chugging bass and jagged guitar licks combine for the sonic undergrowth, a geed-up amalgam of classic rock/punk elements re-tuned for a modern setting. The rock element to Fake Club’s sound is powerful, but it’s on the poppier, hookier, melodic-er cuts that stand out as definite reasons to take notice of Fake Club – tracks like “Generation”, “Midnight at KOKO” and “Fine”.

Their debut album’s a bit incoherent at times, maybe a tad derivative too, but it’s still got enough charm to warrant having a gander. The strongest moments are when they forgo the chunky riffs and vie for enticing, socially relevant guitar-pop. The rest of the record is still fantastic fun, and an exemplary answer to America’s acts like Deap Vally,Foxygen and Haim. Sure, we have Temples too, but they’re off in their own world. Fake Club are here and they’re now. They’re also loud and quite angry, and, when they put their mind to it, bewitching popsmiths.