Every now and then a new band comes along to grab you by the throat and demand that you sit down and listen to them. Enter The Spitfires and their debut album ‘Response’, released on their own Catch 22 record label. Lazy comparisons will no doubt come their way, but these boys are better than that. It’s true that the band wear their influences like tattoos; Mod, Punk, and Ska are all in there, but they bring their Molotov cocktail of genres, kicking and screaming into the 21st century. Fresh faced power pop with thundering drums and staccato, rasping guitars, underpinned by solid bass and swirling keyboards, their musicianship belies their tender ages. But it’s not all bang and bluster, as the subtleties of ‘4 a.m.’ and ‘Spoke Too Soon’ create soundscapes that depict the frustrations that their generation are having to deal with. Council estate mazes, job dissatisfaction and the constant fight of dragging yourself out of the spiral of poverty are age old subjects, but they are bought up to date with references to themes such as the minimum wage and payday loans. The songs that concern the torment and complexity of youthful relationships are achingly painful and make me so glad that I don’t have to go through all that shit again! Tours with Weller, The Specials and The Ordinary Boys will hopefully bring them a bigger audience, and slowly the ‘sold out’ signs of their own gigs are increasing by the day. It’s taken them 3 years to get this far, without compromising themselves, proving that there is an alternative to karaoke talent(less) competitions, hosted by egotistical puppets playing God with the desperate and delusional. No shock tactics, no gimmicks, no hype, just tunes and attitude in spades, The Spitfires are digging up the corpse of mediocrity and shitting down its neck. I paid the princely sum of £5.00 ( yes that’s correct, £5.00) to see them at the Retro bar in Manchester last month, a cosy downstairs bar with not enough room to swing a mouse, it was like watching them in your bedroom. They ripped through their set, playing to a mixture of knowledgeable teenagers to middle aged mods and ex punks, whilst fighting against a sound bathed in treacle. This didn’t stop the band inflicting an incendiary aural assault on their appreciative audience, Billy Sullivan spits out his venom, strangling every sinew of energy from his guitar, Chris Chanell pounds and caresses his keyboards in equal measure, all underpinned by the solid rhythm section of Sam Long on bass and Matt Johnson on drums. I implore you to give them a listen, but more importantly, turn off the TV, put the mobile on silent, and catch them live. They deserve your attention.