Last night I saw the Raveonettes at Village Underground.  It was understated in the best kind of way – all about the music, no unnecessary talking, more interest in their guitars than the audience.  And the sound of the guitars seemed to drift up the endless brick walls of the former warehouse and envelop everything.  There was a haunting atmosphere to the more melodic tracks, while others erupted into full-on rock, and the vocals ceased altogether.  But when she was singing – in fact most of the time – all eyes were fixed on the girl, who with her black eyes and white-blonde bob looked like Debbie Harry or a sixties Julie Christie turned rock star.  There was a certain shyness or modesty about her as she glanced at the crowds in the pause between tracks, giving a hesitant smile.  Her voice was pure and beautiful and perfectly complemented her guitar.  Assistants came running on after almost every track with a different guitar for her, while she took a considered swig from a bottle of beer on a nearby amp.  She explained, perhaps, the number of middle-aged men in the audience.  Her co-singer/guitarist was consequently rather sidelined.

They finished after an encore on a high of white lights in a smoke haze and crashing guitars, and with a brief thank you left the stage.  And we were once again just a crowd of happy people with ears ringing in an echoing brick warehouse in Shoreditch.