Across the tropic of teenybop and beyond the cape of good music live the charming, effervescent and bright-eyed little chart-ruling elves of pop. A people who diet solely on saccharin and cheese, they are noted for their ice-white smiles, silken hair and a life-controlling passion for cover versions and expensive little waistcoats.

But things aren't as they should be on sugarcube island; the sky is cloudier than usual, the sunshine isn't as bright as it should be and a sulphuric spice hangs heavy in the uneasy air.

Yes; there's an unbeknown threat to these saccharin-sweet cartoon cottages in their twee little forest of fun. And as the candy-cane royalty of Westlife, Billie and Queen Mel C feel a rumbling beneath their immaculately cushioned feet, they cast their eyes skyward, and squint, song video style, into the barren and dusty horizon. The object of their gaze? A shadowy and hulking figure advancing without reproach. No, it's not their manager. Nor is it their minder arriving to chaffeur them to a new premiere, or even the latest budget-breaking publicity stunt, ready to be swiftly eschewed onto the national press for a 'joke'.

No.. This is the summer of RAWK, spitting, snarling and striding its way forth, crushing diddy-cars beneath its feet and flinging houses aside like paper cups. Benign since grunge imploded five years ago, it has finally woken from its slumber, now sporting an afro wig, clown mask, baseball cap and wielding a skateboard. And it's really pissed off.

So move aside teeny-boppers, for the summer of rock n'roll is on its way. And if My Vitriol have any say in the matter, they'll be the yoof media presenters televising the revolution through fish-eye lenses and tinted fretboardcams ™, whilst Ash and Idlewild shuffle over to GMTV to celebrate their, ooh, fourth (oh NO!) birthdays. For indeed, My Vitriol are the thinking teen's rock wannabes, suckled for strobing stadia. All the ingredients are here; the growling (yet expertly groomed) singer; the videowall friendly rock-chick bassist; the miffed guitar axeman, all sprinkled liberally with echoey stack-amp choruses and the odd GRRRROOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWLLL; et voila, nu-clear teen rock heroes! They even use their whammy bars for that deliciously 'ironic' touch.

And Finelines, this debut outing, follows the same grandiose lines. Longing to be perceived as a 'landmark' of a record, twirlingy mysterious intros and screechingly powerful closures hunch uncomfortably with the frequent inter-song 'links' (possibly an attempt to illustrate MV's 'deeper' side, seemingly about as deep as a sherry trifle) come across as self-indulgence without foundation.

The fact that most of this album was produced by Foo Fighters and Feeder producer Chris Sheldon also isn't a shock. The happy-go-lucky rollercoaster of Always your Way is Foo Fighters on their lunchbreak. Grounded's slow indulgence is Foo Fighters drinking their tea. And The Gentle Art of Choking is, surprisingly enough, Foo Fighters. Choking on their lunch, at the blatant riff-theft of their own track My Hero.

No, really. If Idlewild are College Rock, then My Vitriol are Bicycle Shed Metal. And a bicycle shed full of stolen bicycles at that, taken without permission from l'il Davey Grohl. Any cheekier and they'd have scrawled 'Cheers Davey boy!' on the inlay in purple crayon.

The summer of rock n'roll may be round the corner for many, but the forecast is uncertain for My Vitriol. They have the know-how, the image, and the teenage angst that the sugarcube elves lack, it would seem.

But at least when popsters steal someone else's tunes they admit it.

6/10 Karl Cremin

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