Poor Matthew Jacobson. Ever since I learned that Baxendale would be on Le Grand Magistery in the US, I've been pestering the Magistery honcho for a copy of You Will Have Your Revenge. I'm sure he's been cursing my name over the last few weeks, especially for its regular appearances in his e-mail inbox.

My enthusiasm for You Will Have Your Revenge is a little bit odd, as Baxendale isn't the sort of group I usually like. Their sound is unabashedly retro-leaning Eurotechnodisco -- sort of a less fey Pet Shop Boys fronted by Howard Devoto. It's bouncy, cheerfully mainstream music; like many of their peers, Baxendale may have found an American home on an independent label, but they'd probably be more comfortable with a fresh-faced nightclub crowd than a group of fanatical Momus fans. It's obvious from the first track -- the superlative "Music for Girls" -- that Baxendale aren't afraid to perform dressed in silver jumpsuits, or to dance behind their own keyboards, taking pleasure in their own cheerily upbeat bleeps.

It's no secret that this trio loves -- really loves -- dance music. It's asserted plainly in "Music for Girls", then rammed home by a lengthy, affectionate monologue in "I Love the Sound of Dance Music". This is a point at which culture plays an important role. Would you believe an ostensibly straight twenty-something American boy gushing about dance music on one hand and longing for girls on the other? It probably wouldn't ring true -- the image doesn't seem to jibe well with the American music-listening zeitgeist, which allows young heterosexual men to be just as obsessive, but not as effusive. Not where dance music is concerned, anyway -- it's more the province of indiepop fanboys, which perhaps offers insight into Baxendale's presence on Le Grand Magistery. Regardless, this cultural split helps vocalist Tim Benton to create a completely believable, quintessentially British character -- a veritable twenty-first century boy, enamoured of video games, computers, drum machines, cellular phones and, most of all, modern girls -- while distrusting the crusty trapings of nasty grotty old rock-and-roll. The ideal Baxendale woman is as comfortable in front of a Playstation 2 as she is dancing in a nightclub ("Neato"); if she claims not to know much about computers or the 'net, it might well be a cunningly coy plan to get closer to her chosen man. But while she's sophisticated, she's also one of the boys -- as game for a bit of mischief as she is for a jet-setting holiday ("Hanging Out With Her").

For Tim's character to work, there must be obstacles in his road. If he's not trapped beneath the weight of unrequited love, chances are he's just made -- or thinks he's made -- some foolish misstep that has nipped a promising relationship in the bud. If by chance he's got things right, he's overwhelmed by emotion; while far from the histrionics of emo, Baxendale do a brilliant job of conveying the sort of all-consuming love -- whether for music or another human being -- that makes our hearts beat faster, steals the breath from our lungs and convinces us that the earth is spinning at three times its normal speed. Old-fashioned it might be, but it's giddily infectious. Even comparatively sad tracks like the post-breakup anthem "Battery Acid" suggest that problems are best confronted on the dance floor.

Baxendale aren't perfect, of course; their slower songs, in particular, are hit-and-miss. The strongest material here has been available on import singles for ages, which makes it difficult to assess the current state of Baxendale's art; rather than finding many new favorites, I found myself lingering over material I already own. And the lyrics, which at the best of times play fast and loose with the line between charming and twee, occasionally flop over the fence in a display of unrepentant silliness. Fortunately, the thing that shocked me the most -- a misunderstanding of "Contact Lenses"' refrain that had me convinced Tim was singing "I've lost all my defenses / since I made contact with your menses" -- can be attributed to Stupid-Reviewer-Who-Doesn't-Look-At-Song-Titles disease.

My fondness for Baxendale requires me to recommend this album to everyone who has ever sought romantic advice from a synth-pop record or considered Anglophilia to be the pinnacle of fashion. You cynical indie-rock types will hate it with a passion; it's upbeat and bouncy, driven by a child-like sense of joy. And hopefully there's a lot more where it came from.