Must. Stop. Lissen. Ning. To. CS. S.

Do you remember when pop used to be sex and sex used to be so dirty? You’d be so hot for it that you could barely keep your hips apart; your eyes met but you felt like a wise man dumbstruck by a UFO. The way your breath pounded the walls and sweat was seaping down your back, only it’s their sweat that just flicked from your forehead onto the walls. This is ooooh-ah-ah-la-la, like a French virgin seducing you and making you feel as powerless as a six-year-old that’s clearly pissed itself in the playground. It’s a Brazilian supermodel who’s so sexy she doesn’t need to do anything more to please herself than tease mankind.

CSS are putting the geeks back on the dancefloor in ways previously reserved for Daft Punk. They’re putting clever smart-bombs back on the radio and making the most of Goldfrapp, The Go! Team and other-bands-not-beginning-with-G greasing the door hinges and leaving the world primed to get down and throw their hands in the air. This is a real, true, proper sensation, not some one-night fad. In short...

Dear Sub Pop, we hate you. We can’t stop dancing and I just broke the repeat button on my Discman. You utter bastards. Now, please, leave us alone - I'm knackered and need a good lie down.

‘Alala’ opens with some distorted guitar and a tease of drums, it could be any second rate indie band that’s around now. But they’re not. For a start they’re Sao Paulo-based, there’s six of them that met on the 'net and, yes, one of them is a bloke. It’s Adriano Cintra who as well as being credited with drums, guitar and production, also chips in on backing vocals.

Then there’s the singer: she’s known as Lovefoxxx and forgot her guitar one rehearsal - that’s how she ended up leading Cansei de Ser Sexy - ‘tired of being sexy’. But tired she is not: her vocal emanates the post-electroclash energy of any Berlinesque act gone before - her voice drips in sass appeal and pulsates sexiness. Accompanying this is a bed of grubby rock sounds layered with a smooth but seedy synth guaranteed to get bums bumping at any sweaty club that ‘Alala’ is blasted out at.

B-side ‘Odio, Odio, Odio, Sorry C.’ is not quite as exciting. It smacks of old Le Tigre and lacks that infectious electro goodness that ‘Alala’ provides. Here the vocals are more akin to the sound of your sis’ having a fit and the rest of the band could be any other group of people having a go at being musical. Still, at least they have got the sense to get their A and Bs the right way round, and duly demonstrate that they are a musical force worth wrestling with.