In one’s search for the type of scratchy fuzz, divine reverb and clap-clomp beats that make one wish to crank the treble, one might find a piece of twangy heaven in The Raveonettes’ debut Whip It On.

In the time it takes to smoke a cigarette, half of the 22-minute guitar sizzling has already occurred, leaving only a short time left for toe-tapping. Indeed, the toe-tapping starts as soon as the play button gets poked, filling the air with sky’s-the-limit screeches from Sune Rose Wagner’s skinny hands getting his guitar wires crossed on the band’s crunchy, pop-perfected single “Attack of The Ghost Riders.”

Yet, as soon as the wad of feedback gets to be too threatening, the friendly, elementary drum hammerings of Jakob Hoyer start the dancing, followed by some addictive two-note guitar hooks. The final ingredient that makes the Raveonettes instantly groovy is Wagner’s monotone voice job — echoing slick, sexy whisperings, prepackaged for high school yearbooks.

It may be hard to tell when one song begins or ends, since all the tunes have been handmade in “glorious B-flat minor,” but that is of no concern. The album emits a smoggy aura of sex and hip minimalism that one just has to put all one’s faith in.

Sliding forward on the track list, one slips past the slow, pornographic sound of “Veronica Fever” and toughens up through the nostalgic chunk riffing of “Do You Believe Her.” Now one meets up with the halfway point of the record (where you put out the cigarette).

“Chains” introduces the record’s only point of severe heavy bashing and relentless-but-catchy dissonance, led by some fuzz bassing thanks to second-in-command member Sharin Foo.

“Angels never die,” Wagner murmurs, and neither does this album’s ability to make the listener shake with importance.

Onward, “Cops on Our Tail” is the Raveonettes’ impression of chase music, but also their chance at making an anthem about giving cops the finger. Soon afterward, Whip It On simmers back down to a caressing moan with “My Tornado.” If one has a talent for belly dancing, “My Tornado” demands it. Turn off the lights with your hip significant other and let it just drip on you.

The Raveonettes want to be intimate with you, and they know it can take more then two minutes to find a comfortable position. Probably because of this, “My Tornado” is followed by the equally gushy “Bowels of The Beast.”

Despite the smelly title and the ultra-twang interlude of the tune, it still pours love down the pants. Nevertheless, one must get that body up and quiver one last time for the finale, “Beat City.” The entire album is somehow compressed into a minute of good times, where life’s short, so now is the time to act virile.

After 22 minutes the album stops, and you have either learned the character traits of being hip and are ready for a garage fashion makeover or else you play it all again and get it right. If nothing else has been assimilated, one is now aware of what’s cool in Denmark, where the band hails as No. 1 among its country people.

Certainly rock ‘n’ roll is a significant trait of folks here in the States, particularly for the fresh and sexy of Madison, so there’s no reason not to get this trebly little record. Dance, shake, get real close.

Grade: A