Given time-travel’s irritating absence, at some point most of us will mourn the fact that our birth was simply a case of wrong time, wrong place. Too late to hang out on The Bowery in – œ70s New York, too many kilometres north (and to the left a bit) to revel in the genesis of the Dunedin Sound, and maybe just too far behind the eight-ball to pick up on the No Wave revolution (probably only fair to let mum and dad off the hook for that one).

Yes, we may well still get the opportunity to see Mick Jagger gyrate his crumbling hips to Paint It Black, but the soulless vortex of your local Anytown entertainment complex can’t really compete with London’s Marquee Club in 1962.

Occasionally, however, a band arrives and offers you the key to a portal. A virtual space where you can clamber through and find yourself in all those glorious places your mis-timed conception has denied you.

Songs are such a band. The Sydney quartet’s self-titled debut is steeped in sounds that have been carefully and lovingly harvested from their collective history. From the art-punk pop of Warhol’s protégés to the more grounded output from New Zealand’s South Island, Songs have produced an album that is evocative of past brilliance.

Eschewing the bright and twinkly effects of contemporary production, Farmacy opens with the coarse textures of the Velvet Underground’s White Light/White Heat. Melodious guitar lines are smudged and distorted, drums muted and imperfections flaunted. Riding rough-shod over the top, Max Doyle’s deadpan drawl sounds as if it’s been surgically removed from the thin and wiry torso of Television’s Tom Verlaine.

New York’s avant-garde pop is also filtered through the delirious tones of Different Light. All the glassy-eyed notes are coated in John Cale’s sticky fingerprints, but charges of plagiarism are neatly sidestepped. With the addition of bassist Ela Stiles on vocals, the song is given a curiously folky feel; brilliantly at odds with its amphetamine-fuelled rhythms.

It’s hard to draw many parallels between the salubrious Big Apple and Dunedin’s pristine pastures, but The Clean’s lo-fi sound and minimalist arrangements justify the band’s position as Song’s other great love. The Kilgour brothers obviously got under someone’s skin at some point, as their influence permeates throughout the recording; not least of all during Oh No’s fuss-free drone or the insistent chug of Retreat.

A passion for – œ70s New York and – œ80s New Zealand has engendered an undeniable reverence; however, the album definitely isn’t a pointless homage. Whilst the band use these reference points as a foundation, they’ve ultimately made the sounds their own.

My Number is a perfect example of how to respect, not copy. Its all-too-short six minutes are a maelstrom of abrasive organs and utilitarian drums and bass. Spliced with discordant guitars and Stiles’ and Doyle’s almost monotone enunciation, it’s an irresistible mix of sedative and stimulant.

There’s plenty of material here that isn’t shy about drawing heavily on the past, yet Songs have still managed to create something that feels new and really important. Just don’t be surprised if in years to come your kids are blaming you for the fact they missed out on Songs the first time around.

Songs is out now on Popfrenzy Records.