Rab Allan is swearing like a proper Glasgow boot-boy. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” spits 6’ 5” Allan, guitarist with buzz-propelled retro-popsters Glasvegas. “That’s sick isn’t it? There’s no excuse for that.”

We’re talking about Allan’s beloved Glasgow Rangers, a bastion of British identity in Glasgow’s infamously sectarian East End, and a recent controversy about a terrace chant poking fun at the Famine. “I don’t think that sort of thing has a place in football,” he asserts. “It’s irrelevant. With sport, it all gets a little silly sometimes.”
On planet Glasvegas, Rangers v Celtic rivalry is a particularly fraught subject: singer James – Rab’s cousin – is a devoted fan of the team in green and white (drummer Caroline McKay and bassist Paul Donoghue are of no-fixed affiliation). “I’m a Protestant who grew up in the shadow of Celtic Park and James is a mad Celtic supporter. We can’t watch football together. It gets too heated.”
Not, he’s quick to point out,that Glasgow is quite the sectarian slum it’s often painted as. “In the last five to ten years it’s calmed down in a big way. The rivalry is really about football. We still have an Orange Walk and a Hibernian Walk. But it’s not a big deal for a Protestant and a Catholic to be in a band together.”
What is unusual, he says, is for a group from the impoverished East End to crack the mainstream, as Glasvegas, feted by everyone from Oasis to David Letterman, are in the process of doing.
“The thing about Glasgow is that all the bands come from the West End – people like Camera Obscura, Belle and Sebastian, Franz Ferdinand. Whereas, the East End, is a very very poor area. It’s very deprived and working class. There’s never been a band from the East End of Glasgow. People live in the East End and die in the East End.”
This morning Glasvegas have touched down in the UK after six months of whirlwind touring that has seen them play locales as jarringly diverse as New York’s Lower East Side and a festival in Transylvania. It has, says Rab, been a rollercoaster – and, judging by the rapturous manner in which they were received at a recent Dublin date, things are merely beginning.
“On this tour we’ve really been living it up a lot,” Rab admits, asked how he’s dealing with burgeoning stardom. “We’re finding it hard to relax. We’ve been going to bed at 10’clock in the morning, whereas the support band has been going to bed straight after the show. I don’t know – maybe I should be going to bed as well. That’s the great thing about a tour bus – you sleep all day and then you get up and you go to soundcheck, you get a shower and do the show. Then you stay up all night again.”
It’s difficult to discuss Glasvegas without touching on the ‘J’ word: Jesus and Mary Chain. Soaked in dense tides of riffola, their music comes on like a saltier updating of the Reid Brothers’ sturm und feedback bubblegum. Do the constant comparisons tick them off? “Whatever people hear in the music is fine with us,” says Rab. “I hear things in there that I’m sure nobody else does. Music is subjective. People also compare us to Phil Spector – and I can see why they might think that. I can understand the Jesus and Mary Chain thing too, though I mightn’t necessarily agree with it.”
In the UK, the media has anointed Glasvegas unofficial spokesband for ‘generation hoodie’. While you’re unlikely to find the foursome hanging around a petrol station waiting to mug a pensioner, you can understand the logic in the comparison. On frosty guitar epics such as ‘Flowers And Football Tops’ (based on the real life stabbing to death of a Scottish soccer supporter) and ‘Daddy’s Gone’ (an ode to the father who abandoned James’ family when he was a boy) Glasvegas bring a sense of gritty verity to their writing. Frankly it puts them in a different league to the previous generation of Britrockers. Can you really imagine Oasis or Blur engaging so movingly with the UK’s squalid underbelly without coming off as sleazy or sensationalist?
“Britain’s been in a bad way for a while,” notes Rab. “People have sort of seized on it now. It’s not anything new. There are things that could have been done a long time ago – and weren’t. The thing is, nothing’s going to happen unless people start to fight for what they believe in.”
Speaking of fighting, Glasvegas, Allan confesses, aren’t above the odd tour-bus ruck. It’s all part of the coping process, he says.
“We’re really, really united. That doesn’t mean you’re never going to argue. If you have an issue you sort it out then and there. It can get to violence – only because we love each other. Sometimes when you care about someone and you care about the band, it’s going to happen. There’s nothing wrong with a few slaps. Obviously Caroline’s a lady – you don’t hit a lady. Me and James, we argue. We’re family. We were brought up practically as brothers. We’d be like this even if we weren’t in a band.”
Rab, you’ll have gathered, doesn’t mind letting his fists do the talking if it means getting the point across. As Glasvegas’ profile has grown, though, he’s found that he’s had to curb his temper – which isn’t always easy.
“If you’re in a club and someone is being a bit of an arse, normally what you do is tell them to piss off. You need to be mindful a bit more now. There are times when I’ve wanted to grab someone and throw them against a wall and I’ve had to stop myself. I keep my record clean because I’ve got more to lose. We need to get visas, we need to travel abroad. So you want to stay out of trouble – or at least make sure that you don’t get caught.”

Glasvegas’ self-titled debut album is out now