We didn't hear the radio much at home, and I didn't have friends to tip an ear to the airwaves with, either, so it was always a bit of a strange treat to hear Casey Kasem counting down the hits as I sat in the backseat, dreading the final destination. On the off chance I haven't already aged myself with these childhood reminiscences, I'm talking about hits such as Kim Carnes' "Bette Davis Eyes," Laura Branigan's "Self Control," and Foreigner's "Jukebox Hero."

Yep, you know what I mean: great big hamfisted, subtlety-be-damned pop anthems, pulsing away with human drama as the scent of AquaNet fills the air? It was songs like these which would always gush forth from the back of the bus on school trips, which would invariably get my puberty-tormented peers all hot 'n' bothered as we'd roll off to some museum or other. "Edge of Seventeen" by Stevie Nicks. "Sister Christian" by Night Ranger. You get the idea. Put it this way: it sure as shit wasn't something put out by Rough Trade or Sire Records. For me and my weird little childhood, these songs were akin to exotic, forbidden fruit.

I still remember my biggest, juiciest chomp of the stuff. I think I was 12. I'd gone with a youth group to an amusement park down in Massachusetts. There, I'd fallen in love with a ride called the Matterhorn, in which a train of double-passenger cars careened around a circular track endlessly while Alpine air gusted down from above. It also had boasted a kicking soundtrack, pumped to stadium-worthy levels: all of the above hits, as well as a healthy smattering of ABBA classics. (It's always important to acknowledge one's roots, after all, and where would Branigan or Carnes have been without "Dancing Queen" or "Super Trouper" laying all the groundwork? Go on, ponder away - I'll wait.)

I rode that damn thing all afternoon, letting the synth riffs and sugar-spun goodness wash over me till I was nothing but a collection of blissful, misfiring synapses - all of which had conspired in somehow convincing me that buying an airbrushed painting at the booth next door was a brilliant idea. A shame I didn't have enough money to buy a matching cock-rockin' locker mirror as well, but Lord knows I wouldn't have known what to do with it, anyway.

All of this, of course, points a red leather-pant-hugging, rainbow-sparkling projectile straight to the heart of what makes Music Go Music such a breath of fresh air for folks like me who listen to music for most of their waking hours. The threepiece - composed of Gala Bell, Kamer Maza, and the absurdly monikered TORG - didn't just settle for merely riding my beloved Matterhorn, but rather became the mighty supernaut instead.

A gear-crunching, engine-squealing, pop-blasting speed-loving she-devil, that's what they are, plucking from the finest of the past 30-some-odd years of Top 40 euphoria and siphoning it down into some of the most deliciously anthemic fist-pump-with-a-tear-in-the-eye anthems you probably haven't heard. (Or, not yet, anyway.) ABBA's presence hasn't been so palpably felt in years - Mamma Mia included - but listeners will surely also detect glimpses of Queen, of Electric Light Orchestra, of good ol' Stevie Nicks and her white-winged dove. It's all there, along with the cougar-pounce of "Bette Davis Eyes," the feathered-hair vulnerability of "Self Control," the full-throated bluster of "Jukebox Hero."

Close your eyes and the Solid Gold dancers gradually twirl into view, hostess Marilyn McCoo or Dionne Warwick cooing away while curiously cylindrical set-pieces get treated to the vigorous pelvic thrusts and hair-flips of the mighty Darcel. Open your eyes again, and a muscular, sweat-glistening unicorn bounds into view, along with an equally heroic naked dragon-slinging princess riding atop him in the most suggestive of poses. Or wait, was that merely the artwork adorning their MySpace page? See for yourselves.

Therein lies the serotonin-releasing brilliance of Music Go Music: these folks seem to keep a direct line with what made us all so perplexingly, unquantifiably ravenous back in our tweens and teens. As much as I can reconcile memories of my Matterhorn with those of foot-staring ineptitude on the middle-school dancefloor, I cannot meaningfully re-create the fucked-up duality of it all for you, but Music Go Music can.

Not just for wee little me, mind you, but for anyone (of a certain age, I suppose) who wanted so damn badly to be Corey Haim/ Corey Feldman/ Corey Hart crazy-cool but still felt like the odd-dork out, come the last dance of the night. It's a fine line between fond reflection and distanced revulsion (or worse yet, revision), but this trio handles the middle ground with amazing grace and dexterity, refusing to succumb to pure irony or genre-imitating pastiche.

For every knowing wink, there's a similarly resounding choke in the throat - yes, they may be well-versed in the now-ironic components of the ABBA and Carpenters lexicons, for example, but they also recognize that there was some seriously heavy emotional shit in there as well. I'm not sure who else has embraced these lessons as effectively in recent years.

And have I mentioned that these Angelenos know how to write absolutely riveting songs? Again, nip on over to their MySpace to see what I mean - now! So far this year, they have released two 12-inches - "Light of Love" and the freshly-pressed "Reach Out" single (both Secretly Canadian) - and word has it that a third will be out by the end of the year.

Both releases offer buckets of dynamic, instantly memorable boldfaced-print pop, but nowhere is this more evident than on the title track of the 'Light of Love" 12-inch: enter a series of synth crescendos and de-crescendoes giving way to a stop/start guitar-and-piano duel. Electronically treated drums skip from speaker to speaker, an ABBA-worthy melody kicks in (sung in warm Europop tones by Gala Bell), and a head-swaying handclap-driven rhythm plants the track firmly in 1976 territory, albeit with more current production values.

One of its B-sides, "I Walk Alone," must be heard to believed, opening with what can best be described as the sound of a banshee howling up at the moon at midnight, standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon - on rollerskates. Bigger and bolder than a hole in the ground of Arizona, the track starts off with Bell's vaguely Eastern ululation over a hypnotic guitar passage - think Ennio Morricone score here, as brief as it may be- before exploding into a flame-throwing duel between nagging synth riffs and a demon-waking caterwaul which sends the song hurtling into a dangerous vortex of arena-rock guitars, slo-mo video-evoking keyboard flourishes, and melodramatic "I'm a creature of the night" vocals.

If Branigan's "Self Control" came to mind, you're not far off, but picture her getting that '80s oversized sweater of hers, bunched in a serious knot, and you're on way to seeing the Music Go Music point of view. The third track, "Explorers of the Heart" - a momentum-building handclapper bedazzled with rows and rows of shining, shimmering synths and optimistic love-seeking lyrics - furthers the ABBA comparisons, but I'm also picking up a late-'70s ELO vibe in there as well.

The title track of "Reach Out" is all leg-kicks, catlike pounces, and tough-as-nails vixen struts - maybe a cross between the tell-it-like-I-see-it of Carnes circa "Bette Davis Eyes" and the blistering taunts of early solo-career Stevie Nicks, if said union wasn't afraid to show an allegiance to the gods of metal now and again. A six-plus-minute bolt-thrower of overwrought guitars, faux-gloom-metal start-and-stop heaviness, swirling organ hysteria, and howling vocals - along with a brief foray into bizarre-funk which still surprises these ears after dozens of listens - it should be by all accounts a FEMA-requiring disaster, and yet it succeeds spectacularly.

B-side "Goodbye Everybody" is an all-out classic single from the outset; listening to its careful build and heartfelt delivery, I couldn't help but imagine Aimee Mann penning a Carpenters tribute. Lastly, "Just Me" comes across as a showcase for every one of Music Go Music's strengths demonstrated up to this point. Forboding stop/go metal-guitar intro? Check. Glistening keyboard melodies? Check. Handclaps? Check. ABBA-recalling vocals? Not a problem. Unapologetically earnest delivery? Got it. As the song fades away to a soft glow of rollerskate wheels twirling in a shower of glitter, I think that lanky little preteen in me has at last fallen in love. More, please, Music Go Music!