Elvana have never pretended to subtlety, and "Viva Las Vegas" doesn't ask for any. The guitars arrive scuzzed and detuned, the drums hit like they're settling an old score, and somewhere in the middle of it all that voice — half-crooner, half-scream — refuses to pick a lane. It shouldn't scan, and yet the song's original architecture turns out to be sturdier than anyone gave it credit for. Strip away the strings and the sequins and you find a chord progression built for exactly this kind of demolition. The band haven't so much covered the track as reverse-engineered it, working out which parts of Presley's original were always secretly Cobain-shaped.

The genius, if that word can survive the abuse this record puts it through, lies in the commitment. This is not a novelty act winking at the audience between bars. The vocal performance sells the collision entirely straight, snarling the "bright light city" lines like they were lifted from a Bleach outtake, and the rhythm section plays it with the same grim intensity you'd want on the genuine article. Irony, when it turns up, arrives fully clothed in noise rather than announced with a nudge and a raised eyebrow.

Then there's the video, and here the record earns a second round of applause simply for its honesty about its own limitations. Shot in Benidorm rather than the Nevada strip it apes, it wears its shoestring budget like a badge rather than an apology — all sunburnt promenades and the unmistakable whiff of a package holiday standing in for the Mojave. It's a sight gag that somehow deepens the joke rather than cheapening it: two mythologies of tacky excess, American casino glitz and British seaside kitsch, photographed side by side until you can't quite tell which one is sending up the other. Few bands would have the nerve to admit the money ran out; fewer still would turn that admission into the funniest, most quotable line in their own press notes.

What ultimately lands the whole exercise is the refusal to let either half of the joke win. This isn't grunge slumming it in rhinestones, nor Elvis played for cheap laughs by men who've never listened to "Nevermind" properly. It's a genuine act of splicing, performed with the kind of relish that only comes from actually loving both source materials enough to want to see them fight. Whether "Viva Las Vegas" endures as anything more than a gloriously daft curio remains to be seen. But as four and a half minutes of chaos, conviction and cross-generational vandalism, it does exactly what it sets out to do — and does it loud.