New Zealand, like Australia, has a history of evolutionary gigantism. On this little island isolated from external influences, species both native and foreign have been allowed to grow to colossal proportions. And now The Brunettes have introduced their own breed of evolutionary experiment that has swept down to the perched shores of Auckland to grow in quiet seclusion, its mitten paws and downy fluff mutating into the wailing goliath. Some say it has the face of a circa-’66 Nancy Sinatra that bobbles under its own enormous weight, held up only by the disheveled mass of a Phil Spector-like mane. The townsfolk call it "twee." It is said that on the first full moon of every month, you can hear it bleating the entire singles collection of Tommy James and the Shondells out over the horizon.
Since its conception in 1980s Britain, twee has found itself in a kind of pop limbo: a genre based so heavily on child-like compositional simplicity that it hasn’t really experienced a sea change since its peak on NME’s C86 cassette. While it has found occasional stylistic variants over the years by cross-pollinating with other genres, independently it has stewed in the heavy syrup of patchwork pop and crusted over into overly saccharine rock candy.
On their third album and first Sub Pop release, Structure and Cosmetics, Auckland natives The Brunettes showcase the kind of ornate progression of the genre they've been toying with since 1998. It's about maintaining a pop mentality while subverting dire simplicity with studio invention. Stepping on a landmine of pop innovations, the explosion disperses in the forms of fuzz-infused post-rock and 1960s diner nostalgia. This is spelled out under the banner of the first track, “Brunettes Against Bubblegum Youth,” a Polyphonic Spree-like pop anthem whose name implies a twee insurgence. But this is no revolution; while pop innovations help develop them to an extent, they are always pulled back into the gumdrop heart of twee fascination.
The album is a balancing act. While The Brunettes are dabbling in more mature sonic construction, they bridge the gap between intellect and cuteness with musical gimmicks. But there’s a line where maturity becomes an exercise in hyper, self-aware irony, and this is where the charm begins to cloy. The goofy “If You Were Alien” plays out as an extraterrestrial love ballad, and hides its plinking guitar riffs underneath the too-sweet lyrics of “If you were alien/ I’d call you my Martian man/ Bake banana cake as we drive.” Banana cakes and Martian men? It's like the Ringo Starr step-by-step guide to lyric-writing. Twee is certainly a nice place to visit, but with its endless bunny-fuzz guitar riffs and sugary pop harmonies, it can begin to wear. In any case, as The Brunettes continue to blend genres through foreign environs, I’ll be interested to see how they evolve further.
More about: The Brunettes
