The first time I wrote about Albuquerque's The Dirty Novels, about a year ago, I bagged on 'em pretty hard. "Predictable," I wrote. "Derivative," I said. "Unoriginal," I implied.
Then I caught the band at last Saturday's South by Southwest sendoff show held at the Santa Fe Brewing Company. My first
impression wasn't exactly wrong, I thought, but this band still deserves a second listen/look. By the end of the set, I was sold: I don't think there's a tighter, more fun band in northern New Mexico.
If you're not familiar, the Novels' schtick
is a simple one: "vintage and modern by design," as their Web site says. Vintage as in harkening-both musically and visually-to London, early- and mid-'60s; modern as in, um, it's 2006. The Novels are all striped pants and shaggy 'dos, Kinks chord progressions and low-slung drum kits.
All of which is throwback-y and "retro," teetering on the edge of
Austin Powers
' parody, but then a well-placed drum fill or a garage-y distorted chord brings it back. This band is so much damn fun, and they
nail
it-the look, the sound and the novel, if you will, energy that rock 'n' roll once had and hasn't enjoyed for, some might argue, 30-some-odd years.
Take, for instance, lead singer Pablo Novelas. To be good-or at least be convincing-every mod-ish band requires a red-hot lead singer, capable of shaking his hips like a girl, of exuding a laconic, ambiguous sexuality, of changing the energy in the room with a mere swivel of the pelvis or batting of the eye. He's usually really skinny. Novelas certainly fits the bill. With a body type that makes Mick Jagger look like Chris Farley, Novelas was dressed Saturday in a tight, blue and white horizontal-striped shirt and even tighter jeans. Now, normally, what a lead singer is wearing doesn't merit much attention, but this is a mod band we're talking about, and wardrobe-selling the look-is half the battle. A battle Novelas won with the same flirtatious body movements Jagger himself made famous-hip swivels and hand gestures so full of sex and rock 'n' roll it seemed as if Novelas were moving all around the stage, when in fact he pretty much stuck around the microphone.
Of course, the second half of the battle is the music, and here again the Novels win big. If you are going to co-opt a bygone era (And here I use the term "co-opt" without the judgement usually associated with it. Objectively, this is what the Novels are doing, "by design."); if you are going to evoke rather than provoke; if you are going to utilize nostalgia, your band better be freakin' good. And the Dirty Novels are freakin' good-tight, sharp and, well, a little dirty.
The group's influences are clear as a vodka-tonic-the Velvets, early Stones, anyone who ever touched the stage at CBGB, Bowie-though they stick to originals (except for an ill-considered cover of the Kinks' "You Really Got Me," the Novels' only misstep). It's the strength of the original compositions combined with the band's skill-the foursome is as tight as, um, Novelas' pants-that lift them out of the realm of mere homage and into the nebulous ether of derivative-yet-awesome, a world the Strokes once ruled. Novelas has mastered the slurry, slack-jawed growl of the glam-rock world and the rest of the group starts and stops, makes chord changes with spot-on aplomb, harmonizing the oohs and ahhs sharply, with just a touch of irony. Songs like "Show Me," and "In My Eyes" (both available at
www.myspace.com/thedirtynovels
) don't hide the fact they're basically T Rex songs, but they're such good songs it doesn't matter. If these boys had gone to prep school in Manhattan, they
would
be the Strokes. Hell, they should be-they've already got a better name than Julian Casablancas and Co.
None of which mattered to the crowd at the Brewing Company. The floor was filled with an odd generational assortment-four kids between about 5 and 8 years old, geeky older white couples, a few hipsters who clearly had made the drive up from Albuquerque, all of them dancing like banshees and grinning like it was someone's birthday. The Dirty Novels seemed nonplussed by the lack of coolness of their audience, instead plowing sharply through with crunchy, crisp musicianship and just enough attitude to justify their outfits.
The only group I've ever heard that does the psychedelic/mod/tambourine-shakes thing better than the Dirty Novels is Brian Jonestown Massacre, the brainchild of crazy Anton Newcombe, whose specific type of self-obsession is central to creating a great band. The Dirty Novels are not as crazy, nor as self-obsessed, and therein lies a tiny weakness: They aren't a great band but they are a very, very good one, one I suggest you go hear (and see) when they return from Austin. Maybe a little major-label attention will push them over the edge into Newcombe territory. In the meantime, in the words of David Johansen, let's just dance.
