Brunettes - A New Zealand fairy tale (without a happy ending)

Auckland, New Zealand, early Eighties. Jonathan Bree is still in primary school when his older cousin Mark Lyons offers to teach him an instrument, so as to have someone to perform with at family get-togethers. His fingers are too short for guitar or bass strings, so by necessity the choice falls on drums. Three years later the two are part of a teenage band with dark leanings called The Plaster Saints. The dream of the teenage Bree, a terrible student got up like a miniature clone of Robert Smith, is to one day sign to the legendary Flying Nun, the label that symbolized the Dunedin Sound. These aspirations are frustrated early on, however, by his mother, who decides to send the boy to live with his father in Australia, where, at just fourteen, he drops out of school to devote himself to a series of "terrible musical projects." Back home a few years later, Jonathan returns to playing alongside his cousin in a new outfit, The Nudie Suits, in which he appears as bassist, but he abandons it almost immediately to form a band of his own with the three guys he shares a flat with. The Brunettes are thus born at the end of 1997, with some good instincts but a still rather shambolic appeal.

A brunet and a brunette

The quartet performs regularly at parties or cafés in Kingsland, a suburb of Auckland, but its prospects look decidedly limited. The chance for a radical shake-up is nevertheless not long in coming, and the credit, once again, goes to that scruffy but providential relative. It's Mark who plays Bree a cassette recorded during a performance by another promising local outfit, Yoko. Jonathan is utterly bowled over by the versatile, anything-but-conventional voice of the singer and multi-instrumentalist, whose expressive profile seems to match exactly that of the ideal duet partner he has long been seeking, the missing piece that could finally let the Brunettes make the leap in quality he has already richly scripted in his mind. Contacted by phone and invited to watch one of his band's shows, Heather Mansfield accepts the invitation and, at that very first meeting, reveals an extra asset that the voice on tape alone couldn't betray: she's a strikingly good-looking young woman, the perfect candidate to turn the band into something both brilliant and cool, artistically notable yet also able to land a magazine cover or two on non-musical merits alone.

At the time Jonathan is obsessed with Spectorian orchestral pop and the elegant baroque architecture of Brian Wilson/Van Dyke Parks, but Heather's Juno keyboard steers the duo's earliest efforts toward a new-wave-flavored synth-pop, inspired by Blondie and the Cars. A fresh, sudden change of direction is brought about, however, by a pure chance encounter at the start of 1998: meeting Celia "Pavlova" Mancini, singer in one of New Zealand alternative's leading bands, King Loser, signed to Flying Nun but effectively at the end of the road after releasing three albums much admired by critics. The cheap purchase of the disbanding group's Yamaha organ shifts the expressive focus toward a more conventional sixties pop sound, and this becomes the guiding direction for the EP the pair record on cousin Mark's four-track and circulate in a tiny run (just thirty copies or so, it seems) on cassette and seven-inch over the course of the year. Never reissued and today essentially impossible to find, this Mars Loves Venus will soon become collector's material.

Bree plans to produce the debut album the same way, starting from the cassette recorder and then polishing the recordings in a studio afterward. It's a glaring mistake tied to the medium itself, and it leads to scrapping months of unusable work and having to start the process all over again. Relations with Heather grow tense, and Jonathan, frustrated at his inability to achieve even the smallest result, attempts suicide in his flat in a moment of despair. The hook he intends to hang himself from gives way almost immediately, but this fresh failure becomes the rock bottom from which he has to climb back up. The way out comes through an agent from the local St. James Theatre, Melinda Olykan, who at that very time gets in touch with the duo, by now at loggerheads, looking for a copy of the record that doesn't exist: she has somehow heard a demo of theirs titled "Talk To Jesus" and come away favorably impressed. To everyone's surprise, the singer, having discovered the woman's past as manager of an obscure Flying Nun act, Strange Loves, asks her to take on that same role for his band, and is so insistent that she eventually gives in.

The recruitment of bassist Mike Hall (previously in the hardcore band Balance), drummer Kari Hammond, and, above all, the latter's sixteen-track reel-to-reel recorder, gives the Brunettes a further boost, restoring the drive needed to go back over the pile of material already written and binned. The album is thus recorded a second time, directly in the St. Kevin's Arcade flat in Auckland where Jonathan lives. Yet another obstacle stands in the way of release, however, because despite their self-promotional efforts the band can't find an interested label. Several months pass, until the singer, who works at the Marbeck's record store to fund his dream, strikes up a friendship with Scott Mannion, frontman of a couple of local indie-pop outfits (Polaar and Plasticene), who offers up his mixer and convinces Bree to found a label together with him to release the long-awaited Brunettes debut, as well as the record by the band Mannion has just put together, Tokey Tones.

Lil' Chief Records is thus born in 2002, based in the frontman's flat (also a recording studio, affectionately nicknamed "The Ghetto"), and Holding Hands, Feeding Ducks soon becomes the first notch on its catalogue. One last stroke of luck is needed first, though. The great Neil Finn, catching the video for "The Moon In June Stuff" on a TV show on which his son Liam is a guest, remembers he has a promo copy of the album that Heather had given him a year earlier at the APRA Silver Scroll Awards evening. Won over, even belatedly, by what he hears, the Split Enz and Crowded House frontman successfully pulls strings to get the band a distribution deal with EMI. The album comes out on June 28th of that same year. At the same time, Olykan lands the band a handful of shows in striking venues such as cinemas and theaters.

There's no better way to open the record than with "The Moon In June Stuff." The hiss of the turntable and a guitar unable to choose between roughness and tenderness set the stage for the come-hither coo of a Heather who is sensual and mischievous at once. But it's that meticulously crafted sonic setting, mimicking the glories of a bygone pop-song era fallen unjustly into obscurity, mixing languid crooning in fine form with especially convincing vintage touches ranging across surf-pop, doo-wop and girl-group territory, albeit in a "bedroom" version, that really does the work. The whole thing is as light as it is irresistible, and instantly catapults Holding Hands, Feeding Ducks into orbit for any connoisseur of classy retro pop. The second track, "Cupid," doubles down right away with velvety electric guitar and its sweet sixties-pop charms. The winningly shameless but irresistible duet between the two singers — nymphet Mansfield and smooth operator Bree — helps elevate the wonder of this delicate diorama. If this is twee — and judging by the fade-out of "Tell Her" it would seem so — it's never cloyingly saccharine, the arrangements are balanced yet lavish (Heather alone plays glockenspiel, harmonica, organ and marimba, Mick Hall plays harmonium, and there's even a cello), and behind the enchanting veneer of genre pastiche lies real flair and considerable ambition.

The title track pushes even further into charming affectation, with careful craftsmanlike flourishes and a truly remarkable vocal performance from Heather. With the gentle cadences and registers of a soft-focus fairy tale, the Brunettes script the soundtrack to a gauzy spell, deftly dodging the traps of mawkishness and outdoing their Swedish (above all) and Scottish forebears on their own nostalgic turf. The already-mentioned "Talk To Jesus" fairly easily stakes its claim as the best track of the bunch, as well as a personal tribute to the hollow but moving romanticism of films like "Footloose." The chemistry between the two performers onstage is striking, and even as a studied poseur Jonathan pulls it off masterfully, thanks to the usual sparkling but never overblown orchestrations (horns included), a finely calibrated sense of irony, and a genuinely uncommon melodic gift. The run of sugary but never tacky bubblegum gems continues with "Dancefloor," which seems lifted straight out of "American Graffiti" and the whole box-office-conquering Seventies strand it belongs to, coming across almost like an excerpt from an imaginary musical about that near-mythical world.

In the end even the titles — "Super Eight," the off-the-cuff ragtime sketch turned sunshine-pop of "Jukebox," yet another display of stylistic dexterity that's never needlessly over the top, offered instead with the innocence of simple, unaffected toys — only multiply the references to an imagined world that by now survives mostly in the form of revivalism, one that this debut embraces with the sincere, respectful devotion of a true believer, free of cheap winking at the audience. Heather dances with grace like a new Ambrosia Parsley, shifting (and harmonizing tastefully) between an elegiac, angelic inflection, the more frivolous and mischievous one of the ye-ye girl, and another, more adult and sensual one, an option that is still, at this point, the minority choice.

There's no shortage of more ecstatic and transparent moments, like the arcadian "End Of The Runway", where a fine acoustic embroidery peeks through in the manner of Acid House Kings or Club 8 (with the New Zealander holding her own admirably against the near-unreachable Karolina Komstedt), or others that are even vaguely jazzy and restless ("Cotton Candy").

What emerges is a record that's frugal in its own way but still enjoyable, lovingly put together by Jonathan and averse to any theatrical or formal excess, where not a single duet feels interchangeable with another (and Bree's falsetto on the more baroque "Mafioso" proves it). So, with their first major work, perhaps without even meaning to, Brunettes already offer a cornerstone of the new decade's indie-pop: an authority in handling the most disparate clichés remains the biggest surprise of a seemingly modest yet indispensable little record, provided you're partial to certain sounds of the past.

In a stifling local scene wholly geared toward a Seventies revival (after the previous one, of a techno-dance stripe, now fallen out of favor), Brunettes' offering is like a breath of fresh air. To make an even stronger impression, though, the band is marketed as if it were just a duo, an impression reinforced by the frequent turnover among the other members of the crew. Disappointed by the lack of exposure, Mike Hall leaves to join Pluto and Dimmer, and Kari Hammond does the same, opting for Boxcar Guitars. Replacing them, albeit temporarily, are Gerald Stuart, Nick Harte and, above all, a very young James Milne, still far from embarking on a solo career under the moniker Lawrence Arabia. The first fruit of this reshuffle is the EP Boyracer, released in spring 2003, just six months after their full-length debut.

The approach of this new work immediately feels far more intimate, even subdued, and within the sparseness of the arrangement a Mansfield emerges in all her splendor as an extremely skillful nocturnal seductress ("Lovers Park"). In place of the debut's flowery twee, this time around there's a preference for a sweet, low-sugar intimacy, more inclined toward pop impressionism than singer-songwriter fare, but still more mature and less showily carefree. The more restrained imprint is confirmed too when Brunettes open up to the possibilities of a sparse, gently paced synth-pop, with Bree and his partner well suited to duets that once again smell of revivalism but stop short of forcing the issue. "I Miss My Coochie Coo" is simply Heather at her best, wearing the nostalgia of the model despite a partial renunciation of yesterday's roughness in favor of sweeter, more sugary mawkishness. The slippery terrain of pure easy-listening sappiness is avoided thanks to a measured, never truly tacky production, which brings out the best in the Kiwi collective's balanced spirit and happy craftsmanship. Beyond the understated packaging and a deliberately domestic inflection, the house's signature charms still manage to surface ("Don't Neglect Your Pet"). Granted, there's no irresistible gut-punch, no refrain to commit to memory, and one is forced to settle for smaller pleasures instead, like the a cappella jest and amateur beatbox of the closing "Maybe White Palisades", or the Latin sophistication of the track that lends the collection its title - emblems of a curious, sincere coda that is, in truth, unable to aim too high.

When Mars Meets Venus

At this point the band's manager becomes convinced that New Zealand represents too limited a horizon and that London could instead prove an excellent springboard. With little money set aside, Brunettes first embark on a mini Australian tour, then make their way to Britain, where they manage to land nothing more than a single support slot for Datsun at the Shepherd's Bush Empire in the capital. Just as they're about to head home, Olykan manages to secure them a string of dates opening for Postal Service (whose lineup at the time also includes Jenny Lewis, with whom they strike up a friendship), and this leads them to perform, among others, in front of Wayne Coyne and Sub Pop owner Jonathan Poneman.

Still, the brief English experience leaves a bitter taste in Bree's mouth, stung by the twee label that the British press pinned on the band - one the singer hadn't reckoned with, at least not in its more derogatory or limiting sense. The return home isn't exactly rosy either, given the departures of Harte (who goes on to found Shocking Pinks) and Stuart (who joins Deja Voodoo). A nineteen-year-old drummer who had reached out to Lil' Chief all the way from California, Ryan McPhun, is recruited as a replacement for both Brunettes and Tokey Tones, before going on to create his own personal project, The Ruby Suns, which will join Bree and Mannion's roster in 2004, straight away among the label's flagship names.

Meanwhile, Brunettes have a good amount of new material set aside, recorded by Jonathan at the Ghetto during breaks between one Australian tour and the next. For the first time, the frontman's dictatorial grip is loosened, and there's a deliberate effort to give the lineup a more visible group identity: one song is written by Heather alone, another by Milne (who also carves out a secondary role as a backing vocalist). Named after the obscure self-released EP from six years earlier, Mars Loves Venus comes out in July 2004, distributed by Lil' Chief in New Zealand, Reverberation in Australia, and Capitol in Europe and North America.

The inflection comes across as more frivolous and brazen than ever, the production seems to have tilted a few more degrees toward rawness without entirely giving up its fetching sugary flourishes. It's the title track itself that serves as the calling card of an album which, in this new, lavish guise, sounds as alluring as the unrestrained ambitions of the man behind the mixing desk would suggest. "Polyester Meets Acetate" winks at the watered-down indie-rock currently in vogue in alternative circles and, beyond Bree's proverbial perfectionism and a certain flattening toward standards not really their own, shows that the New Zealanders can ride this trend too with a fair bit of flair (an impression sealed by the tart "Best Friend Envy", dressed up in an almost female-punk key by a Heather far more brazen than usual).

The lively disposition, if nothing else, works as an incentive and does its job well enough. There's an appreciable eccentric flair in the unusual arrangements, caught between exoticism and elegant refinement, and it's in more off-kilter episodes like "Whale In The Sand" that Brunettes once again prove the worth of their approach, highlighting an eclectic streak and a few quirks that will become a fixture in Milne's future work, whether solo or with his impromptu side project, Reduction Agents.

That one song written by Lawrence Arabia and lent to Mansfield's gorgeous voice, "You Beautiful Militant", with its unmistakable decadent aura and twilight enchantment, stands out as one of the album's little gems: Bree will later return the favor to his friend with an inevitable guest appearance on one of the best tracks ("Last Night's Love") on that one album released by Reduction Agents. While on "Loopy Loopy Love" the meeting of acoustic textures, electric flourishes and synthetic markings proves particularly balanced and enjoyable, "No Regrets" returns to a clean, minimalist chamber-pop (foreshadowing the introversion of Bree's bleaker solo efforts) and "Leonard Says" does the same with the candor and bareness of a homeopathic, stripped-to-zero duet; "Your Heart Dies" opts to flirt with Appalachian folk-pop - whose stock is rising strongly in indie circles - while "These Things Take Time" is a divertissement, written by the singer, that still carries the scent of eccentricity, in keeping with the off-script gems of the past and the imminent future (the tender oddities of the following EP).

The band thus proves it has an enviable freshness on its side, even if the refusal to settle on a single formula perhaps robs the whole of some depth and cohesion. When needed, it rediscovers a sinuous, softly sophisticated side thanks to the hazy swirls of organ on "Too Big For Gidget", crafted like a delicate sonic bonbon. It's once again the slippery terrain of certain passages from the debut, because such affectation sometimes carries the collateral damage of mannerism, but Mansfield in particular proves truly adept at keeping the song safe from effects that are too icy or contrived.

When put to the test, Mars Loves Venus thus reveals itself as a fine kaleidoscope, exposing the many expressive possibilities of a band far less confined to mere revivalism than their first steps had inevitably suggested. And this despite the clear romantic subtext behind "The Record Store", a track dedicated to the golden age of the record industry as well as to a phenomenon like music collecting, which promises to come back into vogue by stubbornly resisting the depersonalizing homogenization of the digital era, but is also a delightful autobiographical page (looking back nostalgically on Jonathan's days as a clerk at Marbeck's) that pulls things rather forcefully back toward the infectious romanticism of Holding Hands, Feeding Ducks.

Meanwhile, Sub Pop boss Jonathan Poneman hasn't stopped keeping an eye on the band. Flying to Auckland specifically for this purpose, he proposes reissuing Lil' Chief's entire catalog to promote it in the United States as a testament to the rebirth of New Zealand indie-pop. The batch also includes the mini-album When Ice Met Cream, a delectable collection of outtakes from the previous five years, released in 2005.

It's the title track itself that this time dares to try out that same softly acoustic template which, with the following full-length, will become a true, indispensable formula. In yet another saccharine duet, sing-song, fairy-tale-like refrains prevail, duly quilted with synthetic smears or delicate guitar arpeggios. Here, as on "Hulk Is Hulk", the Kiwi pair's peculiar weirdness expresses itself in a heap of melodic delicacies that don't always cohere, ranging from elegant chamber arrangements to an almost baroque, sugar-rush overload. The whole thing is a small gem of pop sophistication, enjoyable but not easy to handle or pass off as run-of-the-mill easy-listening, and thus hard to market within the currently dominant alternative circuits. Still, it brings out the full eccentricity of a band that excels both at choral architectures and at blending sugary flourishes. With "Pink Ribbons", by contrast, the lush girl-group revival resurfaces - the one thing the band has always pulled off magically: the guitars are relegated to a supporting role, and it's a generic, colorful, swollen bandism that escorts the two voices into a new liaison devoted to romance.

The Brunettes of the Eps are unmistakably the band of unexpected refinements, pompous and deliberately out of step, taking evident liberties with the conventions of a savvy or crowd-pleasing genre and holed up in their own fantasy world: soft, shot in a blurred, hazy tonality, yet charming and nonchalant enough in its own way. Of course, this expressive direction, at times even enchanting like certain meticulously detailed dioramas (the trinket-filled wonder of the closing "Goodnight Little Cherub Rock"), foreshadows a dead end, and that is exactly the direction the band seems intent on pursuing.

Olykan, in this instance, convinces Poneman to have the Brunettes open for the Shins on their one date in the country. Thrilled, James Mercer and co. ask the Kiwi outfit to open every date of their US tour. It's the big break, and even without a signed contract yet, the Seattle label offers a significant contribution to make this American adventure happen, with the seven-piece "little orchestra" on stage (instead of the usual fourteen) but equipment suited to the task and a trusted sound engineer. The money already runs out by the first show, in Minneapolis, but, sleeping wherever they can and getting by on record and T-shirt sales, the band manages to honor its commitments and win over a wide audience.

The leap from small clubs to arenas with thousands of spectators is no small thing, but it's above all Mansfield's charisma that makes the difference, between one bit of showmanship (like introducing her bandmates over the classic Sixties tune "The Name Game") and a dance contest for the crowd (with CDs as prizes). The success is such that Rilo Kiley (featuring their friend Jenny Lewis) book the New Zealanders for a similarly structured two-month tour, and even after it wraps up, Jonathan keeps putting off going home so he can keep basking in his own American dream.

It's a fairly confused period for the frontman, caught between binges with illicit substances and bouts of personal degradation. Put up for a while in Los Angeles by other musicians, he soon settles into living like a homeless person in the cemetery where Sam Cooke is buried. Horrified by his condition, the manager sends him a few hundred dollars, just enough to spend a few weeks in a motel in Pasadena. Having moved to New York, Bree starts living in a Brooklyn basement and sinks into depression: dumped by his girlfriend, who's grown tired of waiting for him, he also has to swallow the departure of the best collaborators he's ever made music with, Ryan McPhun and James Milne, who that same year, 2006, launch the Ruby Suns, Lawrence Arabia and Reduction Agents projects but still lend a hand for the band's upcoming third album. Sub Pop's backing materializes with the signing of the long-awaited contract, and the singer's return to Auckland makes possible a result that the New Zealand artist's recklessness had seriously threatened to derail.

An indie-pop Icarus

The Brunettes make their debut for the storied Seattle label in the summer of 2007, with an album that doesn't betray the many strands of indie-pop they had previously codified but still marks a profound evolution for them. Up to that point, a few well-defined stylistic traits had been easy to identify in the New Zealand band's varied DNA: a very sincere intimate streak; an underlying playful spirit that gives every song its soul without tipping into caricature; an incredible gift for harmonizing different registers and instruments within songs of three minutes or less, without ever sounding redundant, and in fact boasting an admirable gift for concision; a predilection for sixties sonorities, with the Beach Boys as the main reference point; a monstrous talent for piling on duet after duet. On Structure And Cosmetics, this stylistic palette is kept intact in only one track, "Stereo (Mono Mono)". On the other tracks, what remains are the unmistakable crisscrossing of the two voices, the natural knack for keeping the songs unpredictable, and the undeniable overall quality of Bree's songwriting. For the rest, what unfolds is something close to a half-revolution in their sound.

It's impossible not to recognize, in the opening of "Brunettes Against Bubblegum Youth" — an all-too-ironic distancing from certain sounds of their early work — the typical moods of the Polyphonic Spree, with its pompous choirs, horns and hand claps. While it remains an isolated case, the sugary "B.A.B.Y." signals the band's new direction: less lo-fi, fewer vintage flourishes, a sharp turn towards the Seventies and symphonic pop. The sophistication (Cosmetics) of their own style (Structure) was evidently a deliberate choice. If the result is still satisfying, credit goes to the musicians' talent, skilled enough to avoid missteps even in this new guise and honest enough to admit the parallel reference to the modern pop music industry and the fact that it needs both the commercial "structure" and the "cosmetics" of youth or coolness — the ability to present itself fashionably in order to achieve more presentable results. With the exception of "If You Were Alien", where the sha-la-las pile up and the super-catchy easy-listening inevitably cloys, the record is thoroughly enjoyable. The best moments are the ones where an intimate mood takes over again and Heather's voice truly warms the heart: the closing "Structure And Cosmetics" and "Small Town Crew", the latter in perfect Camera Obscura style.

While still staying pop and steering clear of progressive territory, Jonathan sought out a somewhat more intricate style of writing, also letting certain musical passages stretch out further in length. Lyrically, the album deals with consumerism and the craving for domestic bliss, neither with a political edge nor in a cynical way. True to the genre's conventions, the tempo is never frantic, yet there's never a dull moment either. The Brunettes remain masters of shifting gears within a single song: the title track and "Her Hairigami Set" prove it, the former driven by Heather's harmonica (which lends it a certain epic quality) and the latter by synth, setting a catchy, lively rhythm.

Great variety reigns here, from the placid "Credit Card Mail Order", which sounds a lot like Ladybug Transistor, to the low-key splendor of "Wall Poster Star" and the sugar-rush chamber-pop melodies of "Obligatory Road Song", dreamy and almost danceable.

After the stumbles of the previous two years, the band seems on the verge of a breakthrough. Bree states in interviews that he and Heather are not at all intimidated by the prospect of success, not least because they've put in plenty of hard graft, and interest in their work has grown slowly (and gradually) over the years. It's not the classic overnight sensation, and yet, with hindsight, the outcome won't turn out to be all that different. Amid departures and new arrivals (Jamie Power of the Raylenes being the only significant one) the band embarks on new tours, both as headliners and opening for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and Broken Social Scene. Sub Pop's support falls away just when things are looking brightest, as the label refuses, without any stated reason, to promote the harmless video for "Her Hairagami Set" in the United States, officially because of its evocation of the Columbine High School events (the clip shows a puppet plotting an attack on her schoolmates' hairstyles with a hairdryer). It's hardly a good sign, and it's soon followed by the cancellation of a string of US dates supporting Beirut, again by the label's unilateral decision. Meanwhile, the manager, sensing that the wind has changed, parts ways with the Brunettes to focus on organizing the London offshoot of the Sundance Film Festival, backed by none other than Robert Redford.

The band's fourth album, Paper Dolls, is ready as early as the start of 2009, finished under less than ideal conditions (in the tour van) and marked by a sharp swerve towards battle-ready electro-pop. Perhaps for the first time since the band's founding, the line-up actually promises a stability the New Zealanders had always lacked, the group now structured around a double-couple model (with Heather's husband, New Yorker Andrew Thompson, and Jonathan's girlfriend Chelsea Nikkel, both multi-instrumentalists) plus drummer John Parker, who'd been on board for a couple of years by then (practically a veteran). Things don't start off too well, and they end up going rather badly. After painstakingly scraping together the money for yet another trip to the States, to take part in Sub Pop's showcase at South By Southwest, the storied Seattle label announces (two days before departure) its intention not to release the record and drops the band both from the Texas festival and from its roster. In a disastrous whirl of managers, the Brunettes, having flown to New York anyway, turn at the eleventh hour to Ben Goldberg, the man behind Beirut's success. Day-to-day management is handed to one of his interns, the then up-and-coming Sharon Van Etten, who at least manages the small miracle of getting the record released in the United States and organizing a bittersweet farewell tour alongside Throw Me The Statue.

Coming to Paper Dolls, it's worth stressing how the decisive turn already mentioned pushes further, radicalizing, certain synthetic tendencies already hinted at in the collective's last few chapters, tendencies that perhaps aim to carve out more space than they deserve (from an off-the-cuff bit of levity and nothing more to a fully-fledged album with all the trimmings) in the Brunettes' career. Anyone who loved the genuine sixties streak of Holding Hands, Feeding Ducks, or the intelligent innocence of Boyracer and When Ice Met Cream, would do well to steer clear, a fairly easy task given that the album is barely distributed and gets very few reviews. As the title suggests, the most obvious aspect of this fourth effort is the flimsiness of its nature, a lightness that, in songwriting terms, mercilessly evokes the idea of a sketch with no follow-through, of an idea that might even be interesting but is left just that, on paper. The cover, here as on previous records, is also worth a thousand words: the two musicians drawn as pale paper cutouts devoid of soul, flesh, blood, color. The worrying lack of substance announced by the cover is immediately confirmed by the music, and it doesn't take more than a distracted listen to notice it.

The lead single "Red Rollerskates" — already previewed a few months earlier by an eponymous mini-album acting as an appetizer (complete with self-covers, a fun take on the Cure's "Lovesong" and a song dedicated to the Olsen twins) — gives off an irritating sense of their once-winning melodic vein having been watered down, now literally drowned in "cosmetics" (to borrow their own words), in a bolted-on sonic superstructure. If in this specific case the makeup inevitably comes off heavy-handed, betraying a certain cheapness at the production level too, the result can only be cold and lifeless. Aside from this exceedingly limp showcase track, or an "It's Only Natural" that's at times almost embarrassingly saccharine, the rest suffers from a generic shortage of ideas and inspiration, even if it still manages, for the umpteenth time, to earn the "cute" label that critics have slapped on the Brunettes' songs from the very start. That's really the whole problem, and it comes down to how these new songs should rightly be framed. The band had all the ingredients to aim for a real turning point, but one can only hope their actual intention was to put off that rendezvous with maturity until the fateful "next time". As a "brave step forward", Paper Dolls could only make sense from a crab's point of view, since for every other species it amounts to a fairly spectacular flop. It's clear then (and hoped) that Bree and Mansfield were aiming instead to record a knowing divertissement, good as a quirky bit of kitsch for casually gathering together a handful of B-sides (the exemplary "Bedroom Disco"), an anti-intellectual outlet, pure goofing around in the playroom.

Tracks like "Connection", "Magic (No Bunny)" or "The Crime Machine" are all too flimsy clones of the band's usual melodic schemes, bland diversions, likeable but hardly striking, carrying the usual veneer of business as usual, of creativity running on the bare minimum. Even if the electronic doping never fully convinces, viewed in this light, some of the album's songs still deserve a measure of leniency. The opener "In Colours", for instance, comes off rather charming, following the bouncy pop blueprint of their previous full-length. It plays its cards with a minimalist touch, especially in the sparing, finely calibrated use of guitars, delivering welcome confirmation in the lively interplay of the two voices, in the darting synth and in a sound that's always pleasantly enveloping. There are moments where the two New Zealanders' qualities seem to come into focus despite the breezy packaging. The title track replicates, with stubborn fidelity, the typical melancholic, ingratiating clichés and the slightly drugged allure of the Brunettes from Mars Loves Venus onward, with functional synthetic arrangements that never go over the top.

After a rather thin half hour, comes the graceful closer you'd expect regardless ("Thank You"), which also delivers a chorus finally up to par. Before that, though, there's still room ("If I") for a more substantial moment of reflection. Jonathan Bree's overwrought romanticism finds a happy outlet by keeping the unnatural blemishes to a minimum, slowing the pace down and bringing the two voices right back to the fore: "⟦Q1⟧", he sings, "⟦Q2⟧". A small shiver creeps back in then, in the record's most heart-stopping moment. But it's only a moment. And just like that, it's already blown away on the wind.

The solo nausea

Outside its home turf, Paper Dolls barely registers at all, and even at home, it has to be said, the critics weren't exactly tearing their clothes off in enthusiasm. After six horrendous months in North America, the band manages to scrape together enough money to get back to New Zealand, knowing full well the experience has run its course. The final shows in Oceania are booked purely to pay off the debts racked up during the disastrous 2009. At the end of it, the split between the two frontpeople is consensual and entirely amicable: Mansfield returns to New York with her husband, while a Bree sickened by the music industry considers quitting altogether, only to change his mind and throw himself body and soul into promoting the project fronted by his girlfriend, Princess Chelsea. Paradoxically, he'll find far more success in this supporting role thanks to a cameo in the video for one of the early singles, "The Cigarette Duet", which went viral with 33 million views on YouTube. In parallel, our man writes music for television and, encouraged by his partner, records his solo debut, The Primrose Path, releasing it as a free download on his Bandcamp page in the middle of a tour with Nikkel, in 2013.

The setting feels cramped right from the start, and in the pulsing darkness of this bleak scenario, Jonathan delivers an invocation that mimics the drift of meaning itself, a loneliness tinged with despair, relying solely on his voice (doled out ever so sparingly) and minimal touches of percussion and vibraphone. Aftershocks of the ill-fated shipwreck of his band? Clearly yes, but also an awareness of wanting to distance himself from carefree pop rituals and retreat into an intimist oasis that can also function as a personal exorcism.

From "Booty Call" onward, the mood stays shadowy (and not just by the usual standard), the tone subdued, even if the underlying suggestions are in a sense the same as before. Sure, where once sugary keyboards bloomed, now a mournful, solemn little organ rings out, the approach honed into a minimalist outlook that treats rigor and understatement as cornerstones of a new language for the New Zealand artist. On "Bored At A Mall" even the title does its part to pile it on. The mild cadences of this grayish, claustrophobic synth-pop don't formally disown the devices he already employed widely in a lighter key, and should be read as a narcotic variation on the theme of the Brunettes' sweet, catchy ballads.

It might seem paradoxical, but the retreat toward the gloomy yet contemplative singer-songwriter mode of his friend James Milne — bolstered by hiring his trusted saxophonist and violinist, Hayden Eastmond Mein and Andrew Keoghan, admired not long before on "The Sparrow" — had been in the air, and finds its fulfilment here ("Duckie's Lament"), with an enchanting celebration of nostalgia that rewards his more crepuscular streak and gives us the best version of his current state. It won't exactly be a party, but it's an otherwise coherent evolution along a path that has chosen to fold away from the light toward the most radical shadow and its seductions. The staging remains bare, but the rare flourishes open up glimpses of fairytale wonder, worthy of the far more booming Polyphonic Spree-style animations (on "Seven", that is, in an introspective, miniaturized version). While the care taken with the arrangements remains admirable, it's equally undeniable that the warm pop pyrotechnics that once, however fleetingly, got Bree noticed by an entire national scene are nowhere to be found.

Can an indie-pop record be depressive? With The Primrose Path, Jonathan seems determined to prove that it can. The hazy puffs of the title track showcase his sharp, elegiac vocals, still stripped to the bone lyrically in this almost a cappella incarnation that only reveals its charm through patient, repeated listening, without forcing anything and without superfluous frills. The raw blossoming of his voice shouldn't fool anyone: this is a record that knows and speaks of affliction, one with death in its heart. Faint beat-era echoes, perhaps fed also by the photographic portrait placed on the cover, never fully bloom in the lilt of "Crippled Darling", which nonetheless throws a little wink toward the more sedate Zombies. The languid, sulky pose isn't set aside until the very end, though a few concessions to lightness are occasionally allowed (in the form of a marginal backing chorus or arpeggio, equally oblivious to any warmth of sunlight). The closing "Boxes" nonetheless represents the apex of this pained, even morbid, romanticism.

The Princess Chelsea project gained decent visibility with the debut "Lil' Golden Book", perhaps Lil' Chief's biggest success since the Ruby Suns' "Sun Lion". Bree's small label has never stopped promoting the New Zealand indie scene, from cousin Mark's Nudie Suits to Edmund Cake's records — solo or with Pie Warmer — and from friends Eversons and Gladeyes to the "usual" Lawrence Arabia (the only ones missing from the roll call are kindred spirits Liam Finn and Connan Mockasin, in and out of the Barb supergroup). The sophomore effort from Jonathan's very young partner, who in the meantime had also signed to Flying Nun just like James Milne, takes an unexpected turn, however, betraying the even saccharine lightness of her debut to embrace a rather chilling emotional desolation, so much so that the title "The Great Cybernetic Depression" can hardly come as a surprise.

Just five months later, Bree's second record also comes out, A Little Night Music, whose expressive horizon bears almost embarrassing similarities to the affliction running through Nikkel's work.

But the image chosen for the new cover already says it all by itself. The sounds back it up, because the abyss has grown even deeper and the melody dances in the dark chasm like a faint ray of light. Bree's minimalist drift and emotional plunges reach their own personal Mariana Trench with "Drones & Satellites", lit only by the occasional disharmonious flashes resembling the pulsing displays of monstrous deep-sea fish: a fascinating undertaking even in its extremism, though it requires the listener to be in the right frame of mind to appreciate it without emotional fallout.

The album remains steeped in this bare yet glittering nihilism, with Jonathan essentially replaying his usual indie-pop formulas but slowed down to the point of catatonia and stripped to a disarming nakedness that only repeated listening can help you love. While the vast gap from the carefree twee of his early days with the band is undeniable, the stylistic kinship with his partner's work is no less evident, especially in the frequent use of synthesizers and the subtle space-pop devices in which these new songs are sweetly drowned.

"Once It Was Nice". Fun cast in the past tense speaks of an ease and a frivolity now irrevocably filed away, making room for these sophisticated, elusive sonic nightmares, exercises in a solipsism devoid of illusions or even a flicker of yesterday's joy. "There Is Sadness" is another all-too-fitting title, suited to the solitude of these (almost exclusively) a cappella versions, which blossom bit by bit with unmistakable class. No flourishing surge is written into the script, but "Tear Your Face Off" perhaps embodies the greatest possible compromise between the author's cramped sensibility and the expansive dictates of the genre he's working in (and, given the overall tenor here, the mantra softened by strings and keyboards pulls off something of a minor miracle).

In all likelihood, indie-pop has never produced a record quite this depressing and sickly, even if it's not entirely without its appeal or charm. Bree's leaden nostalgia feels like a drug cut with the finest sugar. The effect is estranging, because the crooning is sabotaged in its natural romantic inclination and offered to us in a far icier variant than usual, from a distance that seems minimal yet is unbridgeable ("Weird Hardcore", "Blur").

2018 marks his return to the spotlight. The spandex masks adopted for recent live shows and for a new, rather successful video, that of the single "You're So Cool", seem to have unexpectedly reversed his fortunes, offering Bree unforeseen scraps of visibility, helped along by the providential assist of St. Vincent, who lifted the concept without too many niceties for her latest Coachella show. Truth be told, the emotional comeback doesn't quite keep pace with the one tied to acclaim, because our man returns with his usual baritone crooning in the half-light, skilled at squeezing maximum impact from the minimal contribution of each instrument: introverted vocals, sparing percussion, a guitar playing hide-and-seek, and a synth content to leave the occasional skid mark on the canvas. Completing the introspective journey begun with the first two chapters of his solo adventure, Sleepwalking is a less claustrophobic record than its predecessors, written with the same seasoned flair for melò as a Neil Hannon and superbly arranged alongside a handful of collaborators. For its charming anachronism and the well-established quality of a chamber-pop that doesn't shy away from modest baroque orchestration, the most direct point of reference is another brilliantly crafted "difficult third album", "The Sparrow", by his friend (and for a while bandmate) Lawrence Arabia. As the exemplary "Boombox Serenade" suggests, there's been no departure from the leaden take on certain sixties singer-songwriter fare — chanson chief among them — with the usual disharmonious mold benefiting from the allure of unease and imbalance.

And then there's "You're So Cool", minimalist yet incisive thanks to its shadowy, pocket-sized symphonism. However anguished, Bree's chamber music has grown less cramped and seems to disown yesterday's airless radicalism, replacing its imprint with an essentialism nonetheless studded with gems that hint at a possible, upcoming bloom. The mood is grave and sullen, but for once the austerity doesn't translate into sterile closure, because Jonathan always lets precious openings peek through, especially in the choruses. Rather intriguing, for instance, is the duet with ingénue Clara Viñals on "Say You Love Me Too", another sparse, minerally bare effort. Certainly what remains of his indie-pop, today melodically pared to the bone, mostly retains its ghostly outline and is perhaps worth more for the curiosity it stirs than for any real surge of energy. It confirms itself as a cerebral outpouring, rich in its own raw charm but a touch icy and off-putting. Even these new songs, never truly easy going ("Roller Disco", the skeletal yet sensual "Valentine", almost comforting in its candor), will nonetheless find a way to win you over. The two tracks featuring Nikkel are perhaps the ones that show the strongest echoes of the Brunettes, albeit in the chillier variant of collaborations under the girl's own moniker. Between the two, "Plucking Petals" is the better one, dusting off certain sinister evocations and the fairytale register of early Princess Chelsea.

If on "Coke" the classicist streak turns more orthodox and airy, the closing "Fuck It" lets a hint of a smile show through behind the customary pout, with a bold (and sumptuous) synth-wave of clearly eighties ancestry that neatly closes the circle on an artistic arc that started out in those very same territories. While awaiting further recorded surprises, all that's left to do is keep track of Bree's latest exploit, confined to YouTube once again this time, much to his own dismay. Sleepwalking is, for now, the latest piece of a discography that the New Zealand singer might have hoped to steer along rather different lines (and with different results), but one that the cynicism of the music industry, the inevitable operational setbacks, and a few rash choices have undeniably shaped with a heavy hand.

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