Let me get this out of the way before things get too awkward. In spite of it all, I like Bettie Serveert. When I say "it all," I'm referring to the banal rock drums, the overused pop hooks, and the cute, "light," lyrics that are almost too appropriately executed by a charming Dutch tomboy vocalist. Carol Van Dijk's (no, her name isn't Bettie) appeal has always been her ability to load her vocals with palatable sentiment. They ooze with earnest spunk, comfortably shallow yearning, and a naïve idealism rarely present in American rock n' roll-- complete with a sincerity that might be harder to stomach coming from this side of the Atlantic. I can't explain why this nostalgic pop cocktail doesn't make me puke.
In fact, Bettie Serveert usually makes me smile. I'm convinced that the whole "Dutch" thing is a cover to stave off questions. They claim that their first three albums were imported from the Netherlands by Matador. But don't be fooled; Bettie Serveert were shipped in from one of those daydreams where everything is okay. In this daydream-- or rather "the Netherlands"-- rock bands still have fun playing simple songs that tell modest stories. Mentions of the Alesis SR16 or Roland 808 meet quizzical faces as the people here have only heard of real drums. And the bands are capable of writing songs with jangle-guitar hooks sticky enough to linger after the snap-back into the land of taxes, face-lifts, and MTV. Every once in a while, that's enough. But most of the time, I'd rather invest my money and time in bands producing more creative and challenging material.
To be blunt, one is enough. When it comes to the Serveert Catalog, the completist plays the fool, and this one has just confessed her sins so that others can learn from her dirty example. If you're going to pick one, put your money down on the now classic 1992 debut, Palomine. From the dreamy questions posed in the title track to the perfectly heart-warming head-bobber, "Tom Boy," Palomine is considerably stronger than Lamprey or Dust Bunnies, which are stylistically similar, yet lacks the "kid sister you never had in a jewel-box" quality.
However, Private Suit shows the band taking some risks. They continue to write catchy and cute guitar rock songs, but also experiment with backing vocals and strings, a noble ambition that raises the bar higher than "the little band that could" is able to reach. Satisfied is a dark track with lyrics like, "Callous on the soul/ There's a tale untold/ About how you spend your life/ In a place where no one goes." Just when it becomes clear that Bettie Serveert are treading on territory best left to... well, anyone else, the song laughably breaks down when it "breaks it down" into a funky counterpoint that sounds exactly like part of the Lovin' Spoonful's "Summer in the City."
The title track wears a serious hat, too; with lyrics like, "We're half seas over/ In a nostalgic mood.../ But on top of everything, it sounds absurd/ That I tried to fit my life into a word/ And it still turned out the same." For a brief moment, the resigned tone of the lyrics marks a reflexive maturity, but then the song lapses into depressing nostalgia as the chords-- almost a decade later-- retrace those of Palomine. The tired progressions don't know any other way, yet they must be aware of their own shame as they're loosely disguised with fluttering strings and slightly different timing.
"White Tales" unfortunately sounds "very Natalie Merchant." As in, "Now why can't we stay here for a why-ee-eye-ee-eye-ee-ile/ Why-ee-eye-ee-eye-ee-ile," and later, "I never felt this way before-ee-or-ee-ore." So, the self-aware nostalgia for naïve American rock songs has evolved into a naïve nostalgia for marketing-savvy American trash, starting with Natalie Merchant and moving on to the last dance craze you want your daydreams or little sisters to take part in:
Keep the style and pacing, but replace the lyrics of Madonna's cultural phenomena with "Forget about your weakness/ Forget about your pride/ Everybody is sane on the innocent side," and you have the conclusion of "Healer," Private Suit's finale. I'm doing that modified funky- chicken dance to it right now and crying. Listening to this album is so far from that innocent guitar-rock daydream-- the one that made me like Bettie Serveert in the first place. But I guess that's what happens to a band that refuses to wake up. Speaking of which, Bettie Serveert open for Counting Crows and Live this October.
