As if actor types weren't punchable enough, the Dresden Dolls set their thespian flair to rock music, resulting in a sub-genre known by names like "dark cabaret," "gothic rock," and-- the duo's preferred tag-- "Brechtian punk cabaret." While this looks catastrophic and/or tacky on paper, the Dolls don't sound like a novel act, just an indie group that happens to dig piano/drums arrangements and Weimar-era aesthetics. Thanks to their dramatic chops, the Boston duo also knows how to grab an audience's heart and shove it in a grinder. The question is, how does a band that's always "on" reconcile their spotlight-swallowing energy with such an inherently low-stakes release as an odds'n'sods album?
In a way, they don't even try to, and that makes No, Virginia... an album on par with the Dolls' two fully conceived LPs. The duo claims these songs were excluded from full-lengths because of poor cohesion, not quality. I'm not sure why a dark sexcapade (and highlight) like "Lonely Organist Rapes Page Turner" couldn't have been wedged between two of Yes, Virginia's many lusty ditties, but if they feel the LP's narrative arc was so unaccomodating, I'm not going to argue.
The somewhat laughable explanation for most of these cast-offs is that the Dolls found them too poppy. With the exception of a forgettable "Pretty in Pink" cover, nothing here feels saccharine or simplistic. Singer/pianist Amanda Palmer just deploys too many mindfucks, warping a song like "Ultima Esperanza" from 1990s female singer-songwriter detritus to an unsettling ballad of turbulent yelps and lyrics about an amputee. Multi-track harmonies and a killer chorus hook sweeten "Sorry Bunch", but Palmer's sneering delivery and despair ("here's to alcohol/here's to chemicals") stave off corniness. Drummer/vocalist Brian Viglione continues to move further upstage after his riveting contributions on Yes, providing both muscle and fidgety tension on otherwise straightforward songs like "Dear Jenny" and "Night Reconnaissance".
The compilation's not all gravy, obviously, but the valleys on No aren't egregiously low, either. "The Mouse and the Model" and "The Gardener" further illustrate a chronic pitfall for the Dolls-- overly long and brooding dirges, one of the few instances where histrionics hamstrings creativity. In that vein, seven-plus minute closer (and Yes B-side) "Boston" goes for the big finish and actually nails it, ranking as one of the duo's finest epics to date. With some trimming, the Dolls could've passed about five or six of these spare parts off as a kind of mini-opera EP. That said, any B-side, no matter how problematic, should be viewed strictly as bonus, and the ever-dashing Dolls bring it in buckets here.
