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The "kiwi rock" is a unique musical expression characteristic of New Zealand, consisting (in its most known incarnation) of a compromise between the teachings of two giants of the 60s: Byrds and Velvet Underground. From the former, it takes the typical sparkling folk-rock guitar arpeggio, as well as dreamy melodies; from the latter, the amateurish approach and the careless sound, along with the "rattle" à la Lou Reed. The result is a low-fidelity pop with a naïve flavor, which does not neglect an English touch (Fab 4, Hollies, Kinks). The genre gained significant traction in the 80s and was, for a long time, the epitome of alt-rock in this country. The Bats were among its foremost exponents. This is essentially what various encyclopedias say.
Based on these premises, what should we expect from this band? A derivative proposal of established models, seen as unattainable in compositional quality and performance intensity? A carefree exercise in healthy pop craftsmanship? An ironic take on languages now embedded in the musical DNA of multiple generations? A homage to a lost era? A citationist operation or a subversion of canons, according to post-modern aesthetics?
None of this. "Compiletely Bats", a publication collecting the first 3 EPs of the band, recorded between 1984 and 1986, is the nostalgic and awkward evocation not so much of a musical past, but of its image. A faded, blurred image. The 60s, for the Bats, are the age of innocence, the Eden to be reclaimed (at least in dreams). Naïve, we said. It's hard to find bands to which this adjective suits better than the Bats. A sense of candor, if not of pallor, can be found in the tracks contained in this record. A feeling of weakness, dullness, opacity. The songs of the Bats are like slides of old baptisms or weddings or picnics or holidays. They're like the sweetest memories of when we were children. There's no trace of either LSD, sometimes an inspirational drug of the Byrds, nor heroin, often an inspirational drug of Velvet Underground. Only milk and honey. Melancholy so feeble it doesn't even manage to moisten the eyes. No sex, only tender affections of high schoolers inexperienced in love.
Great pop artists have two merits: they write great melodies and arrange them in a brilliant way (example: They Might Be Giants, a demonstration that not all alt-pop is lo-fi). The Bats, in this first but fundamental glimpse of their career, were neither great melody writers nor great arrangers. Their "strength" was entirely in their ability to live, in the dark and violent 80s, in a desperate "daydream" through which they immersed themselves in an era that never existed. It's not cultural delay, but flipping off the present and ignoring its ugliness.
The memorable tracks are: "Mad On You", an indolent yet catchy straight-rock, reminiscent of Lou Reed when he was in the mood; "Trouble In This Town", with a murmuring bass, a dreamy chorus sung together, looking to the sky, just like the Byrds. The most characteristic ones, defining the Bats touch, are "Neighbours" and "I Go Wild", reminiscent a bit of the anemic anti-rock of Boston's Galaxie 500, a bit of the proto-shoegaze of Scotland's Pastels: if in the former the languor is accentuated by a clumsy violin, in the latter all the expressive limits of Robert Scott's falsetto become apparent, but on the other hand, as already reiterated earlier, this "weakness" is the Bats' true secret weapon.
"Made Up In Blue" and especially "Chicken Bird Run", with their epic of humility, instead settle accounts with the kangaroo cousins, sounding like watered-down Radio Birdman and aligning with the moods of the many meteors enriching the fundamental compilation "Tales Of Australian Underground"; the former also showcases a couple of gentle guitar and bass solos worth listening to. "Jewellers' Heart" and "Man On The Moon" revert to lullabies, offering graceful lullabies reminiscent of Everly Brothers, having the same effect as a first-grader reciting a nursery rhyme, made even more tender and disarming by the harpsichord stitches and precarious vocal harmonies.
"Earwig", one of their early tracks, is worth as much as an ice cream taken with your beloved by the river on a scorching summer evening. "Claudine", yet another serenade, goes out of its way to avoid a captivating melody: it's like a kind, polite, smiling girl who never quite lets herself go and rarely expresses her feelings. She's nice to be with, but it doesn't go much further. The sincerity, the goodness of heart suggested by this music, that low profile, that lack of pretension would ideally include the Bats in the puritan country family rather than the vicious rock family. Fortunately, only ideally. Because when the Bats decide to adopt the cadences, mannerisms, and rhetoric of country, like in "Blindfold", "By Night" or "United airways", they fail miserably.
The endemic and harmless melancholy, sweet throughout almost the entire collection, tinges for a moment with bitterness in "Offside", an entirely acoustic track, the most introverted and "American" of the series. But this doesn't quite affect the tone of the record. The career of the Bats will continue with more professional works, losing in part that naïve feeling that made their early releases so charming. They will become, along with other kiwi bands, somewhat influential on the "official" lo-fi pop, the American one: but if anticipating the future can be a cause for merit, reinventing the past, as the Bats did, is perhaps even more significant.
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