The Pipettes
We Are the Pipettes

The 2000s, apparently years of decline; new ideas capable of garnering widespread public approval are desperately lacking, and so we cling to the past, we recycle, often poorly, sometimes better. Raise your hand if, like me, you've meticulously noted and cataloged all the new Velvet Undergrounds, the new Led Zeppelins, the new Joy Divisions, and other similar gimmicks with the precise intent to avoid them all from first to last; indeed, the rock revival is certainly very trendy, it’s ideal for giving oneself a tone, an "alternative" appearance that I have personally always found worthy of loud raspberries. I think my ideas on revival are very clear; without lightness and self-irony, all that remains are glaring baubles. These three English girls do not lack these qualities and additionally demonstrate how one can be original and personal even in this context. A simple and genuine female pop in pure '60s style is decidedly less prone to articles stuffed with big words and baseless musings compared to the current Arctic Monkeys; I don't think, with these foundations, the Pipettes’ musical career could have lasted who knows how long; probably with the debut album, they have already expressed all their potential. However, the disparity in treatment compared to other more pretentious and artificially inflated realities remains quite annoying, a sign that in the third millennium music business, evidently, spontaneity and sincerity are qualities that are secretly unappreciated.

To fully appreciate the work of Julia, Rose, and Rebecca, it's necessary first of all to understand its spirit and accept without reservation the fact that you are facing something completely recycled: every single note, the look, the group’s name, even the producer-mentor-inspirer responsible for the formation of the trio (Robert Barry), once you’ve entered this perspective, all that remains is to fully appreciate a delicious concentrate of freshness, naivety, and charm; just to name one, the great Kirsty MacColl often flirted with this particular pop subgenre, recognizing, from her heightened sensitivity, its natural and undeniable expressive and melodic qualities. "We Are The Pipettes" is so derivative that, exactly like in the '60s, it seems expressly built as a mere "container" for four or five standout tracks, with the rest feeling almost like a simple garnish, although always pleasant. Despite everything, the formula works great; for any (conscientious) pop lover, this record is a true delight: energetic and fun, with those easy and irresistible tunes, great vocal harmonies, and exquisite youthful freshness. Obviously, the singles "Pull Shapes" and "ABC" stand out, but the real peak of the album is the semi-ballad "Judy," a song that Kirsty would have loved tremendously, who would most likely have recorded a cover for her "Desperate Character," the same identical emotional approach, the same mix of sweetness and energy, the same effectiveness in authentically narrating adolescence. In this album, a good dose of cheeky bravado (the declaration of intent "We Are The Pipettes") intertwines naturally with a distinctly feminine sensitivity (the sweet and melancholic "A Winter's Sky") just as the brass alternates with the organ and strings, it's all a work of small sparks and contrasts united by simple and highly effective harmonies; among the many tunes, often under two minutes in duration, that populate the tracklist, some small melodic masterpieces emerge, like the carefree "It Hurts To See You Dance So Well" and "Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me," the bittersweet "One Night Stand," another very "McCollian" track in musicality, and the brilliant and colorful "Because It's Not Love (But It's Still A Feeling). "

In the end, "We Are The Pipettes" is an almost perfect album, many highs, no style drops, not a single bad song; it's something tender, lively, delightful, perhaps a mere commercial operation, but one of the good ones, a small anomaly, a curiosity worth knowing. The best thing is that for the 2000s, this is a completely anachronistic album, not for its sounds, but simply because it does not appeal to a specific audience target; in purely theoretical terms, it would be an excellent teen-pop record, ideal for introducing the "young generation" to the simpler, more genuine, and folksy side of music, but between Beyonce and My Chemical Romance, that sector seems decidedly clogged, and for a more mature audience, well, unfortunately, not many preserve a childlike and naive side, essential to fully appreciate a record like this, and it's a real shame, after all, it seems so simple and natural...