The Dents fix punk

by Johnny Angel

The Sex Pistols and the Ramones began over 30 years ago. Minor Threat, 25. Green Day, over 15. Ergo, this shit we call punk rock, in all its permutations (and there have been many) is one creaky old hag.

Because it is really just three chords (maybe four) and a headlong rush (minus unnecessary flourish, plus necessary attitude) there isn’t much one can do with the basic model. It can be arted-up, countrified, reggae’d, ethnicked, Emo’d, you name it, but at heart and soul, it’s the same hyper backbeat and rant that can’t be lost. As such, when punk rock became a successful formula with an upward, defined path (through van tours, college radio, fanzines, WARPED tour, video game exposure), it became harder to accept without a jaded set of ears. One can sense the stink of marketing genius coming off the bodies of these supposedly earnest anti-socialites.

So, with all hope lost and the jig strut finally up, I was flabbergasted and floored to come across a band that completely defies this pitiful decade and just plain fucking gets it. Enter the Dents, a four-piece group from New England that are not unlike a cryogenically frozen artifact from 1978. Not because they’re deliberately playing the retro card, but because they’re guileless lovers of the form, and masters themselves. They got it deep in their souls, as Mingus might have said.

I came across these two gals, two guys at a tiny bar called the Abbey Lounge in Somerville, MA. One song into their set and it was all over for me, the familiar revved-up and go locomotive of classic rant and rave was on. This is why I lived and died in clubs as a twentysomething— for that hop-around soundtrack, the only thing that can meld brain and body together (for me, anyway). The Dents bring it on back to where it began; nary a song in their set is minus melody and hook and they’re wonderfully relentless in that straight-ahead, speed-surf rhythm thing. I couldn’t stop smiling—and these days, it’s usually more like ‘can’t stop wincing.’ So they’re good.

Who the fuck are they? Their pedigree is impeccable—Craig Adams plays guitar, as he did for the formidable Freeze, Cape Cod’s greatest (well, “only” really) punk band, and he’s a good one. Call his style “Billy Zoom plus”, he has those Scotty Moore junk rock licks down pat, plus a surfeit of the Yardbirds big three in his arsenal (all sped way past those venerable pickers’ wildest dreams).  Michelle Paulhus handles bass, she’s rapid and precise, and has done her time in the Real Kids—she approaches the Matt Freeman model and does more than a fine job at it, too.

Paulhus is paired vocally with rhythm guitarist Jennifer D’Angora and herein is the band’s secret. Unlike most, if not all modern bands, their harmonies aren’t used to tart up or decorate their melodies, in fact, they deliberately toughen the band’s standard prettiness. Droning and located somewhere between Arabic wail and Appalachian twang, this is a duo that is unmatched anywhere at the front of a modern band. D’Angora stands (at maybe 5’3) with her feet planted center-stage like a fighter, throwing herself into the mic, eyes shut with total abandon. She doesn’t need to move, shimmy, boogie or do any of the bogus sex-kittenish bullshit that would turn the band into a standard-issue goof. And her vocal tone is more evocative of Nancy Sinatra or Cher than it is of Brody Armstrong—how can you not love this woman?

The songs range from good to great (their classic “Better Off” has been expounded upon at length in a previous column and they have a new drummer I’ve neither seen nor heard), they’re tight when they gotta be, loose when appropriate and best of all, gloriously unadorned with gimmickery. They are what they are, and as someone that’s seen every circus rolled out in front of his exhausted eyes for thirty plus years, this version of “less is more,” is an oasis.

Their LA debut is January 23rd at Spaceland. It’s free. So are you— it’s America. You loathe punk rock for what it’s become, I don’t blame you—see the Dents and reverse the curse.