The Submissives

As a performance art presentation, Montreal's the Submissives have something pretty keen locked down. It smacks of a David Lynch wet dream: a sextet of woman all dressed in white lethargically lurching through '60s style bubblegum pop about a guy who loved them, but now doesn't. This has an immediate and undeniable kitsch appeal. Their naïve, unpolished approach includes dual vocals, thumping drums and a Duane Eddy inspired guitar that is barely hanging to the bass pulse that carries the whole weight of the songs. But are they better at charming or annoying? That is the question. There is a whiff of doubling down on the example of outsider groups like the Shaggs, the Submissives's facade of casual ineptitude never cracking. And slowly, after rolling the admittedly unproductive question of authenticity around, I just give in and go with it. So I guess this time around the Submissives win.