ndie equivalency. It’s a rarely discussed term that is practiced far more than it is used. See, you don’t even know what it means. But as a music journalist of sorts, I’m inclined to know these types of things, alas, I shall indulge you all with an excerpt from The Hipster’s Dictionary (Harper Collins, 2002 revised edition):


“The knowledge and/or admiration of an indie band of similar or identical sound/timbre in relation to a group/artist of more considerable stature/visibility (indie band most likely active before emergence of said famous group/artist-- for similar term see ‘Artist X’s Old Band Was Better’ [page 212].)”


The term took its first configurations in 1991 when countless recent Nirvana converts were dutifully admonished by many a snide Pixies recommendation. This practice continued on through the decade and thrives full force in today’s climate, where any indie commodity can be whisked away at the blink of an eye and plastered across MTV screens. Take the Strokes for example. While they have no indie background to speak of, their sound is well rooted in that of bands beloved by everyday indie hipsters who have expended all their burned copies of Fun House and White Light/White Heat. Lest they become fearful of their uselessness, these hipsters now have the French Kicks to dole out to the unsuspecting masses.


Granted the French Kicks don’t sound exactly like the Strokes. Their sound is far more fluid and distinct, and owes a great debt to former luminaries like Jonathan Fire*Eater and Elvis Costello, with their airy production, keyboard and piano flourishes, dissonant tempos, and soulful crooning. Nevertheless, like the Strokes, the band has been pure New York City from day one, as evidenced by two pre-existing EP’s, French Kicks and Young Lawyer. Their songs were born to dwell in long-lost cabarets and quaint bars that fall just short of seediness. While their full-length debut doesn’t necessarily find them fulfilling the promises made by those first EPs, it improves their standing considerably.


The songs on One Time Bells bounce and boogie with an effervescence that eludes so many lesser bands. From the distant piano pings that open “1985” (a highlight here) to the chiming guitars of “Trying Whining”, there’s really not a bad note to be found-- just not that many unforgettable ones. But when it all falls into place, when drummer/singer Nick Strumpf locks into the perfect groove and lets the guitars shimmy and shine around the beat without even the slightest pretense of showiness, it’s pretty magical. “Right In Time” is the exemplary model of this, with a killer melody displaced by overdubbed vocals and guitars that fall perfectly between the wide gap that separates grating and gorgeous. If anything, diversity is the group’s most prevalent problem. They have yet to gain the ability to hold attention beyond the EP medium. At times, it’s hard to discern “When You Heard You” from “Crying Just For Show”, and more gravely, it’s hard to care. But that’s hardly going to keep me from enjoying the album for the foreseeable future.


Ultimately, One Time Bells is going to suffer this year in light of its competition. It just barely lacks the effulgence of its sister album, The Walkmen’s Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me Is Gone and the unabashed thrill of Enon’s High Society. Even so, the jig isn’t up for the French Kicks. They’ve got plenty bright days ahead of them, and who knows, maybe even a major label contract. Hipsters, it’s time to start digging.