For most people – once Brian Wilson had turned his back on the sea and started off down the lonely road to genius – surf music means either (or both) of two things: the Surfaris’ ‘Wipeout’ or Dick Dale’s ‘Misirlou’. Punchy, propulsive tunes, in other words, that make you feel like you’re on your way to the toughest party in town, or at least very much on your way to something – always driving forward, fast. The Surfrajettes are like that; their version of the Spice Girls’ ‘Spice Up Your Life’ is a revelation, turning an inoffensive (if admittedly banging) global dancefloor-filler into something that could plausibly soundtrack a rumble in a pool hall.
It was a cover that first brought them to public notice in 2018, when their winningly slinky take on Britney Spears’s ‘Toxic’ went viral (as of this writing, 7.2m YouTube views). But most of what they do is original material, even if it sounds like it isn’t. The crowd was full of hipsters scratching their actual beards as they tried to work out ‘Who did this one?’ The answer, thrillingly, was nearly always ‘only the Surfrajettes’.
Formed in Toronto in 2015, the band has got through more drummers than Spinal Tap and almost as many bass players, but guitarists Nicole Damoff and McKenzie ‘Shermy’ Freeman have been a constant. Their Sixties styling — beehives, mini-skirts and go-go boots – and conspicuous personal hotness often seem to attract more attention than the music, but they seem resolutely untroubled by this. And while such thrift-store-raiding shenanigans are usually the preserve of the self-consciously kitsch or (nooo!) ‘kooky’, they resolutely aren’t that either.
They’re also resolute in their loyalty to the music they love, which is instrumental. How many people must have told them, by now, that they could have a monster hit if only one of them would open their mouth and sing? It must take a certain obstinacy to keep on rockin’ down a path that so many others have declared a commercial cul-de-sac, although Damoff insists, ‘We all have decent voices – it would be nice to do one song with four-part harmonies and mess with people.’ But I like them fine as they are, as I’ve long thought that there’s something inherently intelligent about instrumentals; they’re presuming that we’re clever enough to fill in the emotional blanks ourselves, without some lachrymose crooning poltroon spilling their guts about falling out with their fella.
When I see them at Brighton’s Dust nightclub, the only vocals come from the audience – during that Blondie cover – and there is absolutely no messing. In the space of just over an hour they play around 20 songs, with minimal banter, to a capacity crowd that keeps trying to dance but simply can’t, because there’s just too much of it. My idea of a good live performance has always been something that sounds incredibly close to the original record but with a tiny handful of mistakes sprinkled in, just so it’s clear they aren’t literally robots, and that’s exactly what you get with the Surfrajettes. The band are all ridiculously on point, and any fears that a whole set of instrumental music might prove a bit much are soon dispelled as they race from one tune to the next.
Although it’s all indisputably Sixties surf music, with absolutely no anachronistic frills, the tunes are all so lively and different from one another that it’s impossible to get bored. They all smile a lot but mainly at each other, which feels like a good sign. No one’s trying to look cool as such but Damoff in particular has what you might call resting cool-face, a sort of listless smoulder that just naturally occupies her features when she’s concentrating. Very much the Ally Sheedy to Shermy’s Molly Ringwald, it almost looks like she’s thinking, ‘Not this again!’ every time she launches into a new solo, but as soon as it gets going there’s a little smile that seems to say, ‘Oh, you mean this old thing…?’
The encore is, inevitably, Britney’s ‘Toxic’, but it segues more than a little unexpectedly into the Lancasters’ ‘Satan’s Holiday’ – which was itself based on Grieg’s ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’, so I went home feeling well cultural. It’s a sly reminder that however rigid their formula may appear to be, these gals (appropriate in this context) still want to surprise you – and maybe, at some unspecified date, to mess with you. Because although in theory they’re retro, there is the distinct whiff of futurism about their audacious and daredevil sound – driving forward, fast.
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