Bettie Serveert

When it was first released, Palomine was hailed as college rock's London Calling. And yet: Repeated listening reveals that, despite standouts such as the title track's bittersweet vow of friends forever or the persona-defining "Tom Boy," these Dutch pals of ours were better at sustaining a vague mood than concretely bringing their desires, their fears, and their tunes into focus. Lamprey proved itself merely a pleasant, vacant wash. But while no one was listening, Bettie Serveert got better. Dust Bunnies finds the band wondering if it should be sadder that it isn't famous, why it doesn't like its friends more than it does, and if disillusionment is anything more than an immense cosmic gag. (Their answer: a resounding "Hmm, dunno.") This is the testament of a band whose limited success denied it the luxury of outright failure -- like it or not, it was just going to keep on rocking, or droning, or jangling, or whatever it was it did -- and that writes and plays funnier and freer as a result.

For Private Suit, the band submitted to the iron hand of P.J. Harvey associate John Parish, who shoehorned them into a snug girl-singer-plus-backup-band template. With Visser limited to reeling off quick hooks, this arranged chamber pop seems claustrophobic after the rangy expanse of Dust Bunnies. But the girl singer sounds more womanly and self-possessed than ever. "Took a Tylenol and an hour's drive," she begins the album, "and somehow found a reason why I'm still alive."

On Log 22, produced by Visser, the band loosened up considerably, kicking into full-on Velvets-as-jam-band mode. "Wide-Eyed Fools" indicated that these boho ramblers had no intention of assuming a quiet, normal life anytime soon. (KEITH HARRIS)

From 2004's The New Rolling Stone Album Guide