Okay, so here’s how it all works out. Nous Non Plus are a self-described faux French band—”French” in that the lyrics French and play a quasi-retro power-pop sound that’s vaguely reminiscent of French garage, and “faux” in that they all live in New York, affect fake French accents occasionally, and have delightfully cheesy French stage names like Jean-Luc Retard and Celine Dijon. That’s a lot of faux in there. And to make things even weirder, Nous Non Plus used to be Les Sans Culottes. The story of their dissolution is told in a Slate article written by Monsieur Retard, but to make a long story short: the band decided to kick their leader, Clermont Ferrand, out; leader retaliated with lawsuit over rights to the band name; presiding judge experiences mixture of bewilderment and frustration as the aggrieved bandleader makes his case. When it becomes clear to the rest of the band that their estranged singer will cost them far more in legal fees than the name is worth, they decide that in order to stay true to their fake French roots, they must surrender. The name, that is.

The heady days of revolution and courtroom drama behind them, Nous Non Plus have settled down and left the old regime behind, content to tell the tale of the Ferrand affair every once in a while like an old war story. Which is fine, because honestly, you tell that story one too many times and it starts to sound canned—you know, like when your best buddy tells you that story again of how they totally got drunk that one night and crashed a shopping cart through the window of the 24-hour drug store, or when music journalists run out of good ledes and resort to stealing stuff from the band’s bio and webpages to fill space. Yeah, like that.

Anyways, who needs stories when you have faux-French garage pop? Seriously, you could run the world on this stuff, it’s that potent. Rot the teeth of every five-year-old in the nation, it’s that sweet. And oh so cute to boot? I surrender!