Of all the bands to emerge in New Zealand in the wake of the punk explosion of the ’70s, The Verlaines may just be the most idiosyncratic of that idiosyncratic bunch. Like fellow Dunedin residents The Clean and The Chills, the band—named for the French poet—began by channeling punk’s energy into frenetic pop propelled by jangly guitar riffs. But frontman Graeme Downes was a classical music student by day, and that training, though not immediately, eventually played into the band’s output. That the band has had a long list of musicians go through its ranks has also contributed to the erratic qualities of its output.

The Verlaines started sometime in 1981 and had its first recorded sides released to the public as part of the infamous Dunedin Double EP. By the time of its first album, 1985’s Hallelujah All the Way Home, the band had reconfigured and was still in the process of honing in on its sound, a process, one could argue, that has never ceased during the band’s 30 years. One can hear the bearing of Downes’ classical training in the chamber music lilt of “Don’t Send Me Away,” while the banjo-jangle of “All Laid On” is more reminiscent of the Mekons than any of the other practitioners of the “Dunedin Sound.” The album, reissued along with the subsequent Juvenilia compilation by Captured Tracks as part of its new partnership with Flying Nun, is the kind of hodgepodge one would expect from an artist not fully in sync with his muse, but doesn’t necessarily suffer for it. Still, it’s on “Lying In State,” where Graeme get his dander up and delivers the kind of brisk pop for which the Kiwis have become known, that Hallelujah is at its best.

Surprisingly then, it’s the comp that is more cohesive. But with the record comprised of the two tracks from Dunedin Double and as well as some cuts from early singles and EPs, it perhaps shouldn’t be a revelation that Juvenilia, which was originally released in 1987, is untarnished by over-thinking or the affectations of ambition. “Death and the Maiden,” a slice of post-punk pop that mentions the band’s namesake by name, comes off like a bookworm anthem while seemingly teetering on the edge of falling into a shamble of its own disjointed elements. In other words, pure gold. “Joed Out” is simpler, with just a repeating acoustic riff matched to a shuffling rhythm and bassline, but lines like “Don’t do anything important… with anybody else,” convey adolescent ennui in the best of ways. “Angela,” from Dunedin Double, works similarly, with pointed couplets like, “What am I supposed to do with you? If you get bored, there’s no telling what you might do.” Juvenilia, in living up to its name, may lack the nuances of The Verlaines’ later records, but it definitely has its moments. Likewise, though these albums are hardly the benchmarks of the band’s career, both are nevertheless indispensable.