The Wiggin family of Fremont, New Hampshire were an all-American bunch. Father Austin Wiggin Jr. and Mother Annie were blessed with a lovely brood of six: Two boys, Robert and Austin III, and four daughters, Dorothy (Dot), Betty, Helen, and Rachel. However, in Austin’s eyes, his traditional-seeming clan was anything but—their existence was actually a case of cosmic circumstance. When Austin was a young child, his palmistry-practicing mother predicted that he would marry a strawberry blonde woman, have two sons after she died, and that his daughters would form a successful music group. Having witnessed the first two prophecies come true, Austin decided to give his preordained fate a little push. In the mid-1960s he pulled his three eldest teenage daughters, Dot, Betty, and Helen, out of school, equipped them with guitars and drums, and dubbed them the Shaggs.

Though Austin had no real musical experience, he took quite naturally to the role of a Svengali-type manager. He demanded that the Shaggs practice all day in the family basement: While he was at work, when he came home, after dinner, and occasionally before bed (sometimes, this pre-bedtime practice was replaced by calisthenics). The Shaggs would play a song over and over and over again, until Austin deemed it perfect (or as close to the level of perfection an untrained group could reach). As Dot later explained in Songs in the Key of Z, “He directed. We obeyed. Or did our best.” Wanting to get the girls while their sound was “hot,” in 1969 after about five years of practice, Austin dragged the Shaggs to Fleetwood studio in Revere, Massachusetts, to record their first album, Philosophy of the World.

“Even if you took a few years and learned all the chords you’d still have a limited number of options,” Half Japanese’s David Fair writes in his brief manifesto “How to Play Guitar.” “If you ignore the chords your options are infinite and you can master guitar playing in one day.” Even though they barely learned any chords, it seems safe to say that even after countless hours of practice the Shaggs never mastered their instruments. But the essence of *Philosophy of the World *lies within Fair’s words: that technical limitations can equal musical freedom.

By all accounts, the Wiggin sisters’ voices are painful—not nails-on-a-chalkboard unlistenable, but bizarre, like hearing early Animal Collective for the first time. Dot and Betty’s guitars are cheap and off-key. Helen’s drums have no consistency and jump from rumbling rolls to soft and stuttering taps for no apparent reason. The Shaggs are literally the sound of teenagers without any real training who are suddenly tasked with creating pop tunes. “It just came out of my head,” Dot explains in the reissue’s liner notes. “When I wrote the lyrics, I already had the way the song was supposed to be, the tune of it, so then I matched the melody with words and then chords with melody.” As such, the guitars follow the warbling vocals note-for-note, and since each accented word receives its own unique pitch, the plucking is acrobatic and difficult to follow. Rarely is there a moment on Philosophy of the World that feels cohesive. Yet, even though each sister moves at her own tempo, somehow the structure never falls apart. There’s something intriguing about the noises the Shaggs create and the way they become catchy; chaos is negated in the same way that after enough contemplation the violent splatters of a Jackson Pollock painting become calming.

As the voice of the band, Dot wrote about the things she knew, the life her sisters lived, the world they dreamed of discovering. The Philosophy of the Shaggs, as explained via the chorus of the album’s self-titled opener (“you can never please anybody in this world”) is one of moxie, faith, and pragmatic emotional compromise. While the longings of other girl groups of the late 1960s were also marked by melancholy, an unsettling sense of darkness permeates the Shaggs’ songs, especially when one considers the forceful conditions under which they were created. Perhaps if the same lyrics were Spectorized and accompanied by some claps or twinkly piano they would come off as less nervous. But instead, the combination of the Shaggs’ creaky chords, jumpy vocals, and irregular melodies ring an alarm that something is off. Take “Who Are Parents,” a creepy call-and-response ditty about the righteousness of guardians, the ones who really care, the ones who are always there. “Some kids think their parents are cruel/Just because they want them to obey certain rules,” Dot sings, sternly beseeching other youths to stick to their morals. “Then they start to lean from the ones who really care/Turning, turning from the ones who will always be there.” “Who Are Parents” fails as a family anthem and instead is a haunting example of the pressure and fear Austin instilled in his daughters.

Most of the Shaggs’ lyrics reflect their strict upbringing and ensuing social anxiety. On “I’m So Happy When You’re Near,” Dot and Betty unite to sing about the sadness that arrives when the song’s subject departs. In between verses, the Shaggs’ countless hours of practice truly shine with some intricate guitar work. Shortly after, “Sweet Thing” delivers a tale of woe and is perhaps the strongest display of anger the Wiggin sisters muster. “You used to make me happy/Now you make me sad/You’ve told me many lies/I’ve never told you one,” Dot points out in the same, even voice used throughout the record, even though she’s sharing a deep moment of betrayal. The pain truly shines when Betty squawks “Hurt you, hurt you,” like a stuck toy. Out-of-tune, sharp moments like these could be overlooked as amateur, but they are really the rare occasions when fervor seeps out.

The Shaggs’ introspection is best explored on “Things I Wonder” and “Why Do I Feel?.” The former slogs along with the simple chorus “There are many things I wonder/There are many things I don’t/It seems as though the things I wonder the most/Are the things I never find out.” Even from reading those words in your head, they are so clearly jumbled, so unbalanced. Beneath Dot and Betty’s stiff, severely accented vocals, Helen’s drums rumble and clang. Yet these elements are so unchanging that “Things I Wonder” becomes hypnotic. “Why Do I Feel?” is less repetitive and rather than just discussing the unknown, the Shaggs seem to be truly wondering. “Why do I feel the way I feel?,” they ask, drawing out each word with longing. “My Pal Foot Foot” has become a Shaggs anthem of sorts: a drawing of the legendary cat adorned the cover of a 1988 compilation album as well as many arms and legs of ardent fans. Their clumsy search for a roaming cat sounds like it is being delivered at the edge of a cliff. “Foot Foot…,” one of the sisters nervously murmurs. It’s sing-songingly charming in the way that nursery rhymes are until you realize the dark underlying message. All of this considered, there are perhaps only two purely innocent songs on Philosophy of the World, the radio-worshipping “My Companion” and “It’s Halloween.” “It’s Halloween” and its talk of ghouls seemingly could have been sung by the Peanuts gang three years earlier in “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.”

When Austin died unexpectedly of a heart attack in 1975, the Shaggs immediately disbanded and resumed normal lives, working blue-collar jobs and starting families. “We figured when we ended it and we went on with our own lives, that that was the end of it,” recalls Dot. “That was one life, and now another.” But destiny had other plans for the Wiggin girls, who had yet to become the popular group of their grandmother’s prophecy. Even though 900 of the 1000 copies of Philosophy of the World produced disappeared immediately, the record managed to fall into the hands of influential obscure music fans who were drawn to discordant sounds produced by three sisters from New Hampshire. By 1980, new fans were introduced to Philosophy of the World thanks to a reissue campaign led by the band NRBQ.

The Shaggs were quickly embraced by the exact opposite audience Austin desired: the longhaired avant-garde intellectuals. Listeners were amazed by this music that seemed ahead of its time, and totally different than what one might expect if they handed three teenage girls instruments with little instruction. The Shaggs pre-dated the trend of making music that sounds untrained; they probably would have hated Beat Happening. “I don’t know anything about music,” Captain Beefheart told Lester Bangs in 1980. But the big difference between Beefheart and the Shaggs comes down to intention. Whereas Don Van Vliet was improvising and experimenting, the Shaggs were simply surviving.

On top of the musical strangeness, there are the universal sentiments that the Wiggin girls capture, their juvenile dreams and desires illustrated as intimate. Big ideas become small and accessible in their voices: Don’t you remember when you felt scared, sad, or alone? So do the Shaggs, and it’s comforting to relate. Kurt Cobain called Philosophy of the World one of the top five records of all time—what did he hear in the Shaggs? Perhaps he was entranced by what he saw as raw innocence.

But in truth, contemporary listeners and critics will never identify with the Shaggs because their words are not for us.

Since Philosophy of the World became a cult classic in the ’70s and ’80s, critics have been quick to label the Shaggs as outsider musicians. But if the outsider music genre is meant to be the logical counterpart to outsider art, the Shaggs do not quite qualify. Yes, their bumpy music pays no attention to conventional practices, yes, by all means they are amateur. But they had certainly heard mainstream music like Herman’s Hermits and sources differ on whether or not they received music lessons. Outsider art, and therefore music, is meant to come from an undisturbed place. “Here we are witness to the artistic operation in its pristine form, something unadulterated, something reinvented from scratch at all stages by its maker, who draws solely upon his private impulses,” said Art Brut founder Jean Dubuffet.

The Shaggs were forced to make music by a father who physically removed them from school. While the Shaggs may have been expressing genuine emotions, it was not of their free will. “It’s just something we had to do,” one sister recalls in an interview with the BBC. One might consider the anecdote that the Shaggs would occasionally sneak away from practice to a nearby lake and then rush home as if they had been rehearsing. Calling them outsiders negates the trauma that is deeply rooted within their music. Austin emphasized over and over how “pure” the Shaggs were, how they were “unaffected by outside influences.” But their purity is that of claustrophobia. Outsider artists are expected to possess a degree of unconsciousness that acts as a path into the profound psyche. But the Wiggin sisters were self-conscious teenagers. Their peers tossed soda cans at them. Even though Dot’s lyrics clearly come from a significant place within (her adolescent anxieties) the difference is that of writing a daily journal to share with a classroom of peers versus writing a diary entry before bed.

If new or old fans wish to experience a pure version of the Shaggs, check out 1982’s Shaggs’ Own Thing, a collection of unreleased recordings and covers. Shaggs’ Own Thing finds the Wiggin girls to be playful and free of anxiety, perhaps because there’s no clear-cut purpose behind the recordings. The covers (which include versions of the Carpenters) are faithful, graceful even. It’s a drastic shift from Philosophy, which comes off as even more abrasive and awkward in comparison. But Philosophy of the World is the realest version of the Shaggs, flaws and force in full-view. A teenage symphony this is not.