The Unicorns cut class

The Unicorns have some nerve. They have the audacity to come all the way from some backwards-ass fishing town in Canada wearing pink tuxedos and singing those lysergic pop songs about how they’re “more than horses” and expect us to pay attention. But, of course you have to pay attention to them, even if you are inspecting and picking apart their busted Casio pop with near surgical precision in hopes that they fail miserably.

Thing is, they have nothing to fail at because they are currently without peers or equals (Adam Green and the Postal Service don’t count, so don’t go there). The Unicorns are the irreverent little shits in homeroom who laugh amongst themselves and just don’t care. They’re the kind of kids who will gladly wear a black eye with pride because they know that the one-liner they just dished out to that jock was too good to keep to themselves. It’s annoying then, that the Unicorns write the kind of songs you wish you did.

What’s even more aggravating is the that when you take the time to pick apart their music, you realize how the songs that found their way onto their album Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? contain dozens of brilliantly subtle melodious exchanges (and a few religious narratives for good measure). Allegedly developed over emails between band members Nicholas “Neil” Diamonds and Alden Ginger, none of the songs follow a verse/chorus structure. New harmonies and hooks pop out every twenty seconds or so, only to be thrown out in the interest of a crazy chant or a rap that doesn’t rhyme. By the time the two-and-a-half minutes of a Unicorns song are over, you feel like you walked in on four or five private conversations (or is it inside jokes?).

Live, these private exchanges are brought out front and center and are part of the reason we are all wondering how this band got so damn popular. The band actually demands that you listen to them. You have to be real quite, otherwise you miss the point are just staring a bunch of little punks in pink tuxedos. This leaves their audience a little angry sometimes. Recently, they sold out their two shows at New York’s Knitting Factory and left the crowd wondering if they have been taken for a ride or on some kind of fantastic trip. During the show I saw, the woozy keyboard melodies (the ones that go weeee oooo ooooooo weeee neeeee oooo oooo) and the cut and paste guitar licks would drop out from time to time. Stripped of their numerous noiseboxes and modulators, Diamonds and Ginger would then sing to each another from across the stage of the packed club (I remember hearing Alden say something about making love, I got weirded the fuck out). As they softly sang to another, the chitter-chatter faded away and it was like an indie rock version of the album cover of Born to Run you know, Bruce leaning on Clarence and all that. Only way more homosexual.

And with that, you have can distill the entire synth peppered oeuvre of the Unicorns into a few words: two very gifted boys singing to each other without much regard for what happens or who happens to be around.