Okay, I give. Things have been far too cute and nonsensical over in Canada ever since the Unicorns’ 2003 Stateside heyday with the release of Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone. I didn’t always feel that way. The Unicorns’ album was a piece of sweet and silly pop taffy, but even their disintegration was a joy, because it lead to the formation of Islands and the creation of one of this year’s best records, Return to the Sea. However, while I can thoroughly recommend giving Islands a chance (few of you will regret it), I can also blame their former incarnation for helping to influence their Equator Records labelmates The Lovely Feathers.

The Lovely Feathers’ Hind Hind Legs is the musical equivalent of an adorable child with ADD: the music is usually fun and bouncier than one of those awesome tiny trampolines everyone loved in elementary school gym classes, but the vocals and lyrics are an entirely different story. These lyrics are so jabberwocky annoying that an older listener will tire of this album within the first five songs. If The Lovely Feathers were a child you were babysitting, it would be the child who you would wish was actually the Anti-Christ, just so you could get away with chasing it around the house with a broom instead of listening to all of the bullshit that it’s constantly spewing out.

Granted, there are moments that are a faint reprieve, such as the Pixies-influenced “Wrong Choice” and the post-punk fervor (though it too can become vaguely annoying) of “Breakfast Cake”; even when the band is at its most wacky and childlike, like on opening track “Pope John Paul” and the humorous “Rod Stewart,” they can still be enjoyable. But the largest problem here is that The Lovely Feathers seems to have no clue as to what kind of band they want to be. They want to be Black Francis. They want to be David Byrne. They want to be the Unicorns. They might even want to be Man Man. Hell, they even want to be Gang of Four’s aggravating little brothers. And this drive to explore such a varied array of sound can drive away even listeners who love those bands.

No one wants to hear a bunch of young dudes being an idiot David Byrne. Byrne may have shouted out non-sequiturs, but the reason why Talking Heads endure to this day is because, while we might not entirely know what he meant, Byrne always knew what was happening. The Lovely Feathers, on the other hand, seem to be carried away in the flow of disintegrated language. I’m sure that somewhere out there, some other self-righteous writer is writing about The Lovely Feathers being all that is great and wonderful about postmodernism and its effect on music. And blah blah blah, they’ve descended the cycle of language, blah blah blah – but who cares? If you want someone who cares about language, why don’t you go raise Roland Barthes from the grave and make him listen to this record. To me, The Lovely Feathers don’t even sound like they understand what the fuck they’re talking about.

The most frustrating thing of all, though – and the inspiration for all of this venom – is this album could have been good, even great. There’s a vast potential lurking within the structure of the sounds, a sense of humor that occasionally surfaces, and a currently en-vogue childishness, all of which could be great assets. But when they’re lazily squandered on an album such as this, it’s utterly enraging. I believe The Lovely Feathers have what it takes. I mean, go back and look at the influences I listed. They have elements of some fantastic and innovative bands, and it’s obvious that they have the energy to take those elements and make a synthesis of them. So I won’t give up on you, The Lovely Feathers, because I know there’s hope for you yet; but next time, try a different recipe for a rock album.

Reviewed by Megan Giddings