I love booty jams. I love them so. Therefore, this album, which is completely dirty and equally weird, danceable and musically interesting, is one of my new favorites and should be a staple for any dance or late-night parties thrown over the summer. Here, sexual references are thrown into raps with reckless abandon, video game bleeps are layered over drum and bass like it’s the late ’90s and swear words are so frequent you’ll wonder about their current potency. If there were a rating system here and the increments were ass cheeks, I’d give this album five out of five ass cheeks.
The same guys from The Unicorns, who a few years ago released some wacky indie-pop albums, have come back with a silly, albeit less wacky band and album which is entirely more listenable than the former. The songs are pretty diverse, some with droning guitars and slow, apprehensive advances into rapid-tempo rock. These are tempered with tracks containing full-on calypso with steel drum, satanic predictions, an awesomely awkward rap and an extremely jovial “Don’t Call Me Whitney, Bobby” whose meaning is up for discussion.
If they haven’t already, attendees of our beloved Britpop/mod/electroclash staple, The Universal at Burt’s Tiki Lounge, will soon be hearing tracks from this album, as it’s an apt representation of those genres. Unfortunately, these songs get annoying at moments due to what seems like an overexuberance for paying tribute to early ’80s punk and post-punk, while other tracks, like the scandalous “Binary Love” are more subdued and modern. This album, being very similar to other revival acts like The Killers and The Bravery, is not a huge achievement, but the London four-piece will undoubtedly pump you up for Thursday night, with or without $.75 PBR.