Something from the Hearts on Fire files this week. Nick Thorburn was one of the most entertaining interviews for the project; his band Islands play the Horseshoe Tavern this week, on Thursday, Sept 28, with Fat Tony. (This week’s live music listings here.) The night before, they play Pop Montreal on Wednesday, Sept 27 at Le Sotterenea.
I was listening to a small community radio station in eastern Ontario this weekend, where I heard all kinds of oldies I wasn’t expecting, CanCon and otherwise: such as not one, but both Poppy Family hits from the early ’70s (including the one that plays in the background a key scene from Hard Core Logo).
One DJ played the Irish Rovers’ “The Unicorn,” a song I had not heard in at least 40 years, but recall singing in schools or at summer camp. (It came out in 1966, and was written by Shel Silverstein.) I knew all the words. It’s about “them silly Unicorns” who are too busy frolicking in floodwaters and miss final boarding call for Noah’s ark. Here it is, in case you’ve forgotten (this performance features Spirit of the West’s Geoff Kelly, who has apparently toured with the band since 2000):
The Unicorns are a key band in Hearts on Fire. They were the kind of band who would definitely have missed the Ark. They embody the surprise success bestowed upon oddball bands of the moment, and then fell apart almost as quickly as they arrived, becoming fodder for legend and rumour. They were weird art-rock pranksters who went from performing with sock puppets to selling out venues across the U.S. on an 18-month endless tour, to being offered large record deals and having the Yeah Yeah Yeahs urge them not to break up (on stage, again).
The Unicorns were always on the verge of breaking up. It’s actually what their one and only album is about.
Nick Thorburn started the Unicorns with Alden Penner in Campbell River, B.C. Drummer Jamie Thompson joined them in Montreal. Since the band split in 2005, Thorburn has been incredibly prolific (and less pranksterish) under the name Islands. The project took a break after releasing two albums in 2016, but returned with two of its strongest records yet, including the new one, And That’s Why Dolphins Lost Their Legs.
Islands debuted in 2006 on a wave of post-Unicorns hype. Since then, the press (including me) has paid less and less attention. But audiences have remained consistent. I recently interviewed Geordie Gordon (new video here, BTW), who has played with Islands since 2009, and who has been a member of U.S. Girls since 2018. He told me that this spring “U.S. Girls were playing venues I’d played before with Islands — really nice venues on the East Coast. Islands fills those rooms because they have this steadfast cult audience, but no press has paid attention in years. In U.S. Girls, the press loves them, so people come out. But it’s the same size crowd.”
The latest video by Islands — literally made by children, created and filmed in the space of two hours — is here, and it’s delightful:
There’s a good CBC Music profile on Thorburn and Islands’ renaissance here.
But today, we’ll travel back in time, for some of the wildest stories that appear in Hearts on Fire. For paid subscribers, here’s my February 2020 conversation with Nick Thorburn. It’s a good one.
We talk about making a disastrous student film with Corey Haim, sending promoters ransom letters, crashing a Cat Power show, very early days of Arcade Fire, making an album for $200, touring with Hot Hot Heat and competing with Metric, a beef with the Stills, Ben Kweller’s projectile salad dressing, touring Canada in a broken-down RV, and more. At one point, he says, “None of these stories are making me come off very well, I might add.
“I’m glad we got that out of our system at 21 or 22. I think you’re supposed to be a little irreverent and impish at that age. But you gotta do it before you’re 25. After that, it’s just a bad look.”
Nick Thorburn
Feb. 24, 2020
You grew up in Campbell River, B.C., with Alden Penner. You made music together shortly before you both left town?
Right. I was in Grade 12 and Alden was a year younger. He showed up at school wearing this kilt or skirt, and a shirt that said, ‘Share the Power,’ some kind of feminist revolutionary slogan. I thought that was interesting.
I was 16 and music was the centre of my life, all I cared about. But I didn’t play. I started hanging out with these punk kids who had a band and I’d watch them rehearse and longed to play. I didn’t have a guitar — or any skills.
Then Alden asked if I played music, so I lied and said yes. He invited me over to jam or just make noise. I showed up without a guitar, so he said, ‘You just sing and I’ll play guitar.’ We had a drummer and a bassist, some friends. That was called the Stanley Milgram Project, then Mad Daddy and the Paddysackers. Poor Alexander was the final incarnation.
Did you do shows at all?
We did these youth centre, rec centre shows. I was really trying to do a Peter Murphy thing, because Bauhaus was my vibe. The bassist was a punk guy. The drummer was into funky stuff. Just a criss-cross of styles. I was paranoid that I was a terrible singer. I quit out of total fear of being exposed as a fraud. I thought, fuck it, I can’t do music. I’m not qualified.
Then I went to Montreal and did film stuff. When I would come home for summer jobs, Alden and I started playing again, and figured we should just do the two of us. We found this 707 [drum machine] at a pawn shop, and a Roland Jupiter 4 [keyboard] at a pawn shop—both of which are miraculous finds in a small town like Campbell River. Those two pieces of gear ended up defining our sound. We started writing together. By that point I’d gotten a guitar and knew how to make my way through chords and songs.
We recorded very primitively. I went back to Montreal, and he had one last year of high school, and I started trying to coax him to Montreal. When he did we started playing shows at Barfly, Casa…
And Paslymany’s, I hear.
Yes. That’s the show where we decided to just lay down in sleeping bags and not even play. A lot of the early stuff, we were trying to shake up the whole notion. When you’re new and naïve you think you can break new ground. We thought, ‘Why should we just play a show? That’s so boring.’
Our first show was in Courtenay [B.C.]. We had one song prepared. We had three loaves of bread and made peanut butter sandwiches for everyone. The one song was just one chord for the entire set. We were forcing our way in. That’s what you do when you’re young. There was something anarchic about it.
Why pick Montreal?
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