Once a schizophrenic, overstuffed Montreal couch full of indie-pop potential, Islands finally realized that even the most talented members of Arcade Fire and Wolf Parade need to edit.

After making the trek to The Bell House in Brooklyn last night to witness the indie rock foursome Islands whip up a schizophrenic, sticky-sweet cocktail of styles, sounds, and genres, we initially felt like the cheap drowning olive in their plastic martini glass. Similar to the clusterfuck clash of anatomy-hugging white skinny jeans and waspy sky-blue polos (plus one shimmering cape) seen on stage, we fully expected the dash of throwback, pinch of electronic, and vat of indie-pop that seeped from the bodies beneath them to explode into a cacophonous pile of sparkling vomit. However, the resulting combination was, to our utter astonishment, a pleasantly silvery and euphonious symphony of sound, albeit one with an identity crisis. By the end of the show, we were begging to soak up whatever else they damn felt like pouring.