The Austin Chronicle dubs them psych-pop, which might be the case on the stirring “St. Mary’s Night,â€? which is almost post-punk (check out that bass line, in cohorts with Gang of Four or Sandinista-era Clash) in feel and vibe, yet when the chorus kicks in with power pop stirrings there is a weird guitar part hanging around the neck that makes keeps it just slightly off-center. The subject of the song might be the gal stepping off the train, looking to dance at St. Mary’s, but there is a sense of hollow despair, for the narrator seems conflicted over carrying her home. The bare, distilled approach of the song’s atmosphere matches that sense of dislocation. “AC Satellite,â€? however, sorta rumbles together in a barroom rock way — slightly sawdust and Neil Young. It’s more taco and tequila than Magnet magazine.  In fact, the Dallas Observer condemns the band name, suggesting their “moniker [sounds like] an awful Jimmy Buffet cover band from Denver.â€? Yet, they don’t even get near Florida, and there is a certain chilliness to segments of their approach, such as in “Tamara,â€? perhaps embodying what the Oberver called “lubricated twang,â€? but I would suggest a finesse and lo-fi-ish Back-to-Basics 101 sound, all off-center enough to make one listen more intently than first expected. This type of cut is in contrast to the mild-mannered, poppy, hand-clap toss-off “Traffic Light,â€? which is like the Rasperries without the mid-1970’s cheese and warmth. It’s bouncy and bright, similar to an over-lit Polaroid snapshot. I prefer the more trad and rootsy “Figs’n’Fountain,â€? with its secret nods to the New Order song “Love Vigilantesâ€? (no lyin’, it’s buried in the texture!).

With an arty Americana approach that actually resembles Polvo or Pavement colliding with the laconic approach of Centro-Matic, these San Antonio natives self-admittedly blend Mott the Hoople with electronica and Bowie with Badfinger, even as they snap promo photos outside of Pearl beer company, emblem of all things down-home grunt’n’snore Texan. They have also suffered from a revolving door of bassists, gotten everything stolen from practice spaces, and become lone guns in a city known more for molten metal and straight, salty-of-the-earth country, or even the whiplash garage rock of Sons of Hercules.

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Guitarist Scott Lutz is the only trained musician among them. Having done stints as a Mariachi player, he told the San Antonio Current, “Mariachi is the most raw punk rock there is,� he says. “You walk into a place, no amps, no nothing, and you’re loud as hell. That was kind of a wakeup call for me. A lot of times, with art bands, shoe-gazing bands, you can kind of hide behind the fuzz of everything. I think there’s a purity in the directness of something like mariachi.�  Well, instead of indie rock fuzz creating a morass of impenetrable gauze, Snowbyrd has intersecting guitar work that is dizzying to hear riff off each other, noted in songs like “Mourning Larks� that features a lead guitar snaking round the rhythm as basic and direct as Joe Strummer cramping from his downstrokes. On “Remember U,� the drummer ends up in a manic, spaghetti-armed, Muppet (Animal!) incarnation, exploring ever nook and cranny of the syncopated Who-esque rock’n’roll spillage. The vocals are strangely lite and appear to be in another room, aloof and yearning, which heightens the overall high-wire tension. The fuming fuzz and almost equally cascading drums of “For Today� unleash the inner fury, again a nod to great Mod acts like the Creation but with more muscle and acrobatics.  It’s a ringing, though managed, volcano to wrap up this blend.