Although they are shopped as “experimental folk,â€? don’t expect any neo-Devendra Banhart ‘cause this feels a lot like youngish Lou Reed vocal approaches with Washington DC post-rock (Q Not U, Faraquet, etc.) temptations. Meaning, this literally is a patchwork of styles and (un)standard goal setting. Tracks like “A OKâ€? have a bit of country fair, a low-key tempo and ramble leading to a tangle of guitars and nether regions of noise: “I couldn’t tell what was real…I just sang out of tune,â€? they note, looking at the “neon seduction and purple violets.” It’s poetry and rust, modern precious pieces assembled in smart combos. “Fallout Shelter Signsâ€? finally reveals some of that folk — simple strums and feedback that make me feel the Mathew Ryan templates adored by Mojo. It’s low to the ground, a bit like Yo La Tengo in places, and the drums keep a bit of constrained flair in place as the singer recounts smiling from to ear to ear and asking why we started to believing in numbers in large amounts, sort of like a tiny Walt Whitman preference for moments of contemplation instead of “Fallout sheltersâ€? and the destructive vibes of a techno-scientific life. Of course, none of us wants to be impaled by geometry, right? “Laura Lee” is ode to that girl with the clapping hands and desire for tambourine choruses, and it aims for a Kinks Kronicle era narrative stab — slightly stiff and quirky — as the singer takes note of factory girls and workaday womanly prettiness getting stamped and smeared by a dirty world.

In turn, “Stolen Tulipsâ€? has some tougher push and pull, a hi-hat gyration and swing that keeps the finesse stoked behind the off-key vocals, which try to forge geek love amid bad luck truths, where the singer stands single file, looking for love but getting turned to stone: “She talked of places…and all the money I’ll never know…â€? Such moments are quite engaging, reminding me of mid-period Weakerthans, with jittery vocals, tightly coiled drum work, and country book charm flourishes. “Chasing Down the Sun,â€? despite its watery surreal side, is inundated by cheese-puff romantic fluff, such as being a girl being “as perfect as the day is long.â€? This lesser achievement should be reserved for those stoned Beatles afternoons, though such 1960’s leisurely strolls through daffodil word play and sexual ingénue bake sales of the mind are no longer quite possible.