Brattleboro, Vermont's finest garage-rock'n'rollers Happy Jawbone Family Band are about to lob their Mexican Summer debut proper - they released a retrospective LP, Taste The Broom, earlier this year as a sort of "Last time on..." for those unfamiliar with their guitar-based antics. This eponymous 'debut 2.0' record doesn't exactly further their sonic identity too much (frankly, they seem rather nonplussed about the High School drama modern pop entails), and are instead rather content chugging along doing whatever the hell they want; that happens to be country-flecked, surf-splashed, blues-tangled lo-fi rock. It's distinctly American, with tentative links towards Ty Segall, Mikal Cronin and their buddies - not overly, but if you want a contemporary comparison, that's probably the best you're going to get. There's the odd hint of other acts, but it feels more like coincidence, and there's not really enough to say HJFB actually sound like anyone else.

'Hans Christian Anderson's The Little Mermaid' peels back the gruff axe rock in favour of twinkling, twee-indie guitar plucks and the tousled shuffle of snare. There's almost a psych strand struggling to get free amidst the dreamy, candy-coated rock. 'Mr. Clean' is similarly optimistic sounding, which jaunty '60s pop riffs jangling their way through tambourines and female harmonies; everything's nice and sweet. 'The Green Light', veering almost into Strokes-meets-Two Door Cinema Club territory, utilises light and airy instrumentation also. The bite and energy and zing in all these tracks, and indeed other ones like them on the LP, come from the vocals. Francis Carr's gravelly howl, weathered, by the sounds of things, by a hacking cough, sixty-a-day and a pint of JD before bedtime (or maybe it's just his dilapidated array of vocal FX), is the glue which holds all the disjointed surreality and off-kilter patches together.

Other songs are more traditional rock fare. 'Everybody Knows About Daddy' is a pop-rock belter with country tendencies. It bumbles along like a clapped-out old Mustang might, puffing and wheezing with each movement, but within the calamity, there's an endearing elegance. 'I'll Never Go Skin Deep Again' wields a propensity for folk strumming and meditative rhythms. Carr's vocal scrawl is particularly hoarse here as he croons in ciphers: "I killed the moon and put it in my pocket/ but still it sings and nothing could stop it." It's got a mystical vibe drizzled over the skinned-knee rock, and there are times where you can almost believe that this is music from the halcyon days of psychedelia.

The record is pleasant enough, but after the initial waft of intrigue, it's difficult to keep focused on it without getting distracted; everything feels a tad flat. There's hooks and choruses and melodies that are all very lovely, but the pace often feels same-y and the volume and general tone is stuck in third gear, only on occasion jerking into a zone that's more thrilling. So while you can like it in small doses - and indeed, it's got some bits that are awesome - listening to the whole thing in one fell swoop is beckoning slumber.