Say Sue Me are from Busan. The perpetual contradiction of the city – managing to be the bustling, Black Panther sequence boasting, second largest metropolis in South Korea and a sleepy, sprawling, wistful wasteland all at once – greatly informs the music here, lest Where We Were Together's title (location, location) or Busan-sporting artwork didn't clue you in.

Yet, unlike many an indie classic in the arena, whether it be Modest Mouse's fatally Western feels or the Rural Alberta Advantage's underrated Hometowns, this is an album far more grounded in personal experience in that urban decay rather than a region-wide sensibility. Naturally, in zooming in, the band only more intimately captures the hidden struggles coiling in the back of all our minds.

As has been prominently discussed in the press build up to Together, the songwriting for Say Sue Me's second album (and first from a label beyond their local Busan) was dominated by feelings of grief and change in the aftermath of a band member's accident. The injured party, their former drummer, was clearly a key influence in their craft, with the other members' reverence showing when I met them for an interview, the band's singer and co-guitarist, Sumi, pointing out artwork he had done. Still, the cycle must be taxing for the band: however wistful and manic some moments here are, Where We Were Together is nothing if not a summer evening party record. Whatever they're going through, Sumi and Say Sue Me (get it yet?) keep it movin'.

From some acts, the pun in the name might not play; for Say Sue Me, everything they do couldn't be more earnest. Without concern for the indie standards and influences most acts obsess over, they have endless room to play. Some are already deeply enamored with the band's sound, others nod along but seem to wonder what quite the big deal is. They're, perhaps, missing the charm the upstart Korean band returns to whatever, precisely, indie rock is (relegating them purely to surf rock feels almost lazy). The band certainly has their influences – they loved talking about Yo La Tengo – but were occasionally not even particularly familiar with comparisons Western journalists (myself included) have been all too eager to heap on to them. It's all too easy, especially as a white, American journalist, to trivialize their perspective, hailing from a country with such a vastly different musical upbringing and experience: to make something genuine and gorgeous a cute thing, a curiosity, but I can't help but enjoy a band with an almost precocious lack of concern for how they'll be pegged; just playing, and enjoying it.

Within the band's dynamic, Sumi handles lyric duties, while co-guitarist Byungku Kim hefts almost all of the songwriting. In conversation, he was reserved, witty, almost sly, comfortable to sit in silence only to offer input if something truly caught his interest. Sumi was warm, explaining her enjoyment of writing in English: essentially, in their earlier years, she could imagine all her words as confessions to only herself in a room of untrained or unknowing Korean ears.

Naturally, that's changed with the band playing SXSW and gracing indie kids' latest favorite lists, but you can hear the band's fearlessness in every fun-soaked note on Where We Were Together. 'I Just Wanna Dance' revels in a drunken reversion from young adulthood, 'Old Town' takes on Busan the most bluntly with a bored, hesitant display of love for the city; there's no shortage of strained joy here. A session of strained joy might not sound like the most ideal way to spend a spring afternoon, but don't get the wrong idea: this is likely to be the most pure fun you've had with indie rock since Atlas. We may be broke, shit might get totally out of control, but we'll have fun with our friends at the end of the night. It's just bliss – that keeps it honest.