The Jayhawks have written enough blissfully sad songs to suggest that they are at their best when miserable, and this is true, sort of. They've always sounded like a band not entirely convinced that being happy was good for them, though their ability to coax hope out of despair is unmatched.

This album was born of frozen winters, good novels, bad weather and a boundless affection for the Sunset Strip, back when you could have plausibly run into Gram Parsons or the Byrds walking down the street, back when there was the never-ending hope that music was always going to be this good.

The songs here are simple, and fine. More contemplative than sad, though they didn't call it "Rainy Day Music" for nothing, folks. The album has a high lonesome, Seventies A.M radio sound, mixed with the peppy incongruousness of Sixties pop. On their face, these songs sound like uncomplicated things, like something you could have put together yourself if you'd had the time, though they aren't, and you probably couldn't have. They are, like the most indelible songs almost always are, about people getting lost, and finding their way. Add soaring harmonies, lots of acoustic guitars, a little bit of stoicism, a wryness that borders on British and a gift for melody that's so unerring it's almost creepy, and there you have it, though of course, it's never as easy as that: The best Jayhawks songs, like the ones found here, become another thing entirely when you fuse those elements together, something indescribably more.

This album will remind you of the Jayhawks albums (there are seven of them, now) that have come before, and of nothing else you've heard. It feels at once familiar, and like a rebirth.

--Allison Stewart