In the seventies, when new Wavers first reclaimed the sounds of the sixties, the line between fond tribute and fear of musical progress was fine, if not meaningless. Two decades on, the wistful exertions of artists who were barely born when the Zombies, the Beatles and Love walked the earth don't have to be either nostalgic or reactionary. Whatever inspired the charms of Telegraph – a warm and sweet suspension of ebullient melodies and enigmatic lyrics that defies time-dating with its eternal pop values – Richard Davies exists entirely in the present.

The Australian native began in Sydney, where he rocked psychedelic in the Moles, and continued in Boston, where he formed Cardinal, a duo enamored of strings and horns. His delightful 1996 solo debut, There's Never Been a Crowd Like This, nimbly proved that less ornamentation could be more effective, a path that Telegraph pursues with even better results. Even when Davies piles on the harmonies (as in "Eye Camera") or strikes up the band (as in the climactic "Days to Remember"), a sure, straightforward approach keeps the well-crafted songs from toppling over.

If the consistently ingenious arrangements occasionally show up lyrical lapses, they also help Davies' intimate singing paint over any exposed awkwardness. The pulsing bass and snare that push through a swarm of sparkling guitars in "Cantina" allow him to observe, "And you check the local weather station out" with minimal damage to the song. And the drizzly context of "Crystal Clear" nearly explains the phrase "All my blues are red again." Davies, it turns out, is a risk taker, able to tease an original country ballad out of Disney's "Main Street Electrical Parade."

Unlike most pop nostalgists, Davies doesn't make a crutch of literal references to the past. The message that Telegraph sends is that musical innocence, while it may never be regained, is well worth pursuing. (RS 782)

IRA ROBBINS