As twee as they are trippy, Austin garage-psych revivalists the Black Angels have built a respectable cult-level career out of fuzzy, midtempo rock that might've felt ominous in 1966. The band's fourth album flirts intermittently with heaviness without ever risking metal; suggests spaciness without ever blasting into the stratosphere; evokes combat ("Don't Play With Guns," "War on Holiday," "Broken Soldier") without ever clarifying why. Two different songs compare non-vine-y things to vines, and frequent Eastern drones descend from the Yardbirds and the Velvet Underground. It's a pleasant-enough swirl – more so whenever vintage organs pipe in. But it never expands your mind.