Pitchfork

Sometimes music, like real estate, is all about location, location, location. That is certainly the case for this Chapel Hill-based five-piece. Not only does Schooner uphold the local tradition of low-key, tart 'n' scruffy pop songs, but the best track on their sophomore effort is an ode to a neighboring North Carolina town.

"Carrboro" is like a modern, lo-fi Beach Boys gem sung by Stephin Merritt if he'd grown up below the Mason-Dixon Line. Reid Johnson's deep, deadpan baritone induces a narcotic effect as it pours over his sister Kathryn's antithetically cheery vintage organ line like cough syrup. And when the two siblings sing together in deliciously piquant harmony, the languorous humidity of Reid's jaded croon is made all the more evident as it rubs up against Kathryn's sweet, airy voice. Together they sound like the doomed writer and the southern belle, Tennessee Williams singing with Scarlett O'Hara. Even though the keyboards crash into a sunny, sing-along chorus, this tune is actually a deceptively depressing tale of a lonely girl in a new town who loves often and badly ("You said, 'I love you,' without thinking twice/ I knew I didn't, but thought it was nice.") But by cloaking her bruised story in woozy loveliness, Reid and his band take lemons and make lemonade. And really, what's more Southern than that?