Punk rockers don't need anything extra to get vigilant and pissy about; the genre can do without regionalism. I mean, have you ever tried talking to a Dropkick Murphys fan? All the regular punk shit-- youthful rage, middle-fingers-to-the-man, no perspective-- all that plus regional pride. It's intimidating. Consider, then, the Pine Hill Haints: On the scale of unreasonable bands and fanbases, defiantly Alabamian punk/rockabilly troupe who used to practice in a graveyard should rank really, really high.

Strange, then, just how patient and precise the quintet's third full-length and first for K Records, Ghost Dance, sounds. In the midst of what should be a near-insufferable territorial pissing contest, the Haints have stumbled on a winning formula: choppy, rhythm-centric odes to Buddy Holly and Carl Perkins-- mostly about girls, but often about ghosts, too. This, to be fair, is how the Haints have always operated, but Ghost Dance distinguishes itself with deft arrangements and an old-hound's sense of restraint. Frontman Jamie Barrier has plenty of fire but tired bones; he dutifully carries out those "whoa-oh-oh"'s by himself, like this rallying cry shit is sort of silly but has nonetheless got to get done.

The world is changed when a band signs to K and gets less lo-fi, but no doubt some of the credit lies with label-guru Calvin Johnson who produced more than half of Ghost Dance's 20 tracks. Barrier's pattering guitar is allowed plenty of acreage to pound out slyly danceable rhythms. Drummer Ben Rhyne breaks his martial snare into fractal riffs. Occasional swaths of accordion, mandolin, fiddle carry traces of bluegrass and Celtic music. Sometimes things are wacky: Rhyne is credited with playing a "snake rattle", Matt Bakula with washtub bass. Tracks like "Death by Stereo" and "For Every Glass That's Empty" don't offer a lot of low-end but their hollowed-out take on sock-hop rock shake with teenage familiarity. Several public domain covers-- "You're Gonna Need Somebody on Your Bond", "St. James Infirmary Blues", and "Columbus Stockade Blues", among others-- don't differ substantially in style or sound but suggest the Haints are paying proper attention to their roots.

All of this attention to history and form give more than adequate weight to Barrier's love-slush nonsense. During "I Never Thought the Day Would Come" the drums drops out in one of those romantic punk moments: "To the people in the city/ Where you would disappear/ I follow you in the dark light of every street my dear". Elsewhere he smokily urges, "Shine on/ Catfish angels", whatever the hell that means, likely something about a girl. Or a ghost. Mostly, though, clichés abound, and they are welcome clichés. Refreshingly restrained, pleasingly punk, Ghost Dance goes to great lengths not to overextend itself; what might've been a tireless four-on-the-floor is instead a boxful of tender, shaky paeans.