There are a lot of qualities that can keep a great album under wraps-- sometimes it's not even the type of music that makes a difference, so much as the words critics have to use to talk about it. This might be a little of what went on with His Name Is Alive's last record, Detrola. The album was a gorgeous accomplishment, pulling threads of American music-- folk, blues, r&b, gospel-- together with synthesizers and obsessive attention to sound and space, and coming up with a sound that was entirely unique, remarkably natural, and thoroughly pop; it collected, quietly, a decent number of glowing reviews. (That includes one from me, here.) But it also has a lot of the qualities that make critical darlings hard to make big waves about: This was sedate and cerebral stuff, on a "small" release from an older guy, holed up in his studio, working in an aesthetic that felt insular, personal, not-for-everyone. Not exactly the kind of thing that goes in headlines and on covers, even if it turns out incredibly well. And hey, what do I know: Plenty of people listened to it and didn't hear much of interest to fuss over.

Xmmer, the latest from Warn Defever and company, is a sort of companion piece to Detrola, but it goes a whole lot further in that not-for-everyone direction. The tracks here have less of the pop precision that marked its predecessor, as if they were side material from the same sessions; they're also a lot more synth-free, focusing in on the twang of more traditional instruments. The set sprawls and meanders, and the vocals-- unlike Detrola's rotating cast of singers-- come entirely from the close-miked, sleepy-sounding woman called Andy FM, whose voice and melodies always feel more like chants or humming; they're incredibly low on affect, a dealbreaker for the many, many listeners who justifiably expect singers to be expressive. These songs don't reach out and grab you: They sit patiently, waiting for you to dive and sink even further into the band's current sound-- specifically the droning, old-weird-America side of it, where everything sounds like dive-bar jukeboxes and dirges.

They're also filled with great ideas, though-- even if a lot of them are the sorts that'll mostly blow the minds of other people who play or record music. The most arresting is "The Wolf Put His Mouth on Me", and its curious arrangement is more proof that Defever can organize sounds in ways you're not likely to get from anyone else. Maybe he's just been listening to the African band Konono No. 1: First comes what sounds like a slightly overdriven thumb piano, then a clean one; then a tense clatter of drums, spread interestingly across speakers; then saxophones pushing along; then a psychedelic guitar line. These are the thrills of a studio rat-- you don't look for the melody to develop or the chords to change, you just marvel at the tones, the rhythms, and the astounding and original ways noises are being arranged in space.

There are plenty of those moments, many of them in minor keys, and many of them finding the kinships and middle spaces between different strains of music: central-African rhythm and dark folk, funeral marches and r&b, bluesy country and sunny pop. There's some of Detrola's dabbling in Bacharach-styled pop ("This Is My Confession"), a few looks back at the kind of work this band did in the 1990s ("Oh Miss Flower"), some weirdified German-style pulse ("Sangaree"), and another "Wolf"-style clatter on "Come out the Wilderness". And yet, for such a grab-bag of interesting sonic ideas, it floats by with a certain dirgey sameyness, as if melody and motion are far from its chief concerns. Think of this one as a B-album-- all the fascinating ideas that require more of your patience and indulgence than Detrola ever did, something for fans to chew on while we wait to see if another great one is on the way.