Pitchfork

In the twelve years since R.E.M. unleashed their drool-pop classic "Shiny Happy People", loads of kids have seen their gag reflexes honed, suddenly trained to fire full-force at the slightest mention of a self-consciously "happy" rock song. Now, eschewing angst and moody poetics for exuberant gushing, the Boston trio Apollo Sunshine (in addition to agreeing to a gush-gush name) are fighting hard to get good-feeling indie-jams back into the "acceptable" realm with their debut record, Katonah.

Like Ben Folds without the sarcasm, or The Flaming Lips without the psychedelic twist, Apollo Sunshine hock their giggles-and-grins untempered by even the slightest twinge of a dark, foreboding undercurrent. Even the record's sleeve glows bright, sporting well-developed pictures of cheery kids and green grass, golden retrievers, blazing bonfires, and quaint wooden country-porches. But Apollo Sunshine have still managed to transcend the off-putting goofiness that so often accompanies these types of endeavors (see Fountains of Wayne and the getting-more-unbearable-by-the-second "Stacy's Mom"), releasing a record that, for all its feel-good leanings, isn't mind-numbingly upbeat, or even especially radio-ready. That subversion of expectation is what keeps things interesting; along with their bright-eyed optimism, the band offers up some surprisingly innovative songs and lots of quirky, Sgt. Peppers-ish instrumental flip-flops.

Katonah opens with its title song-- a meandering keyboard melody sputters and squeals, dancing around a charging bassline, the entire song popping open like a burst of multi-colored confetti before folding into itself, drifting down into drone and finally bleeding into the next track, the frizzy alt-rocker "Fear of Heights". For the most part, vocalist/guitarist Sam Cohen covers the usual lyric terrain ("I Was on the Moon" recounts the birth of his little brother; "The Egg" examines the cycle of life/confusion that accompanies coming of age), but his earnestness is endearing, never wincingly gooey, and always well offset by the kicks and hops going on around him.

The key to the this album's appeal is that almost nothing, save Cohen's fairly straightforward vocals, is doing exactly what you think it should be doing at the appointed time: pretty, harmonized endings twitch into jarring, distorted openings, by-the-book guitar strumming unexpectedly somersaults into weird, unbound wailing. It's not that Katonah is anything less than a collection of melodic, hook-riddled cuts, it's that Apollo Sunshine refuse to stop moving, harnessing all their collective, happy-go-lucky energy into a curiously frenetic album, resulting in a debut record that shifts and wiggles like a pile of newborn puppies.