On Further From Grace, the second album from Nick Castro, the hirsute L.A.-based troubadour has wisely taken full advantage of the extensive network of inspired folk eccentrics currently mushrooming across the countryside. Featuring appearances from Josephine Foster and Espers' Meg Baird, in addition to the uniformly stellar work of his crack(ed) band the Poison Tree, Further From Grace positively shimmers with willowy, sun-dappled ensemble playing, and firmly establishes Castro as yet another noteworthy voice of the present acid folk resurgence.

As is the case with Philadelphia's Espers, Castro's music hearkens less to old-timey American forms of Appalachian folk or country blues than it does to the golden age of 60s-70s UK folk-rock, as practiced by groups like the Incredible String Band or Mellow Candle. Inching softly away from some of the more blatant Donovan/ Syd Barrett solo emanations of his 2004 self-released debut A Spy in the House of God, here Castro and company employ an ambitious menu of exotic acoustic instruments to forge a verdant, medieval-tinged sound, one which draws on any number of pan-global folk traditions. And though there are times when the album threatens to capsize beneath its own preciousness (such as on the delightful, flute-centric "To This Earth", which incautiously risks floating away like a puff of new-agey Celtic Myst) the strength of Castro's melodic compositions and the group's deft musicianship should manage to enchant any but the most Hobbit-phobic listeners.

With his clear, refreshingly unmannered vocals on straightforward tunes like "Won't You Sing to Me," Castro strikes a figure recalling Tom Rapp of Pearls Before Swine or a young, more starry-eyed David Gilmour. In Castro's lyrics, cheeks tend to be white as snow and eyes are apt to shine like diamonds, which is perhaps another reason why most of the memorable passages on Further From Grace are instrumental in nature. The opening "Sun Song" combines Baird's lap dulcimer with Otto Hauser's nimble hand percussion and Foster's mesmeric, wordless vocalizing to create a full-scale gypsy swoon, one that could easily continue on weightlessly for miles before you realize your gas tank is empty and your watch has lost its hands.

Even further transporting is the brief "Music for Mijwiz", a whirling Middle Eastern dervish on which Castro plays the titular Arabic, double-reeded woodwind over a sandstorm rhythm, or the epic "Deep, Deep Sea", a captivating piece whose lengthy intro is adorned with Adam Hershberger's lyrical, surprisingly jazzy flugelhorn, before Castro eventually leads the whole company back into more familiar Soft Machine-like canyons and valleys. As the album closes with the aptly-named acoustic soar of "Walk Like a Whisper", the seasoned folk-rock traveler will undoubtedly recognize many a feature of this tranquil landscape, but will also likely be helpless to resist the urge to continually retrace Castro's every step, reluctant to miss out on a single contour of this varied and beguiling album.