Regardless of their still-burgeoning profile and local-hero charm, the supreme confidence of the M's has been apparent from the very beginning. From their first eponymous EP onwards, they've written simple, soaring melodies and cobbled together anthemic rock from the glam of Bowie and T. Rex, the saccharine tunes of the Kinks and later Britpop, and the alternately scrappy and surging guitars of 90s American indie. It's the band's knack for making all that seem natural and effortless that's made them worth revisiting with each release, but on their third record that confidence has manifested itself in a different way: rather than barnstorming, the M's on are starting to sound aloof. They subtract elements once integral to their sound, add a few no one saw coming, and pay unhurried homage to artists they've never nodded to before. If previous records had them pulling all the cool records out for new guests, is what you'd hear on your ninth or tenth visit to the M's' apartment. Congratulations; you're bros now.