Dicing classic-rock clichés and rearranging them into inventive, punk-paced anthems over an EP and two album-length releases, this Austin trio have seemed destined to end up on the coolest black-light poster ever. The voyage continues on their third album, where songs open with frantic guitar stabs before downshifting into salsa-tinged shimmies and spectral Jimi Hendrix–style wails. But then comes a surprisingly tedious slew of Turtles-indebted love notes, such as “Regina Holding Hands,” all dutifully decorated with reverbed racket. It’s an awkward stage: White Denim remain in the basement, but sound anxious to move out.
