hiladelphia’s Pattern is Movement may initially come off as being too clever for their own good, eager to trot out odd-numbered measures and the drizzling, tightly arranged guitars of emo and post-rock heroes gone by. Thankfully, along with the lush, schizy instrumentation and overall music-geekiness there are subtle tunes (or tunelets at least) lurking under this gauzy if familiar web, and there are spooky voiced men delivering them.

Even if there weren’t, the web itself is a pleasant enough diversion for some people—guitar porn or arrangement-porn for the folks who like that stuff (ahem). But The (im)possibility of Longing works because it asserts its own melodic identity strongly enough in these porcelain songs to overcome the inherent pretension of a band trying so damn hard to sound smart.

Cyclical and hypnotic in songs like “Gunsmith” or “Julius,” the band are similar to other songsmiths-via-emoesque-excess bands as Aloha or Pinback, but with enough of their own anal white soul to turn the jittery perfection into something that sticks. Balancing nervous and placid, smooth melodies and rude tempo shifts, each tune works as both an exercise in texture and melody like a noisier Sea and Cake, or a not-so-noisy Slint, forbearers of PiM’s math-rock legacy.

Maybe not the widest net ever cast in terms of influences, you can probably imagine the sound of The (im)possibility of Longing pretty accurately before ever hearing it. If there’s any Can or King Crimson in there it’s come via a circuitous route. But the band fuses their adventurous technique with a pop-fans delight in lacing hooks throughout the ornate instrumental fabric, which leads them out from their muso hidey-hole into a more welcoming place.

Which isn’t to say you’ll be singing these songs in your sleep. The weird hook that jumps out at you in the opening “Non Servium” is coolly distant enough to resist such easy absorption, but it still beckons teasingly before the song suddenly vanishes into an almost silent bridge, an abrupt stillness alive with flickering hisses and odd nocturnal noises. But aside from being willfully strange, the entire record is also seductive in its way—though if you ever find yourself getting your freak on while The (im)possibility of Longing plays in the background, you are surely a complete spazz.

Another factor in Pattern is Movement’s favor is Andrew Thiboldeaux’s voice, adept at both the narcotized whispering and the more brash emoting found throughout the disc. “Albatross” displays both sides of his style as they seesaw between the repetitive verse where he stretches syllables into new, unintelligible shapes and the cooing chorus where he seems to be repeating the line “why I left St. Paul” which is equally plausible and not so.

Pattern is Movement’s sonic palette may be a bit behind the curve, but they have taken the well-honed riffs they dearly love and have fashioned an odd collection of pop songs from them, math-pop if you must. If this record doesn’t work on you immediately, give it another chance. Now you got it, right? You geek.