“Requiem for O.M.M. 2” kicks off “The Sunlandic Twins” with a hit of nostalgia. A sense of reverent déjà-vu comes through in the lyrical reflections on unfading memories and idyllic first love; sepia tints the obscurely winsome song title, the tipsy-carousel melodies, the stagily-intimate vocals, and the constant stream of giddy hooks.

Of Montreal has always looked to the past, but the bygone era that mastermind Kevin Barnes daydreams of here is considerably more recent than usual. These two minutes hearkens more than anything—more, even, than the “Age of Aquarius”—to the period in the late ’90s when the Athens, Ga.-based Elephant 6 collective produced some of the more trippy retro-psych this side of “Hair.” When, for a moment, it seemed as if the Beatles and the Beach Boys had never come down from their mid-century heights, but merely taken up residence in a Southern college town.

As it stands, though, “Requiem” is only a brief look back at that paradise before a risky leap forward. Six months in the studio last summer and fall have produced something as welcome as it is unexpected: an Of Montreal that knows how to cut loose and get down convincingly, deploying a fleet of gleefully programmed sounds that would have been pure science fiction to sandbox-era Brian Wilson.

Last spring’s “Satanic Panic in the Attic” won superb reviews from many who had once ignored Barnes’ work, mostly by hinting at new directions less directly beholden to Dad’s record collection. Initial reports suggesting that “Twins” would chuck the dusty influences out the window altogether in favor of funky synths and danceable rhythms were promising—but they also raised disquieting visions of an aging Elephant jumping on a new, shakier backward-looking bandwagon.

We can all breathe easy along with James Murphy and Jimmy Tamborello’s copyright lawyers. The synth-pop trappings are there, to be sure, but they’re never a pose, and “Twins” doesn’t aspire to the club. On the best songs—which is to say, all but one or two on this consistently great album—those nods to the ’80s brilliantly showcase Barnes’ superlative songwriting. The lighter-than-air loops and disco-ball riffs seem a natural extension of Barnes’ always-circular tendencies as a hooksmith. Strands of melody that might have spiraled aimlessly in 1999 are effortlessly pulled into place.

The real surprise, then, is how well the old bag of tricks works in a set of loose-jointed, hand-clapping jams. Barnes’ newfound dance fever forces him to boil down “Forecast Fascist Future,” leaving a heady vocal lament and chugging guitars that amble and reverse but never outstay their welcome. Skipping vocal samples, hysterically-burbling keys, and glitchy drum tracks lend a thrilling dash of claustrophobia to “So Begins Our Alabee” and “The Party’s Crashing Us,” and rubbery synth slouches make the surreal travel diary of “Oslo in the Summertime” ominous and dirty instead of precious.

The album’s second half flows almost too cohesively, with songs dissolving into instrumentals that veer between intricate atmospherics and flat-poured MIDI concrete. The bonus EP included with “Twins,” though, dashes the possibility that Barnes was ever in danger of running out of ideas for fully-formed, blissful pop tunes. Barnes’ wife Nina makes the heart-racing, dewy-eyed lyrics of “Keep Sending Me Black Fireworks” all the more believable with sweet-natured lead vocals, and “The Actor’s Opprobrium” spins a narrative as surreal as those on any of Barnes’ more traditional concept albums.

Barnes has found himself somewhat of an unlikely elder statesman in what remains of the many-trunked Elephant 6 scene. But the market for trippy harmonics that the Georgian collective once served has been cornered for the moment by even weirder psychedelic varietals, and the mantle that rests on Barnes’ shoulders comes now with slightly dimmed rainbow-watercolor sheen and a koan-like paradox. With the collective’s founders dispersed to side projects and Powerpuff soundtracks—or, in Jeff Mangum’s case, last sighted piloting a transatlantic aeroplane somewhere near Amelia Earhart’s—does Elephant 6 still matter?

The answer, for the devoted audience of music critics still tuning in, will always be “yes.” Thankfully, though, Barnes has let us sidestep that question, using his seventh Of Montreal album as an opportunity to expand beyond the formal restrictions that sometimes limited even the best Elephant 6 projects and firmly establish his own voice.

It may have taken eight years on the pachyderm fringes, but Of Montreal has quietly grown up.

—Staff writer Simon W. Vozick-Levinson can be reached at vozick@fas.harvard.edu.