The Pains of Being Pure At Heart: it demands ellipses, or at the very least, abbreviation. The Pains, TPOBPAH, perhaps PBPH, or, as their label Slumberland Records prefers, POBPAH. One verb short of a clause, it is arguably the most misguided decision in band-naming since the exclamation point in Panic! At the Disco. Thankfully, Kip, Kurt, Alex, and Peggy—who, in a seeming reversal on their word count policy, prefer to forego their surnames—are much better at making music than they were at christening themselves.

On their self-titled debut album, they prove themselves to be unapologetically dedicated to crafting tight and wistful three-minute pop songs. Boy-girl, matchy-matchy harmonies are blissfully paired with jangling rhythms and mumbled chords.

To say that POBPAH’s music is derived from Twee—that dainty, sweet style that emerged from mid-80s England, then-described by music critic Simon Reynolds as “a revolt into childhood”—would be an understatement. While the Twee sound longs for a greater, happier future, it is ever-wistful for lazy summers and bubblegum popsicles. POBPAH similarly builds upon the output of Shoegaze bands of the same period, marked by a distorted, almost atmospheric guitar sound.

Pegging the album as a simple distillation of its influences would be reductive, and it would likewise be inaccurate to say that what they’ve made is wholly original. The quartet wear their influences proudly, at times almost offensively so. The album’s closer “Gentle Sons” has more than a passing resemblance to The Jesus & Mary Chain’s “Just Like Honey.” One could continue the guessing game of which parts of which tracks were influenced by which bands. However such a deconstruction would not only be an exhibition of the worst kind of musical machismo; it would suggest that the band’s songs are more pastiche than product.

They are not. Inspirations aside, theirs is a group of fully formed, self-sustaining songs that ultimately do not depend on the work of their forefathers to be realized. While its clear that they are devoted fans of pop music, they have more intensely studied the history of “The Perfect Three-Minute Pop Song.” They are proud scholars of this history but are determined to make their own.

Given this devotion, it might be easy to dismiss the album as a series of stand-alone, mixtape-bound singles. But POBPAH shows signs of craftsmanship that, while not wholly successful this time around, are evocative of a strong sense of self and suggest future promise.

The album could have opened with the driving guitars and “woo woo” vocals of “Come Saturday,” the record’s second track, starting the record off with the explosive energy for which many of POBAH’s influences are known. However, the band seems to be cognizant of two things: being professionally jubilant is tiring work, as is bopping your head along to 10 songs in a row. They wisely attempt to forestall this inevitable exhaustion, though not quite successfully, by opening with “Contender,” an airy, gorgeous tale of a hapless admirer of music and art, destined never to create, only to consume. It is, in a sense, the picture the band’s detractors might paint of them. They acknowledge the issue, and in doing so, seek to move above it, displaying a level of forethought that suggests they are more than a glorified cover band.

On the whole, they manage to compensate for the exhaustion that can come from such a poppy record, and generally, they demonstrate the intentionality they strived for. The songs’ twee inclinations contrast with the distortion of guitars and vocals. The sweetness of the melodies contrast, at times, with the subtle and the plaintively morose lyrics. “A Teenager in Love” would be at home in any John Hughes movie, a fitting soundtrack to Molly Ringwald eyeing a love interest across the gymnasium at a crowded school dance. It comes as a surprise, to say the least, when the affected, muttered lyrics become clear: “And if you made a stand / I’d stand with you ’til the end / But you don’t need a friend when you’re a teenager in love with Christ and heroin.” And like that, Molly Ringwald is cast to the background in the mental picture, lingering to strike an evocative contrast to the song’s underpinnings. This is The Pains of Being Pure At Heart at their best, when they avoid the “aw shucks” puns that they can otherwise be drawn to, crafting excited, conflicted hymn-ditties for the “Pete and Pete” set.

At times, they miss their mark, as not all listeners can share their tolerance for sticky-sweet synthesizer, ironic xylophone, and the aforementioned puns and clichés. The song “Young Adult Friction,” notably and unfortunately, is marred by the phrase “Don’t check me out!”

In the battle between nostalgia and relevance, the latter ultimately wins out, due to little more than cunning, guile and a true gift for songwriting. The Pains’ debut album is wrought in broad, confident brushstrokes of song, making evocative, yet playful gestures toward tearing down the temple they so firmly occupy. Gamboling through these most wintry of times with summer glee, The Pains of Being Pure At Heart gives us a welcome first album—terrible puns, names, clichés, and all.

—Staff writer Ruben L. Davis can be reached at rldavis@fas.harvard.edu.