Sun Kil Moon, now the moniker for folk artist Mark Kozelek, continues to cultivate his gloomy affect with its new album “Benji,” which is largely dominated by macabre imagery. This is not to say that the work is completely devoid of happiness; in a few places, Kozelek does celebrate some of his loving relationships. These moments are limited, however, as most of the tracks tackle painful deaths and the tragedy that surrounds them. The album owes much of its success to the honest and grief-ridden way in which these songs are presented. But because of the generally minimalistic approach to instrumentation, a few of the less heart-rending tracks tend to come off a bit flat, with the exceptions of the sexually explicit “Dogs” and the immaculately crafted homage to indie star Ben Gibbard (Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service), “Ben’s My Friend.”

Though it is not the first track on the album to introduce death, “Truck Driver” sets the tone for the thematic nature of “Benji.” The foundation of the track is a hypnotically repetitive guitar phrase, over which Kozelek delivers an account of his uncle’s death and his family’s grief in a despondent croon, sometimes trailing off into a soft growl. His solemn whisper is most pronounced in the line “Third degree burns, a charred-up shovel in his hand / My uncle died a respected man,” as Kozelek’s own grief overwhelms him to the point of near-silence.

Kozelek’s penchant for the morbid further manifests itself in the highly effective early emotional climax “Pray for Newtown.” Lyrically, the song aims to shift focus from the inevitable media frenzy surrounding mass murders to the pain that has been endured by those connected to the victims. It ends with the suggestion, “When you’re gonna get married, and you’re out shopping around, / take a moment to think about the families that lost so much in Newtown.” The raw emotion that is evident in the distressed vocals, the haunting guitar riff, and the heartbreaking subject matter make “Pray for Newtown” incredibly poignant.

Despite the ubiquity of its morbid themes, “Benji” does present a couple of extremely risky yet successful moments that do not rely on grief and mourning. The first of these is “Richard Ramirez Died Today of Natural Causes.” Though the song is about the death of a serial killer, it uses dissonant melodies and babbling lyrics to create a spine-chilling piece that sounds more eerie than sad. Its minor production details—such as spoken lyrics underneath the sung ones—along with its cryptic nature make it strangely captivating. The other risk taken was the final track “Ben’s My Friend,” which diverges from the genre of folk rock that aptly describes the rest of the album. Kozelek introduces saxophone and backup singers to assist him with the singing of “ba ba ba” while playing his guitar in an uncharacteristically bright and upbeat manner during the instrumental interludes. Though his voice maintains its rough edge, the effect is mitigated by the lyrical content. Though at first glance, the elements of “Ben’s My Friend” seem disparate, the song manages to successfully incorporate jazz-inspired motifs into its folk skeleton.

Unfortunately for “Benji,” this level of interest is not found in the other light-hearted songs. The simple recipe of strummed guitar and pedestrian, anecdotal lyrics, especially when juxtaposed with some of the emotional heavy hitters on the album, becomes dull and unexciting. Luckily, these forgettable tracks, which are neither evocative nor captivating, compose only a small portion of the album and do not significantly hinder the appreciation of Kozelek’s artistry.

The undeniable power of the macabre events recounted in “Benji,” along with the moments that push the boundaries of folk music, helps distinguish Kozelek’s newest work from both previous Sun Kil Moon albums and the music of many other contemporary artists in the genre. Though the songs on “Benji” were, by and large, well-written and well-executed, the true appeal of the album is its haunting emotional weight.

—Staff writer Ahmee Marshall-Christensen can be reached at ahmee.marshall-christensen@thecrimson.com.