Since their 2012 debut, the fascinating but not fully developed Ice Level, Ava Luna have pegged their eclectic, experimental, ineffable sound as “nervous soul.” This moniker proved quite adept in describing 2014’s jagged, frenetic Electric Balloon (one of last year’s best-hidden gems), but on follow-up Infinite House, anxiety makes its presence less known than ever before in Ava Luna’s career. Each of the band’s three vocalists spends less time in the manic, shrill sections of their vocal ranges, areas into which past releases dipped heavily; furthermore, these new songs’ rhythms, melodies, and harmonies tend to cut back on the complexities of previous works’ arrangements without sacrificing them completely. Nevertheless, Ava Luna haven’t ditched every one of their hallmarks: even though Infinite House may be Ava Luna’s most mature album yet, the zany, somewhat inscrutable lyricism that’s defined them to date still appears in spades here.

Where older Ava Luna songs such as “Sears Roebuck M&M’s” or “Calculus” thrill with jagged, agitated rhythms, vocals, and multi-vocalist harmonies, Infinite House‘s tunes tend to resonate via smoother, more linear rhythms and vocals. “Roses and Cherries”, for example, recalls the relatively muted Electric Balloon number “Aqaurium”, albeit with vocalist Carlos Hernandez exhibiting more restraint and control of his shaky, hissing vibrato and fretful expression. A pillowy acoustic guitar riff underpins Hernandez’ newly stable voice; when an electric guitar fill emerges later, it continues the song’s simple flow rather than pushing it in a more spastic direction as might happen on older Ava Luna tracks. Follow-up track “Coat of Shellac” also quite boldly rides a wave of sensual moderation, its spiny guitar parts playing second fiddle to the song’s soul-imbued bass line and not concealing it. Electric Balloon highlight “PRPL” seems in retrospect to have previewed this song, one on which vocalist Felicia Douglass displays what might be her most comfortable performance to date.

In general, Infinite House shows Ava Luna retreating into comfort, a move that might signal death for most bands, but instead ensures a more interestingly subtle third album for this five-piece. For instance, “Steve Polyester” bubbles past the ears without any sort of exaggerated features; the occasional doo-wop harmony or faintly whistling ambient noise, rather than an earth-shattering guitar blast, arhythmic groove, or piercing vocal wail, proves the most startling thing about this track. Final track “Carbon” also breezes by without intrusion while remaining gorgeous; its woozy piano foundation and harnessed vocal take indicate relaxation rather than angst. The title track wins in this category, though, as its low-key rumble feels like a lazy river against the backdrop of even this album’s loosest tunes.

Even when Ava Luna attempt to write in the fractured, pounding states they’re familiar with, they wind up with a distilled, less abrasive sketch of their old selves. “Tenderize” demonstrates that Hernandez hasn’t lost his ability to absolutely holler if he needs to, but far more often finds him resting at the midpoint of his impressive vocal range; furthermore, although its guitars bear that same past tendency to sound like an object slowly falling down a long set of stairs, they also don’t possess nearly as deep a barbed, frayed edge as Ava Luna is known for. “Black Dog” too attempts to reconcile the old Ava Luna with the new one, trading in a soft shroud of crooning and timid finger-picking for a window-shattering, overdrive-blasting guitar attack at its halfway point. As Infinite House songs go, it ranks among the most idiosyncratically Ava Luna songs present, yet it still feels impressively well controlled. “Best Hexagon” follows in sequence on the album, and this song’s steady rhythm, easily traceable harmonies and flow bear merely a sliver of past intricacies while impacting just as strongly.

The track that comes next, “Billz”, represents the most extreme moment on Infinite House, one that most vividly reminds the listener of Ava Luna’s background, explaining its role as the album’s first single. The pummeling roar of its introductory guitar riff gives way to a woozy verse of—you guessed it—nervous soul, which then leads to a melodically and rhythmically elusive chorus. The repetition of this song’s fiery introduction as its post-chorus relieves the tension of the chorus, a trick employed to great success many times in Ava Luna’s previous highlights. Its lyrics are no more decipherable; even reading its lyrics on Infinite House‘s Bandcamp page never fully elucidates the song’s meaning, although guessing it’s a statement about the worthlessness of a college degree in this day and age might not be a bad start.

The lyricism of Infinite House provides the most obvious link between the album and Ava Luna’s previous two collections. If the words on songs such as “Sears Roebuck M&Ms” and “Electric Balloon” felt completely arbitrary and stream-of-consciousness, then the tale of “Steve Polyester” is the dialogue of a comic book acid trip (“Shaped like a cockroach/he smells good”). Even on “Coat of Shellac”, arguably Infinite House‘s most tender moment, the lyricism delves into the abstract: “No not like the TV, whittle it away/sorta novel to stay largest and heavy, mountain full of clay”, hums Felicia Douglass in what’s otherwise an enjoyably standard love song. It’s likely that this approach has grown into an Ava Luna trademark to impart some sort of humor to their work, as evidenced in “Victoria”‘s graduation of the phrase “you’re no good, baby” to “you’re a no good, baby”; both statements alternate with the notion that “you’re everything I want you to be.”

Although Ava Luna’s lyrics remain weird and funny, their music is now the farthest it has felt from these descriptors thus far in their career. That’s not to say a song like “Company” isn’t odd and that its stuttered chorus doesn’t impart a slightly comical tone to its words; rather, Ava Luna employ greater moderation on Infinite House, a technique that portrays the band as newly level-headed without betraying their most exciting aspects. Soulful though they may still be, nervousness has become a thing of their past.

For someone who’s career is all about listening, Carlos Hernandez, de facto leader of Ava Luna, sure likes to watch. He’s a bit voyeuristic in his role for Ava Luna’s “Ice Level” video, stating that his character “watches from a dark, geometrical vantage point.” More revealing is when he’s observing to learn rather than, well, to be creepy. In an interview with A Music Blog, Yea?, Hernandez confessed that, rather than jamming with his idol Ornette Coleman, he’d rather record Coleman’s performance and “just act the observer, watch for twitches and tics.” Listening to the idiosyncrasies of Ava Luna’s captivating sophomore album Electric Balloon, it’s surprising that Hernandez hasn’t already done exactly that. Each of the album’s eleven songs flaunts the band’s unique jitters and quirks, placing Ava Luna’s very own twitches and tics front and center. Although the dynamics and mood of the music fluctuate somewhat throughout the album, each track sounds uniquely like an Ava Luna song.

Of course, a unique sound isn’t a direct pathway to success. Take, as an example, the rap-rave style of Die Antwoord, a sound that’s unmatched by any other musical act, yet, frankly, sounds quite terrible. Ava Luna have no such problem: the “nervous soul” style, to steal a Bandcamp tag they invented and assigned to themselves, advanced on Electric Balloon is exciting, unpredictable, and wholly theirs. Nevertheless, superficial comparisons to other acts can be made — vocalist Becca Kaufman can sit on the border between cute and eerie just like Deerhoof’s Satomi Matsuzaki can, Carlos Hernandez has a snarl not far removed from Black Francis or tourmates and good friends Krill, and the male-female vocal interplay, odd meter, and technical complexity reminisce of Dirty Projectors, by far Ava Luna’s most frequent comparison. Yet after only a couple of listens, the gates guarding Electric Balloon‘s individuality are shattered, and Ava Luna’s anxious, oddball sound becomes entirely theirs.

One of Ava Luna’s tendencies that attributes to their already-signature sound is their ability to make various tempos, volumes, and emotions sound like no one else has ever touched upon them, all in the course of one album. On Electric Balloon, the flamenco-inspired, shuffling acoustic ballad “Aquarium” sounds just as Ava Luna-esque as does Becca Kaufman’s wild yelping on the mid-paced funk groove of “Sears Roebuck M&Ms” and the uneasy title track. Likewise, the slow-burning, oddly pretty “PRPL” never sounds like the work of a different group than that behind the angsty, boiling soul tension of “Crown.” Ava Luna’s “nervous soul” comes in a few shapes and sizes, yet never fails to strike and enchant.

Even with the diversity of sonic approaches taken on Electric Balloon, certain facets of Ava Luna’s writing consistently manifest in their music. Carlos Hernandez’ ability to swing from a soulful coo to a manic snarl in what feels like only a second drives a good number of these songs, and his laborious arrangements form the backbone of this album. The vocal turns on “Daydream” and “Crown” are particularly impressive, despite neither song sounding even remotely similar to the other. “Plain Speech” displays the extremes in Hernandez’ voice many times in its four-and-a-half minutes, but more exciting are the two tempo changes Hernandez incorporates. The dramatic shift from a sound that really epitomizes “nervous soul” to slowed indie rock greatness (and then back again) surprises each time.

The chorus of “Plain Speech” is equally important for reiterating Becca Kaufman’s significance in Ava Luna’s various sounds. Although she takes the position of background vocalist on this song, as she does on “Hold U”, “Judy”, and “Genesee”, her voice might actually be more intriguing than Hernandez’ off-the-walls vocal chaos. Kaufman quite literally whoops her way through “Sears Roebuck M&Ms” and squeals her way through “Electric Balloon”, two of the most invigorating tracks present. As a background vocalist, she reinforces Hernandez’ shaky, uncertain voice with a solidity that magnifies its emotive effects. Her hollers of “Judy, I don’t have the stomach for you!” under Hernandez’ own shouting of these lyrics delivers the message even more firmly than if Hernandez were left to his own devices.

Electric Balloon sounds more like the work of the whole band rather than just Hernandez, a problem that their debut Ice Level presented. Despite being quite a riot itself, the latter album felt restricted by Hernandez’ control; Electric Balloon flows more freely, its boundaries practically nonexistent thanks to the other members’ contributions. Although Ice Level highlights such as “Wrenning Day” and “Sequential Holdings” predicted the explosive nature of Electric Balloon without fully embracing them, tracks like “No F” and “A Year of Mirth” never quite took off as they might be expected to. Electric Balloon suffers from no such malady, as even its slightly tepid finale, “Ab Ovo”, leaps forward in its final ninety seconds. Here, Ava Luna have incorporated the ideas and skills of many people rather than just one into their sound; the result is something less trapped and more explorative.

Electric Balloon isn’t perfect, but it’s a big step forward for these five weirdos. The multi-faceted style they’ve developed is purely enjoyable, and it never tires. It’s the kind of album that tries many different outfits on out of genuine interest instead of pretentious vacillations, and provides a listening experience worth repeating time and time again. Maybe this is because it offers more questions than it does answers, which is totally fine when the music sounds this good. Perhaps the best question regarding Ava Luna now isn’t one generated directly by the album, but by the listener in response to the album: if Ava Luna is capable of something this towering and singular, who’s to say they can’t outdo themselves in the future?