This is a slow dance with your ride-or-die, with a ballad on the juke.

It is the sound of movement, of migration, of difficult choices, and easy ones; the sound of love, and after-the-fact analysis, painted with the brush of poetry and steel-string guitar.

The under-sketch of raw poise is still visible beneath the muted and scant contexture: simple beauty, served over a framework of vulnerability.

It’s a satisfying, introspective, and deeply original sound, extending the power of vocal cadence and western harmony over a ragged backdrop of overlapping phrases and syncopated orchestral ostinati.

Who are we, if we don’t define ourselves in contrast to something, or someone, else?

Carty somehow mirrors the then-acoustic sound of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, with generous verses and a feeling of absolute truth, just with a full band and better vocals.

The quality of collectivism and the level of balance between boisterous college-pop and a more restrained art-rock make The Kelseys a band to watch out for.

Because where exactly is the line between asking and begging, if the game is love, and your heart is the money?