The Austin Chronicle dubs them psych-pop, which might be the case on the stirring "St. Mary's Night," which is almost post-punk (check out that bass line, in cohorts with Gang of Four or Sandinista-era Clash) in feel and vibe, yet when the chorus kicks in with power pop stirrings there is a weird guitar part hanging around the neck that makes keeps it just slightly off-center. The subject of the song might be the gal stepping off the train, looking to dance at St. Mary's, but there is a sense of hollow despair, for the narrator seems conflicted over carrying her home. The bare, distilled approach of the song's atmosphere matches that sense of dislocation. "AC Satellite," however, sorta rumbles together in a barroom rock way — slightly sawdust and Neil Young. It's more taco and tequila than Magnet magazine.  In fact, the Dallas Observer condemns the band name, suggesting their "moniker [sounds like] an awful Jimmy Buffet cover band from Denver." Yet, they don't even get near Florida, and there is a certain chilliness to segments of their approach, such as in "Tamara," perhaps embodying what the Oberver called "lubricated twang," but I would suggest a finesse and lo-fi-ish Back-to-Basics 101 sound, all off-center enough to make one listen more intently than first expected. This type of cut is in contrast to the mild-mannered, poppy, hand-clap toss-off "Traffic Light," which is like the Rasperries without the mid-1970's cheese and warmth. It's bouncy and bright, similar to an over-lit Polaroid snapshot. I prefer the more trad and rootsy "Figs'n'Fountain," with its secret nods to the New Order song "Love Vigilantes" (no lyin', it's buried in the texture!).

With an arty Americana approach that actually resembles Polvo or Pavement colliding with the laconic approach of Centro-Matic, these San Antonio natives self-admittedly blend Mott the Hoople with electronica and Bowie with Badfinger, even as they snap promo photos outside of Pearl beer company, emblem of all things down-home grunt'n'snore Texan. They have also suffered from a revolving door of bassists, gotten everything stolen from practice spaces, and become lone guns in a city known more for molten metal and straight, salty-of-the-earth country, or even the whiplash garage rock of Sons of Hercules.

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Guitarist Scott Lutz is the only trained musician among them. Having done stints as a Mariachi player, he told the San Antonio Current, "Mariachi is the most raw punk rock there is," he says. "You walk into a place, no amps, no nothing, and you're loud as hell. That was kind of a wakeup call for me. A lot of times, with art bands, shoe-gazing bands, you can kind of hide behind the fuzz of everything. I think there's a purity in the directness of something like mariachi."  Well, instead of indie rock fuzz creating a morass of impenetrable gauze, Snowbyrd has intersecting guitar work that is dizzying to hear riff off each other, noted in songs like "Mourning Larks" that features a lead guitar snaking round the rhythm as basic and direct as Joe Strummer cramping from his downstrokes. On "Remember U," the drummer ends up in a manic, spaghetti-armed, Muppet (Animal!) incarnation, exploring ever nook and cranny of the syncopated Who-esque rock'n'roll spillage. The vocals are strangely lite and appear to be in another room, aloof and yearning, which heightens the overall high-wire tension. The fuming fuzz and almost equally cascading drums of "For Today" unleash the inner fury, again a nod to great Mod acts like the Creation but with more muscle and acrobatics.  It's a ringing, though managed, volcano to wrap up this blend.