The Texans in Midlake have recorded one of the most British-sounding albums in recent memory: a perfect record of late-summer Sunday-afternoon psych-pop combining the static blippiness of early Depeche Mode, the faux-childlike obliquity of Syd Barrett, and the feeling and tone of Nick Drake. Together, these elements form one of the stronger cases for psychedelia’s resurgence since the Elephant 6 bands began to dry up. Unlike other groups mining this particular vein, Midlake eschews the ostentatious silliness and straightforward lyric-writing of the Decemberists, as well as the Cinemascope lunacy of the Flaming Lips, opting instead for intimate scale and bedroom melancholy. It’s a tradition worth upholding—and rarely is it upheld so pleasantly.