Jay Reatard’s a punk rocker from Memphis. That description alone suggests ultimate masculinity, a kind of redneck machismo coupled with a fuck-you ethos straight out of the garage, and for Jay’s previous outfit, The Reatards, it proved true. But anyone who’s ever listened to Blood Visions, his debut solo album, knows it’s far from cow punk. The guy can get pretty buck at his live shows, but his new material is miles away from The Reatards’ punk effrontery.

Watch Me Fall takes Jay’s newfound affinity for noisy, affected pop and runs with it. Jay (real last name Lindsey) throws his voice farther out of whack than on Blood Visions, and delivers most of the album in a yelp that’s both histrionic and exuberant. His more outrageous vocal flourishes evoke Bowie, but the crunchy, lo-fi track recording reigns them in and humanizes them. The result, when paired with Watch Me Fall’s melancholy overtones (sample song titles: “Ain’t Gonna Save Me,” “Can’t Do It Anymore,” “Faking It”), is an album that celebrates its own tragedy, and has some fun along the way.

The LP’s instrumentation lives inside the bubble of haze and imperfection that Lindsey’s lovingly crafted, with guitars pushed high into treble territory. But while Oi disciples, purists, and riotous youth will find a few songs with circle-pit rhythms, they’re few and far between, and exist cloaked in twee stylings when they do appear. Really, this is garage rock with claws in: Jay is prepared to ditch distortion for layered acoustic guitars when constructing the requisite noise on “Wounded,” for example. Watch Me Fall succeeds by pouring sparkling melodies and harmonies into the burnt-out shells of old songs, and watching as lush textures develop around them.

Jay’s also more than happy to piss all over punk strictures when it comes to extra instruments. “A Whisper (There Is No Sun)” can’t live on its surf introduction alone, and it takes a cello backing to layer on the drone this closer needs. A sad little organ leads “I’m Watching You,” and I swear I can hear a mandolin on the album somewhere. And speaking of “I’m Watching You,” this song might put the most distance between Reatard’s past and his present. It’s got all the hallmarks of a track in the poignant back-catalogue that Wes Anderson handpicks his soundtracks from. You know the one: some emasculated main character is lying on his childhood bunk bed after the father figure rejoins his life, and then we get a close-up of old Christmas cards and he cries a little and it’s the next scene.

Watch Me Fall might turn out of be one of a couple oddities that Reatard’s older fans sweep under the rug, but that would be a shame. The album is packed with crevices that spill more detail with each visit. If anything, Jay Reatard’s latest proves his ability to saturate simple songs with equal parts pathos and catchy, sun soaked riffs. If the album ends up coming off as Jay’s Rites of Spring to The Reatards’ Minor Threat, so be it.

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