Wesley Wolfe

Carrboro’s Wesley Wolfe seems like a drinking buddy and confidante, the kind of friend who won’t pull any punches or let you get away with any shit. His earnest, lo-fi bedroom pop is ragged and charming, noisy and sweet, an off-the-cuff admission married to a nudge to the ribs. One is frequently reminded of Kurt Vile, who purveys a similar blend of strummy confessionals and fuzz-laden mid-tempo rockers. More pie-eyed dreamer than brooder, Wolfe’s songs bubble with an infectious spirit, whether he’s lauding his “Only Ray of Sunshine” as if he lured it away from Len, or, as on “Sorry Only Counts the First Time,” casually observing that each day begins with a choice of “coffee over suicide/ so far, so good.”

They’re the first two songs off Wolfe’s sterling second album, Storage, a well-crafted batch of keening indie pop marshaled with a warbling tenor. Though a reedy, adenoidal instrument, it only seems to amplify his passion and wounded wandering. His frank manner scores steadily across the 10-track album. Fans of Elliott Smith may hear a subtle echo of Smith’s tossed-off poignancy. It’s a terrific trip that Wolfe follows in May with his third album, Cynics Need Love Too. Wolf explains the project’s conceit as pairing a cynical song with a love song across the album, which will be available for free downloads.

Wolfe’s gift for honest, slightly askew pop—from the unapologetically selfish, droning wish for his love to “Live Until I Die” to broken-hearted entreaties to “Please Haunt Me”—inspires a desire to pull him close, give him a hug and buy him a beer like one of your best friends. It won’t be long before he is. —Chris Parker