Matt Berninger (comparatively un-picturesque name notwithstanding) is a frontman in the grand tradition of Morrissey and Robert Smith -- not because he necessarily sounds like those guys (his syrupy baritone has more in common with Leonard Cohen), but because at first listen, he tends to upstage the music. It's not an easy feat; the two sets of brothers (Aaron and Bryce Dessner and Scott and Bryan Devendorf) behind Berninger create a tapestry that comes more and more into focus as Alligator repeats.

And make no mistake, this album will grow on you. You might love it right out of the shrinkwrap, or you might be all "ehhh", but you'll almost certainly end up liking it better than you did the first time you heard opener "Secret Meeting". The song features layers of intricately picked guitar and has an intimate small-room sound, as if to say "Come on in. It's a bit cozy, but we promise you'll like it in here."

There's a lot to like. Berninger's casual yet intense voice is an apt vehicle for his clever, occasionally wry lyrics; even when he's not being overtly sarcastic, there's a certain world-weary irony present. He's one of those singers who can curse so elegantly that the words aren't dirty; maybe it's the context, but "Put me in a chair / Fuck me and make me a drink" in the lovely but decidedly downbeat "Karen" sounds more languid than lascivious. Most of Alligator is like this: painstakingly crafted, casually baroque music for people who get off a little bit on feeling blue. It might not be the disc you throw on to get hyped up for a night out, but it has its lighter moments: the catchy little refrain nestled amid countryish fingerpicking in "Looking for Astronauts", "Abel"'s abrupt upswing into rough-voiced barroom swagger. Still, the more contemplative (read: depressing) tracks seem to better capture the band's essence. The restless paranoia of undulating bass and tap-tapping beats in "Friend of Mine" mesh well with its chorus ("I'm getting nervous / Na na na na na na na / No sign of a friend of mine"). "Baby, We'll Be Fine" sounds like a study in quiet desperation, with Berninger helplessly repeating "I'm so sorry for everything" as the guitars chime gently.

Alligator is the kind of record you get turned on to by a friend who heard it and thought of you. Like most rather sad music, it has the potential to dig down to where you really live and become something you put on when going through a breakup or after you get fired. But even if the attraction is no more than surface-deep, Alligator packs enough beauty to keep you interested for a long time.