SOME British critics have mauled the third album by The Thrills for, gasp, sounding like they are in the throes of their quarter-life crisis.

But in truth, the 20-something Dublin quintet have always had a melancholy streak amid their summery indie-pop songs.

It's a unique, off-kilter proposition - an eternal longing for the halcyon days along the American West Coast while in their hearts, they are still getting whipped by an Irish storm - which endears the band to those suspicious of unadulterated happiness.

These Irishmen are sanguine without being silly; down-to-earth without being bitter.

Perhaps it is apt that they have recorded the album in a Vancouver industrial suburb, a few hours' drive up from sunny California.

There's a sense this time that too much sunshine is a killjoy and a little chill will do some good.

For sure, the young men understand that the X factor behind sunshine pop collectives - The Byrds, The Beach Boys - is this: Bliss isn't worry-free, and hence is more valuable for its fleeting nature.

"You remember being beautiful/Regrets, regrets, regrets/Did you take those fleeting glances for granted, for granted, for granted?/You rolled your eyes, teeny style," sings Conor Deasy in that trademark delicate croak of his in the title track.

The song, with its Hawaiian-style guitar slide and deliciously half-shuffle tempo, conspires to put us in a state of lull, only to  make all realise that age is ever eager to creep up behind any vainpot.

Sure, the sentiments aren't exactly new, but as cliches go, there is a ring of truth to them.

Thanks then to producer Tony Hoffer (Belle & Sebastian, Grandaddy, Beck),  the album rides the fine line between whingeing and resolute chirping.

Here's a sonic thrill driven on perfect pop with bright chord structures and twinkly piano glissandos.

Beautifully paced between jaunty melodies (The Midnight Choir, This Year) and moodier harmonica-and-banjo strums (I'm So Sorry), the album evokes a home away from home.

Indeed, The Thrills are 10,000 miles away from those au courant post-punk staples from The Editors to Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

They can sing with anachronistic ardour, and not worry about what those hipsters think. Fabulous.