Bold and brassy: Still Flyin' vibraphonist Lizeth and trombone player Gabe get rolling at the Rickshaw Stop. Guardian photo by Lori Spears

The evening began with the Bleu Canadians, a lively combo apparently from the far geographical reaches of our northern neighbor. Playing "bubblegum garage," the band jogged through a roughly 40-minute set of chugalug pop, backed with heaps of fuzz bass and fronted by an antic prankster of a vocalist who spread on the goofy Bob 'n' Doug MacKenzie accent as thick as apple butter on a slice of wholesome wheat bread. He shimmied, danced down on the floor with the audience, and led semaphore routines with all the sincerity of Jonathan Richman in a Mountie uniform.

Paradise Island followed, the marvelous solo act of Jenny Hoyston from Erase Errata. Opening her short set with a deadpan reading of the Grateful Dead's "Terrapin Station," some of the best poetry that band ever set to music, Hoyston strummed her guitar with all the look-you-in-the-eyes sincerity of a young Bob Dylan, then abruptly jumped through a series of sing-songy vignettes, her bracingly clear alto offset by propulsive, if rhythmically akimbo, beats generated by a drum machine.

Still Flyin' finally took the stage and immediately manifested a battery of traits that inspired both intrigue and trepidation. On the one hand, their ambition and love of the sound were more than evident. The rhythm section was tight, and their brass section prominently featured a trombone, an immediate extra 10 points in my book. There was skanking onstage and more than a hint of second- and third-wave ska stirred in with the damn-catchy melodies and larky vocal reverb.

On the other hand, this potentially great band often literally failed to get their act together. My criticism is particularly aimed at the front line of vocalists, with their lack of harmonic ambition. The lead vocalist, Sean Rawls, was ultimately to blame, because he set the tone and defined their discipline. He wandered around onstage, beer in hand, meandering on between tunes in self-absorbed monologues rather than representing for a great musical tradition at the helm of a big and talented band. The backup singers – there were four of them – barely cracked a two-part harmony more than once or twice and strayed from the center of the note just as often. Whether or not they truly intend to emulate soulful '70s reggae, and the sparkling three- and four-part harmonies of the era, they're a far cry from the Mighty Diamonds, the Congos, the Wailers, and the I-Threes.

I do not think cultural appropriation is the real issue here, although the Rickshaw Stop itself is a seething den of fashionable shoes, smart pants, oxford shirts, striped pullovers, cute bangs, and trimmed sideburns adorning bands, patrons, and staff alike. Still, it's up to Still Flyin' to prove that they're not a bunch of ironic indie rockers affecting a musical style, in search of postcollegiate party nostalgia. Given the glorious moment they're trying to invoke, and the considerable talent behind the band – drummer Yoshi Nakamoto, for example, is a vet of the very fabulous and sorely missed Aislers Set – I'm going to demand that they demand better of themselves. The singers, in particular, need to lock themselves in a room for two hours at least three times a week and practice their a cappella harmony singing. Then practice another hour with the radio blasting the Bone or some other kind of loud shit, so they can learn to stay in key in a concert setting where the monitors might be crap.

If they can get it together, and promote their music beyond the orbit of their immediate community, I'm willing to bet I won't be the only one compulsively humming their sweet, bright, uplifting melodies. Still Flyin' play May 25, Cafe du Nord, S.F. (415) 861-5016. (Josh Wilson)