Thanks to a splendidly evocative older-than-dirt-sounding creak-and-wheeze that could lend a world-weary wisdom to even the most innocuous of sentences, Houck often gets compared to Will Oldham, another champion of the wistful Appalachian rasp. Certainly the likeness is there, but to these ears Phosphorescent also recalls moments of the wandering electro folk-blues of Castanets (whose mastermind-behind-the-moniker, Ray Raposa, once shared a place in Bed-Stuy with Houck, coincidentally enough); the wee-hours post-hippie campfire jams of Akron/Family and maybe even Animal Collective; and the atmospheric gospelized comedowns of Spiritualized.

All of these reference points make sense - and a shared-bill with any of 'em would surely spell bliss - but ultimately Pride bewitches so thoroughly because it offers a language of its own, rich with nuance and seemingly transmitted from neither the backwoods nor Bed-Stuy, but from somewhere up in the ether, and only Houck knows the directions.

The album wafts into perception with "A Picture of Our Torn up Praise," a red-eyed, euphoria-seeking broadcast from the dying embers of an all-night campfire, its revelers linking arms and leaning to and fro along with a simple tom-tom rhythm. A few campers rattle and shake tambourines, cans, whatever's available, while another strums a basic pattern on his acoustic guitar, and yet another floats a few well-placed whirrs and cries into the twisting smoke with his trusty got-it-in-third-grade recorder.

Oh, and did I mention that this entire pack of blissed-out marshmallow-toasters can harmonize with each other like nobody's business? Houck loves him some vocal overdubs, and he layers harmonies with an architect's attention to detail and a painter's grasp of color: this holds particularly true when the wordless vocals sweep in, whirling sunshine-bright hues with sadder-than-sad sepia tones in curiously intricate formations.

Speaking of wordless vocals, the second track, "Be Dark Night," could easily be mistaken on first listen for being composed entirely of them: its languidly-elongated syllables, harmonized to ghost-choir-evoking effect, create a woozy gospel-blues in which, honestly, lyrics feel rather secondary to the depths of emotion being conveyed. Houck strums away with a glowing, heaven-directed guitar line while erratic drum rattles and rolls threaten to keep the song earthbound, but above it all, an entire roomful of Houcks moans, mourns, dreams, and aches in celestial ebbs and flows.

I still haven't wrapped my head around the lyrics - truth be told, I prefer the not-knowing in this case. Instead, I simply let myself billow upward, surrendering full-bodied to the spiritual(-ized?) experience. This one sounds extraordinary on headphones: slap those puppies on, and another, more terrestrial locale reveals itself. Throats clear, footsteps echo over floorboards, keys jingle-jangle, and here and there, a yip, a yap, a squawk, a squeal - the contrast between the two settings is simply stunning.

"Wolves" begins with a plaintive ukulele line and Houck warbling in ragged tones: "Mama, there's wolves in the house / Mama they won't let me out / Mama they're mating at night / Mama they won't make nice." This elegantly downbeat intro gives way to a plodding bass-drum stomp and drowsy handclaps, accompanied by the fatigued groan of an organ; despite such the gray-sounding milieu I've described, the song somehow emerges as strangely uplifting, particularly in Houck's dewy-eyed refrain, "They are beautiful."

Pride's shortest track, "At Death, a Proclamation," packs a great deal of drama within its two minutes: a thundering marching-band-as-approaching-train rhythm, wailing harmonica, anthemic piano, ravishing rushes of densely arranged harmonies. My only complaint? More, please!

Turns out Houck saved the best for last - Pride's final trio of songs show the songwriter capable of truly arresting beauty. "My Dove, My Lamb" - the disc offers many Biblical references amongst its spellbinding spirituality while still steering clear of anything particularly religious in feel - beams and gleams with a tender melody of which Neil Young would be proud, mixing acoustic and electric elements together without a hitch. "I have seen her standing on the rivers at night / I have seen her silver figure bathed and bright / I have seen her sleeping in the cold white sand / My dove, my dove, my lamb", he yearns over soft soothing guitar, his plea obliged by the arrival of a choir of angels. A midway point between Young's Harvest (Reprise) and Spiritualized, perhaps?

"Cocaine Lights," with its decidedly more contemporary title and theme, shuffles with the same post-comedown weariness as some of Young's mid- to late-'70s output: "In the darkness, after the cocaine lights / I will miss you more than ever," Houck confesses over a limping rhythm. "Lord, they're rolling me away / Lord truly I'm awake / Lord truly I'm afraid" he goes on to reveal, gospel-choir lamenting his state-of-affairs all the while.

Two-thirds of the way though, just as the song has reached a bluesy climax that seems ready-made for a sobbing harmonica solo, glorious release is given in the form of sumptuously layered squalls of guitar feedback. Meanwhile, a bawdy saloon piano directs the drama stage left, where it slides into the closing title track. Less of a distinctly separate song than a "part two," a continuation of its predecessor's themes, "Pride" strips away the lyrics and prevailing melody of "Cocaine Lights" and hoists the leftovers - the core essence of the song, really - into the swirling heavens.

Fragments of the referenced ballad slide and dive in wordless oohs and aahs and tribal ululations while acoustic guitars meander in the negative space between. Yips and hollers and bonfire chest-beatings render throaty punctuation. All of those same folks introduced at the start of the disc - bleary but beaming, saddened but not without their eyes trained on the horizon for flickers of hope - well, they're back, and they're energized. There's something about these last kicking, screaming, hooting romps at the end of Pride, just as the final lingering melodies begin rolling themselves up and spiraling into the sky - how to put it? Ah, yes, they're just about perfect.

Phosphorescent
With Bon Iver and White Hinterland
Sun/23, 8 p.m., $12
Independent
628 Divisadero, SF
(415) 771-1422