The Standard takes a formula -- rootsy, piano-driven rock 'n' roll -- and sets it on its edge. The songs on this third full-length are always ready to tip one way or the other, soulful singer-songwriter lines careening into jittery post-punk rhythms, full-on rock bits smashing into Tim Putnam's quietly intense a cappella moments. There's an urgency to these songs, conveyed through Jay Clarke's staccato piano, the musical drive of Rob Duncan's drumming and the half-heard pulse of Rob Obendorfer's bass, that frames and concentrates their melodies. In opener "Red Drop", piano, drums and guitars move together, pushing the eighth-note tension behind Putnam's passion-worn singing. With just a fraction less momentum, the song might be the most ordinary kind of roots-rock -- but with every man driving this hard, it fills and overfills its format and becomes something else.

"Closed Rooms" is even better, built on a jittery-sharp guitar motif, punctured by cymbals and sticks on rims. The words are not quite decipherable, fading at the edges in Putnam's fluting vibrato, yet the unease is readable without the benefit of lyrics. There's a break where Duncan's furious drumming skitters and ricochets off the repetitive guitar line, as melodic in its way as the sung vocals. "How Deep To Cut" brings the piano up front, cascading and caroming off Putnam's vocal line, playing tag with the drums, then pulling up short into rhythmic chords that provide space for the cut's muscular guitar break and, later, a subdued but frantic bass line. Every element of the band's sound is supercharged, and every element is given space to breathe.

This is a band that is always on the verge ... of discovering, of resolving, of exploding into angsty bursts of rock energy. On "Little Green", the tension is palpable, coiled, incipient, in the bare piano notes and buried bass that underlines Tim Putnam's fragile, fluting voice. "I'm one more / from quitting / One year / from an anniversary / one haven / from the soft sea / one kiss / from adultery / one decision / from staying / one conversation / from leaving," he sings with that speaking-in-tongues urgency that frays the notes at the seams. He breaks, and all the back-dammed anguished behind his words comes through in big guitar strums that nearly turn the song inside out.

Albatross closes with the piano and voice ballad "Hills Above", which is as simple and easeful and unconflicted as the rest of the album is fractious. All the same, it's quite lovely. Putnam's voice is framed by subtle keyboard runs, the clink of cymbals and the swell of strings, finding its own pace and exploring the nuances of the melody. Given the rest of the album, you might expect a sudden change-up, a rush of tension, an explosion of anxiety, but you're left with the burnished beauty of a song.

You'd think there wasn't much left to do with the roots-oriented rock formula, but Albatross proves that there's plenty of life and passion and intelligence left in the genre.