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Someone once famously said, "You can't go home again." Christopher Owens seems to be referencing that dude — though whether he's nostalgic for a home that never was, a girl he never knew, or a girl he once had changes as rapidly as the tenor of this untidy yet improbably cohesive and triumphant third album. Forget for a second that the singer/ringleader of this Bay Area outfit was raised in a fanatical religious cult. The reason Father, Son, Holy Ghost is so uniquely, imperfectly swell is because the band plainly give fuck-all about convention or stylistic uniformity. Opening with a rockabilly/ '60s-surf-rock anthem ("Honey Bunny") the album rapidly devolves into a variety of sentiments about love and noise that ranges from the forlorn to the unhinged. Owens seems at once gloriously fucked up and sweetly guiless, and each song has immediacy. Tempo and tone change abruptly, urging you forward with a firm but mostly amiable hand. That the most compelling romantic ballad is a grunge rock-cum-gospel power stomp titled "Vomit" seems right. "Come into my heart," Owen croons, wiping upset from the corners of his mouth. You're tempted.GIRLS + NOBUNNY | Paramount, 559 Washington St, Boston | September 24 @ 8 pm | $20 | 617.824.8000
