Ox

As a Vancouver resident writing a concept album about the American heartland, Mark “Ox” Browning initially comes off as overeager as a beret-topped tourist arriving in France. His ersatz-Stipe vocals (particularly pronounced on the opening track), forced-cute rhymes (Carolinah with higher) and early-album fetishization of the most American of automobiles (the Trans Am and the Camaro) detract from the music’s acoustic authenticity. After straining to make an initial impression, Ox settles in admirably, balancing lachrymose slide-guitar ballads with bouncy piano-pop ditties without altering his endearingly cracked vocal delivery. When he sings Ain’t no ride like/A stolen bike/The wind in my hair/The sirens a blarin’, a country choir backs up his claim, and it’s easy to imagine a concert crowd joining in en masse. For all his muscle-car odes, Ox is at his most genuinely gleeful — and effortlessly inspiring — during this two-wheel joyride.