James O’Donnell is yet another post-K addition to the New Orleans scene, this time from New Jersey. But although this is his second album, this Circle Bar favorite has a backing band this time out, a low-fi mélange of acoustic bass ’n’ drums, sax and Jim’s own bent folk-punk guitar.

It’s a mix that could have easily mutated into some overly precious, self-conscious hipster nightmare but turns out Jim O’, as Circle Bar patrons already know, has a singer-songwriter’s flair for observation and a sly, only-somewhat-ironic delivery to match.

If Jim Morrison had listened to Hoagy Carmichael rather than Bertolt Brecht, then significantly brightened up Morphine, you’d have something like what the Psychos put out: shambolic in its romanticism, elegant in its approach to roots music, near-poetic in its visions, yet with an appealingly unserious distance. The bossa nova, gypsy jazz, lounge and even occasional country and surf nods are all here, as you’d expect, but they’re all tied together by whatever Jim is going on about.

“I put my memories in pickled brine.”

“I was the first seaman to see her cave.”

“As we sleep, martyrs are born into a world they scorn.”

You can see why he belongs here.