Nashville north The McCarthys feature country pop ...And Then Some BY SAM PFEIFLE

Getting things out of the way for the sake of getting things out of the way: The McCarthys have no use for an apostrophe. (Nor are they related, for that matter.) "The McCarthy’s" makes no sense whatsoever. Do we make things plural with an apostrophe? No, we don’t.

There. I feel better now.

What the McCarthys do have some use for are twangy guitars, morbid humor, pop country, and the ’80s. Pretty much in that order. That makes sense coming from a group of guys who once thrilled local barflies as the top-40 country cover band Streamliner.

It’s been five years now since the McCarthys unleashed their self-titled debut disc of originals, despite rumors as long as two years ago that they were readying a follow-up. Same old story: Guys with real lives and families who don’t have time right now to lay in that last vocal track or listen to that most-recent mastering. But things seem to turn out pretty nicely when you’re not in much of a hurry, and this second effort, ...And Then Some, is evidence of that old axiom that patience is a virtue.

The McCarthys’ name is particularly apt because they really do seem like a band of brothers, no single member dominating either the songwriting or the performance. Of 12 songs on the disc, the four principals — drummer John Davison, and bassist/guitarists Jimmy McGirr, Dale Holden, and Tim Emery — each pen or co-pen at least three songs, mostly singing the lead on their own songs and helping out otherwise with guitar fills and plenty of backing vocals.

These guys are pretty old school, and by that I mean an affinity for Hank Williams and the Beatles filtered through a professional musical coming of age in the late ’70s and early ’80s. The album’s opener, Davison’s "Jamie Doesn’t Live Here" (which, till I looked at the liner notes, I thought might be an update of their debut album’s killer "Jane"), is a case in point. The country feel comes from the acoustic guitar paired with the rootsy electric and Davison’s vocals (you’ll just have to get over any "singing drummer" hang-ups you might have), whereby he delivers from the back of the throat and emphasizes the vowel sounds in each drawn-out word.

The ’80s sentiment comes through in the guitar break that bridges the final chorus to the outro. Emery’s high up on his 12-string, with a bit of reverb, picking out single strings and then he throws in a great new-wave "I Think I’m Turning Japanese" Vapors riff like he didn’t even know he was going to do it. Pair that with McGirr’s "Men at Work" bass walk that provides the song’s foundation and you’ve got yourself ’80s pop all dressed up in cowboy boots and a silver belt buckle.

The album then runs through a Beatles trucker tune from Holden; the high-voiced "Be My Lawyer" from McGirr that graced Greetings from Area Code 207, Vol. 4; and Emery’s Cracker-country "Spongebath." The last is an example of the corny humor that can run through this disc, featuring lyrics like "I’d rather give my gramma a hot sponge bath, a hot sponge bath, a hot sponge bath/ I’d rather give my gramma a hot sponge bath then spend another minute with you." I’m not a big fan of humor in my music, but that’s mostly a taste thing. The song itself is measured rock and roll, with a relaxed lead guitar from Emery.

They go from corny to downright scary on "Wide Open Blue," a Don Ho-esque Hawaiian number that’ll creep you right out if you listen closely enough. It’s all in the second person and says of a island hideaway experience that "You hated being here alone with me/ You never trusted me or what I might do/ It was hell here on this wide open blue." So, of course, he kills her, and then "these weights tied around my hands and feet/ will make sure that my work here is complete." Nothing like a little murder/suicide to slow dance to, right?

Davison takes death a little more seriously on "Cady," a soulful number where "They pulled Leon from the white girl’s bed/ Dragged him through the corn till there was nothing left/ Tied him like a scarecrow hanging by a thread/ Cady had to cut him down." Here Davison cements himself as the most engaging vocalist of the group. The acoustic backing for the bridge has some clean fingerpicking, like early Rod Stewart, then gets more contemplative like a Bruce Hornsby tune.

There is one truly great song on this disc, too, and that’s Davison’s "Jackie O," where the McCarthys show just how pop a banjo can be. It’s a melancholy and low-end entry into a tale about how "some old girl from the suburbs of South Hampton/ Married Jack and just kept dancin’ on and on/ We watched the news to see you smiling with the Khrushchevs/ Standing on the front steps with Charles de Gaulle/ For one brief shining moment the whole world was in your hands/ Till some commie with a gun took aim at all you done and you were holding out a bible for LBJ."

The chorus is a quickly memorable singalong: "And now I’m sorry Jackie O/ Sorry about the way it had to go/ Sorry about Patrick, Sorry about Dallas, Sorry about Marilyn Monroe/ When they held that great big auction just to sell off all your clothes, I was sorry about the whole thing Jackie O."

It’s possible the band would have a more singular identity were Davison to sing lead all the time, or were they to bow to Emery’s bluesy lead guitar for an entire album, but this disc never feels fractured and it’s clear that this work is as much for the band as it is for potential fans. Both should come away satisfied.

The McCarthys play a CD-release show, then do some Beatles covers, at the Big Easy, in Portland, on Friday, Jan. 28. Call (207) 871-8817.