In keeping with Nietzche's idea of eternal recurrence, Pilot and the sudden resuscitation of the '80s College Radio sound exemplifies rock music's dependence on bygone eras to shape its currently flagging identity. Pop Culture invites us all to turn off our minds, relax and relive our musical pasts over and over again, forever. Taking into account Pilot's all- too familiar sound, it's conceivable that maybe they should've called themselves something more appropriate. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Plimsoul Asylum.

The Byrdsy jingle- jangle and country- tinge of early REM dominates Stranger's Waltz. And at times, faint feedbacked strains of the harder- rocking '80s Minneapolis sound settle into the mix. Pilot frontman Jeremy Wilson was a founding member of late '80s Portland alt-rock outfit the Dharma Bums, whose body of work was arguably short on contrast and invention. Wilson's vocals are often reminiscent of Dave Pirner's slightly- hoarse white- boy yowls. On a few tracks he seems to be channeling a sleep- deprived Paul Westerberg.

As a lyricist, Wilson was that brooding Kerouac devotee in your high school creative writing class-- the one whose bad neo-Beat poetry always elicited cringes and silent chuckles. Here's a little Wilson sampler from "Swing": "When I first came about/ Realized this birth, this life, this death/ When things were round and birds did sing/ When all of life revolved around a swing." On the opening track, "Strange Powers," the slow drawl of guitarist Patrick Gundran's slide accompaniment creates a pleasant diversion from Wilson the Wordsmith: "Let's build a rocket/ You build a fort/ Since we don't talk/ We can go to war/ I'll be a czar/ You'll be a queen/ Who'll be the first to attack/ I guess we'll see." It's enough to make one's teeth itch, really.

Upon further listen, Stranger's Waltz consistently yields the chiming Roger McGuinn- by- way- of- Peter Buck guitars, as well as some bouncy pop- punk stylings on "2 Stars," a song which could have easily been an outtake from The Replacements' Don't Tell A Soul. "Jesus at my Elbow," echoes the Jayhawks, and on the countrified "West Texas Wind," Pilot sonically masquerade as the Joe Ely Band.

Overall, Pilot are unabashed sentimentalists and unapologetic retro- puffs. But compared to Fastball and other empty, fashion- conscious throwbacks, Wilson and Co. almost begin to sound sincere and dignified. So, kids, grow those porkchop sideburns, mold your mop- tops, move to Athens, and trade in those grungy Gibson Les Pauls for that bell- like Rickenbacker toll. '80s College Radio is here again, in all its Murmur- esque glory. Face it, there's a new Love Tractor album in stores, and Mitch Easter's off unemployment. You know something's gotta be up. And hey, if you miss the craze this time around, don't sweat it. According to my calculations, the '90s version of the 1980s will be back in fashion around 2020.

-Michael Sandlin