Let's say every musician in the world is karmically allotted an amount of volume they can expend over a given career. Should they, through hubris or foolishness, attempt to exceed such an allowance of volume, they risk certain comeuppance. For example, one might suffer severe tinnitus like Pete Townshend, or late-career ineffectuality, a la the Sex Pistols.

If such a situation might be the case, the ex-members of Louisville post-punk bands are preparing for one barnburner of a metal record when they hit age 60. Consider Tara Jane O'Neil's Peregrine, for example: despite O'Neil's rock pedigree, the record seemed so fragile it'd blow away if you breathed too hard on it. It could very well be maturity or a quieter, less angstful lifestyle that compels such retiring tuneage. Or maybe O'Neil wants to dodge pulling a John Lydon in her twilight years.

O'Neil's Retsin-mate, Cynthia Nelson, is definitely on the same page, karmawise. Her new band, the Naysayer, doesn't exactly tip the vU meter with any heavy riffing. Instead, the band's debut long-player, Deathwhisker, is loaded with skittering high-hats, guitars that have to eat their bran before they reach "jangle," and rhythms that polite company might call "stately." Over all this Nelson-generated songage, apparent newcomer-to-rock Anna Padgett elegantly speak/sings funny little anecdotes about Big City Life Among the Young and Cool.

Fortunately, the new project wears its low-key trappings well. Whereas a lot of "minimalist" (read: no bassist) combos lilt their way into uselessness by throwing the sonic baby out with the bathwater, the Naysayer dress up their waltzing numbers with filigrees and rhythmic flourishes, the quietude allowing the details to rise to the surface.

The product works especially well when the duo makes room for guests. Louisville homeslice Tara Key-- apparently trying to atone for her own volume excesses with Antitam-- contributes some haunting, noirish lead guitar, while soft, gorgeous strings lap up on the shores of a couple tracks. Contextualized among barely-there ballads and jazzy, midtempo strolls, such added texture encourages deeper listening. It's only after fairly heavy exposure that Deathwhisker offers up its considerable charms.

Moreover, Padgett's songwriting proves surprisingly durable. "Woman on 11th Street" powers a tale of romantic alienation with underplayed urgency, and "FYF" contends with the undeniability of baser urges (the title's acronym stands for "fine young fuckable") by using the sparest details. More often than not, Padgett is able to inflect her mundane little tales with shocking poignancy: "I can walk to the park and find no turtles and cry" parses dippily, but followed with "I would like to scream for mercy but I don't," the lines take on aching power. When the album takes a terrific turn towards the countrified near the middle, the lyrical laconism feeds the music's deadpan power even further, drawing comparisons with labelmates the Handsome Family.

The Naysayer have entered a small but burgeoning side of the underground rock pantheon, one that tries to find the stark bottom at which expressiveness takes full hold. Though it doesn't yield the upheld, pumping fists that anthems and volume promise, it holds rewards a big rock noise can't possibly offer. Plus, they'll never end up like Townshend or the Pistols, which is a reward in itself.

-Sam Eccleston