But the best way to hear Croz Boyce, really, is to forget the backstory for 40 minutes, to discard notions of why this guitar tone or that rhythmic relationship might sound familiar. Instead, simply listen and feel: What do these songs remind you of or make you aspire to? Here are some possible interpretations, all but certainly incorrect in the merged mind of Weitz and Portner but valid nevertheless. Opener “ Hanging Out with a Blueberry Pop ” first feels like lounging on a riverbank with your crew, maybe laughing as you pass a joint around, baking in the sun; the midsection is the splish-splash of finally jumping, too giddy to care about the current. Maybe it’s just the name at work, but “ Towson Acid ” maps the edge of oblivion where even the plainest of facts don’t seem certain, where reality refracts into a dozen different images, where even the drums you hear in the distance are maybe hallucinatory phantoms. And is closer “ Banana Pudding ” only these two homies fucking with each other, the space between the slow strums and the wildly teasing electronics intended to make one another (and, hey, us) chuckle? It works.