It doesn't really take an excess of shrewdness to predict a bright future for new Californian indie-pop combo Marjorie Fair. In fact, just about the only thing that might work against them is their truly awful choice of band name, derived from a species of rose.

It doesn't really take an excess of shrewdness to predict a bright future for new Californian indie-pop combo Marjorie Fair. In fact, just about the only thing that might work against them is their truly awful choice of band name, derived from a species of rose.

In all other respects, Self Help Serenade has the air of an album destined to break hearts and win minds with its dreamy psychedelic pop, which in its peak moments achieves a sort of enervated ecstasy, or an ecstasy of enervation, that should find equal favour with fans of Coldplay and The Flaming Lips. It's the brainchild of the songwriter/multi-instrumentalist Evan Slamka, who has employed the producer Rob Schnapf (Beck, Elliott Smith, Foo Fighters) and a crew of heavy-hitting session players including Billy Preston, the drummers Jim Keltner and Joey Waronker and the custom keyboardist Jon Brion, who's also credited for "eleventh-hour musical and spiritual insight, talent, and commitment".

Slamka's stroke of genius is to combine the sullen melodies and melancholy cast of Eighties UK indie-rock with the soaring harmonies and sonic sophistication of Seventies West Coast country-rock. Imagine the haunting tunes and oceanic self-pity of Joy Division, The Cure or Echo & The Bunnymen blessed with banked vocals and climaxing in florid, cathartic guitar solos, and you'll get some idea of the sound and spirit of tracks like "Stand in the World" and "Don't Believe".

Elsewhere, the Eagles-style harmonies and grandiose swirl of guitars lends a fragile nobility to the reproach of "How Can You Laugh", as a wounded Slamka chides, "That's not the same thing that I would have done/ If I was your mother, and you were my son".

Occasionally, Slamka lets his influences show a little too clearly: "Please Don't" strongly recalls The Beatles' "Because", and "My Sun Is Setting Over Her Magic" inescapably brings to mind Brian Wilson's "Caroline No". Still, as influences go, they're as good as any, and the fact that Slamka has set his sights that high gives some indication of the standards in operation throughout. Immense care has obviously been taken, for instance, with the way that his vocal lurks furtively, almost diffidently, amongst the minor chords until slipping into the falsetto hook of the single "Stare", a song of exquisite alienation.

The album's standout track, "Waves", is an attempt on Slamka's part to come to terms with the shifting emotional currents which buffet his life. "The person that I thought I was," he muses in its closing stages, "Is something that I don't think is coming true."

This debut album has a persuasive power which, in its rare combination of meticulous technical craft and slow-burning emotional power, has the feel of a potential modern classic.