Like Charlie Brown, Joyce Manor’s lightly comic mix of angst, melancholy, and preemptive nostalgia feels more like a philosophical outlook than a function of age—that little storm cloud’s gonna follow them wherever they go for as long as they live. Having graduated from the pain and disappointment of late adolescence to the pain and disappointment of early middle age, they continue to take their knocks with a sense of humor and heart that has always felt more charmingly reconciled to reality than their pop-punk peers. From the singsongy “Well, Whatever It Was” (“got run over by my dream car”) to the moody character sketch of “The Opossum,” they trade a little more punk for a little more Smiths and early Elvis Costello every time. Grow up at your own risk.