Like a dust mote floating through the sunshine of a Southern California living room on a quiet weekend morning, there’s a delicacy to Blake Mills’ fourth album that can be easy to ignore and all the more rewarding to notice because of it. There’s beauty here, yes—organic cotton tote bags full of it. But the LA-based Mills doesn’t trade in hazy daydreams or lullabies. If anything, the sound here has an almost hyperreal quality to it, bridging the intimacy of classic California singer-songwriter material—the slow burn of “Money Is the One True God,” the pin-drop ballads of “Summer All Over” and “My Dear One”— with a quietly experimental edge. And therein lies the magic: You know the sound until suddenly, you don’t.