In the world of pop reviews, certain adjectives come pre-loaded with their own set of meta-meanings. Describe an album as “fey”, “twee” or “willowy” and there’ll be a whole contingent of readers who switch off before they reach the end of the sentence. For those who believe that musical merit lies only in being one step ahead of the genre curve, words like these are the ultimate slur, with all their connotations of meaningless triviality and cutesy-pie nonsense.

So on to the last sentence that some readers will take away from this review. The debut album by Brooklyn-based trio Hospitality is a jangly guitar pop affair that sets twee social vignettes against fey guitar lines and willowy vocals. For anyone still paying attention, however, Hospitality is really quite a lovely record that serves as a reminder that genre preconceptions are trumped by good songwriting, even if it does come from well-heeled Brooklynites.

It’s true that many of the album’s tracks (not to mention its front cover) seem to evoke rolled-up beige khakis and yacht parties in the Hamptons, but in the band’s skilled hands it still makes for an engaging and invigorating listen. Lead singer Amber Pupini and her partners clearly have a gift for crafting appealing melodies and ear-catching hooks, because this record is crammed with them. At under two minutes long, ‘The Right Profession’ is a breeze of mischievous basslines and call-and-response choruses. On ‘Friends of Friends’ the band mix punchy vocals, trebly guitar yelps and an expertly deployed brass section to create what must be one of this summer’s best party tracks.

Despite the note-for-note precision of the album’s production (by Vampire Weekend collaborator Shane Stoneback and band member Nathan Michel), it’s not all smooth surfaces and round edges. Hospitality’s sunny reverie is occasionally pierced by something sharper. The bittersweet acoustic strumming on opener ‘Eighth Avenue’ gives way to a surprisingly chaotic squall of distortion in its closing moments, while the gauzy escapism of album highlight ‘Sleepover’ breaks down into an extended groove that could have broken free from an early ’90s shoegazing set list. In fact, most of the tracks here are too restless to be just one thing – musical styles are constantly jostling to momentarily subvert one another, and the general cheery tone is offset by a sprinkling of wistful ennui.

At the centre of it all are Pupini’s confounding vocals. Her fussy, supremely studied voice flits restlessly from one side of the Atlantic to the other in a way that should be irritating but somehow rarely is (her contrived yowling on ‘All Day Today’ being the notable exception). There’s a consciously artificial quality to her voice that manages to fascinate rather than alienate, like wanting to know what a great actor is like in real life.

Lyrically, Pupini is adept at creating self-sufficient stories that stand neatly on their own like intricate dioramas. Whether she’s paying tribute to a brave ex-workmate (‘Betty Wang’) or lecturing a friend for his self-indulgent college lifestyle (‘Liberal Arts’), a memorable couplet is never more than a few moments away. ‘Sleepover’, the album’s most affecting track, finds her mixing blithe romanticism and exhausted indignation after a couch guest outstays their welcome (“I’m not tired of you staying here/Lock the door before you leave”).

Hospitality isn’t going to kick off a revolution. It’s not going to open the door to a new musical landscape. It won’t even annoy your parents when you put it on in the car. If you’re so inclined, however, it’ll worm its way into your affections with endearing grooves and a surprising depth of feeling. It’s not aggressively innovative or ahead of the curve, but then again it’s not trying to be. If you can make peace with that, there’s lots of fun to be had here. At least while we’re waiting for the next revolution to arrive.