I want to hate this so fucking bad. This is The Drones stick-wielder Mike Noga’s second solo jaunt, a follow-up to 2006’s Folk Songs, and from the outside it reeks of everything that’s wrong with so-called alternative rock in 2012. Dreary acoustic guitars? Check. Wannabe-rootsy earnestness? Check. Confusion of nu-country cliché with the essence of timelessness? Double check. Man, the very thought of it makes me wanna tie Fleet Foxes’ beards together and set ‘em on fire. Since when did everyone get so comfortable with mediocre Americana?

In fact, let’s linger on that point for a moment, because one of the strangest things about this record is its fascination with such explicitly American musical tropes. Nobody’s doubting that one of the many pleasures of music – well, art – is that it enables people to be who or what they wanna be. So if a man from Melbourne (via Southern Tasmania) feels like waving the stars’n’stripes whilst rummaging through Jeff Tweedy’s attic for spare tunes, then who the hell am I to say he can’t? See, the interesting thing here is his accent. Like The Drones’ Gareth Liddiard, Noga sings in a thick Australian brogue which, one would quite reasonably imagine, is rooted in notions of identity, authenticity and honesty. Fair enough; in this context those ideas are arguably admirable, given that his country’s contribution to rock music is most politely described as “overlooked”. But they prompt the question of why he would glue them to a style of music that’s so enveloped in its own traditions. Even the proudly English Billy Bragg’s Mermaid Avenue venture saw him avoid his Barking burr to honk away in some bizarre transatlantic drawl, just about realising that this particular style has a personality all of its own and demands to be recognised accordingly.

Obviously there’s no right or wrong answer here. Dude can do what he likes, and it certainly ain’t the role of a grumpy pop hack to say otherwise. Nonetheless, it feels confused; like a shooter where one of the ingredients curdles to create a cloud effect: whether you think looks pretty or not, there’s still something in there that clearly doesn’t work, and it’s up to your stomach whether you digest or reject it.

There’s more, of course. Sidestepping the painful album title (if ever a pun was pleased with itself, it’s that one), the lyrics prove somewhat problematic. For every slice of life that aims for Bruce Springsteen or Loudon Wainwright III’s phrasing capabilities, there’s some trite, pseudo-bluesman tosh like “M’belle, I’ve seen scenes, can you tell?” or the just plain dreadful “You sing like a woman/And me, I was just like a child”. No-one’s asking for every line to lilt with the graceful wit of Oscar Wilde, or to sting like the blunt aphorisms of Charles Bukowski. But surely it’s not unfair to ask for a little more than this smorgasbord of meh, guh and pffft.

So yeah, I really want to hate this. But, crucially, I don’t. Noga’s voice – a rusty, worn-down facsimile of former pop chameleon Beck Hansen during his rare moments of vulnerability – is, ironically, key to that. Dusty and bright as the Great Plains, it imbues every single track with a sense of character and vulnerability that transcends all these tired musical ideas and the awkward ephemera surrounding them. Generic alt.country strum-throughs like ‘The Cold Year’ become poignant, affecting laments. Dull lines such as: “You speak like a celibate whisper in your face/Hiding in the shadows of this ordinary place” are injected with comforting warmth. It’s almost dazzlingly human, and despite all my misgivings about this record and its execution, it keeps me reaching back towards the Play button every time the nine tracks on The Balladeer Hunter come to an end. Most tellingly, it’s made me fall in love with the very thing I thought I hated. Fuck you, Mike Noga. What have I become?