Weezer never really had critical momentum. Even its first two records — the ones people compare everything they’ve released since — was met with either lukewarm positivity (the 1994 self-titled debut, otherwise known as the Bluealbum for its color palette) and outright hostility (1996’s ultra-confessional Pinkerton, the one that everyone loves now). They’re the complete opposite of low-selling/critical-darlings such as Sonic Youth.

Only Weezer’s two last releases have received truly positive contemporary reviews; essentially because the songs on it mostly base the majority of their melodic sensibilities to the Blue album. In the aging alternative rock universe, it seems, hindsight is your only friend.

So it should come as little surprise that Pacific Daydream, their 11th full-length album, is already garnering the kind of reception that is far-less positive than the first two. Reviews point to various cringe-worthy lyrical and musical moments, but it makes little sense because all Weezer records have these moments — even the beloved two. Quirky and cringe have always been Weezer’s mark.

If you’ve accepted those characteristics — and understand that frontman/Weezer mastermind Rivers Cuomo’s “uncool” enthusiasm and try-hard sincerity has no ironic layer — then the songs on this album are really, really strong power pop.

Forget that the whole album is Weezer still trying to go with that “summer” vibe that pervades the record before it, with the kind of youthful fervor that sits awkwardly with rock stars pushing 50. Forget that first single “Feels Like Summer” would not sound out of place if sung by a 90s cheesy-electro-drenched one-hit wonder.

Dig under all those arguable presentation choices and find that Cuomo’s melodic instincts remain strong, as the triumphant chorus of “Summer” and light-metal opener “Mexican Fender” make clear. Heck, even the absolute cheesy everything of “Happy Hour” (the title, awkward lyrics that starts with “I’m like Stevie Ray Vaughan on the stage, high on music/ Teeth grindin’, sweatin’ under the lights”) can’t blanket the fact that that chorus immediately sticks.

Pacific Daydream blooms with a kind of melodic turn that older fans will find familiar; the constant shifts between minor-chord melancholy and major-chord, small-victory moments. “Weekend Women” is this, flourishing with Cuomo’s longing verse before punching with the kind of chorus that makes you sing along all the while realizing its happy lyrics are set against sad melodies. “Sweet Mary” is similarly so, with a chorus so memorably dramatic that no other part of the song seems to catch up, for better or worse.

“Get It Right” has a little of that Cuomo-trying-to-sound-badass crooning quality to it, but it has got an undeniably hooky chorus that makes up for that fact. Even the clunky lyrics of “Any Friends of Diane” that features Cuomo taking the perspective of a kid working at Papa John’s, as well as a questionable acoustic-guitar solo, can’t take away the immediacy of the shuffling rhythm and refrain. The hop-your-feet momentum of “La Mancha Screwjob” also brims with a confident verse that moves naturally onto its subtle, yet effective chorus.

And so, Pacific Daydream is the kind of record that is loaded with catchy rockers and no filler (the super-duper well-meaning literalism of the Beach Boys tribute, umm, “Beach Boys” may come close, with Cuomo really trying hard to rap sentences like “It’s a hip hop world/ And we’re the furniture”). But comparing and trying to put its own history against Weezer is a moot point. These songs are not cool. These songs are, however, very catchy. They are well-written corporate pop-rock by a band that may or may not have always done so, but we were too young to notice. At this point, that should be enough in your record-buying/ downloading decision making.

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