Audiences have particularly marveled at Benson’s unique brand of storytelling — carefully threading the needle to stitch the frenzied wonderment of David Byrne with the impassioned croon of Ian McCullough. Benson’s vocalizations include both self-reflective narrations (“My stare was there but my words were somewhere else / Self esteem can be such a tricky thing”) and opaque worldly observations (“People refuse to make do when they lose / Something they thought they’d never find again / They refuse to remember way back when / That something it did not belong to them”).

But Benson’s towering presence does not disguise the disciplined craftsmanship of the talented quintet supporting him. Magic Bullets’ music is imbued with an unaffected poignancy that enmeshes Lynch’s clean, intricate guitar melodies with Sweatt’s bolder, punchier, but no less melodic basslines. Kallman’s Wurlitzer piano strategically provides not only a textural underbelly to the music, but also occasionally functions as the lead instrument (“Heatstroke”). Dobrin’s multifaceted rhythms add unpredictability to the proceedings — having perfected the stop/start drumming style, knowing full well when silence is as powerful as a full-blown beat. Meanwhile, songsmith Cunningham’s C86 chord progressions and blistering strumming patterns fuel favorable comparisons to early The Wedding Present.

The San Francisco Chronicle aptly summarized the music of Magic Bullets as drawing from “the emotional candor and jerky rhythms of the ‘80s post-punk era to carve a wistful but upbeat niche for itself in San Francisco’s indie-pop scene.”