What separates a great songsmith from every fool with a guitar on his back and a heart on his sleeve is a knack for subtlety.

John Mayer doesn’t seem honest while singing, “Your body is a wonderland.” Instead, he sounds like a guy in a bar with cheesy pickup lines. But when Elliott Smith sang, “Everything reminds me of her,” it was genuine because he wasn’t trying to woo somebody with trite metaphors.

Even when Simon and Garfunkle sang, “Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson,” it honored her in her absence, not to her face.

Archer Prewitt seems to understand that great songwriters write for themselves and nobody else. And by purging his issues with an unapologetic, this-is-for-me-and-not-you attitude, he seems more sincere and exposed than if he took others into consideration.

It doesn’t hurt that his fourth solo album occasionally sounds like a young David Bowie experiment, a mature Brian Wilson arrangement, or Paul Simon at his most lyrically poignant – sometimes all three at once.

What comes together is a wistful, perfectly-crafted pop album with enough intelligence and heart to matter, and enough reserve for us to take note – even if Prewitt doesn’t ask us to.