OAT’s David Crane stomachs nutty willfulness and obstreperous behavior on a near daily basis. No, we’re not referring to the crowds at BOAT gigs. Gigs grant Crane a form of sanctuary. Gigs bring relief from the cacophony of adolescent chatter. Gigs are where you actually get to interact with, you know, adults.

Crane, singer / songwriter for the Seattle-based trio, is a middle school teacher. (So is drummer Josh Goodman. No word on bassist Mark McKenzie; sub, maybe?) And while moonlighting as a pop trio undoubtedly provides relief from the curly, dimpled lunatics, Let’s Drag Our Feet! is proof this instructor never completely washes the yellow chalk from his shirtsleeves. Unlike the teachers in Scotland’s ballboy, who explored topics they couldn’t broach in class (i.e.—“You Can’t Spend Your Whole Life Hanging Around with Arseholes”), Crane channels the energy of the classroom, penning cracked stanzas that display a sticky whimsy and wonderment inspired by youth.

The psychedelia-pecked “Period, Backslash, Colon” sounds like the schoolyard boy playfully ribbing his crush on the girl’s side, singing, “If you had a window, I bet you’d never close it / You’d probably keep it open and let the bugs in.” “Gold Veins” hints at standard preteen anxieties: “Gold is in my veins / But what comes out is not gold at all / It’s more like grape juice.” But wait—Crane gets even more abstruse: see the Shel Silverstein spin-off, “The Ferocious Sounds of Lobsters and Snakes / Mom, Dad, Me and You,” which details . . . the ferocious sounds of lobster and snakes. The joshing Crane doesn’t focus on the imminent danger from . . . well, the ferociousness of said lobsters and snakes, instead exhibiting a joyous appreciation for such outlandishness, all reminiscent of the Flaming Lips. There’s further mention of headphones and mix tapes, and tales of thick slices of birthday cake and gluttonous soda consumption—all evoked by Crane, who sounds like a playful Spencer Krug.

The best moments on Let's Drag Our Feet! are when the lyrical outlandishness is matched in the music: the trio breaking forth from a standard, pop-for-pop’s-sake aesthetic, accenting its chords and melodies with bratty flair (whistles, melodica, kazoo, and theremin), and collaging different moods and rhythms into something with a rather brilliant identity crisis. “The Whistle Test” is all ham radio squealing and doughty jangle before downshifting into a synth-driven, sing-a-long chorus of la-ta-tas. The start-stop charm of “200 Days, 59 Ways” is buoyed by toots of melodica, while four of the tracks feature lo-fi, Bee Thousand-inspired codas, where the album’s recorded-in-a-basement-in-Seattle approach hisses forth. And then the bouncy “(I’m a) Donkey for Your Love,” which can’t decide if it wants to be that horny kid from class who’s always directing vulgar hand-puppet shows on the classroom’s blank, pull-down film screen, or that nerdish one who’s always drying Elmer’s on his hands and then peeling the glue off in long, milky strips. (Crane is familiar with both, of course.)

Think back to your teachers in middle school. The best were those who possessed a well-equipped sense of humor, making them infinitely more patient in dealing with all the blackboard chaos. Crane? He’s right there, Syd Barrett with a clip-on and black clogs, likely earning an apple a day from his endearing students.