"Oliver Paul, twenty years old/Thick head of hair, worries he's going bald," Courtney Barnett sings at the beginning of "Elevator Operator," a strong introduction to her debut full-length. If there's any more apt description of what it feels like to be an anxiety-ridden and confused twenty-something on the cusp of proper adulthood, the only place you're likely to find it is elsewhere on this album. Barnett has a particular knack for neurotic quips that are as genuine as they are self-mocking. Later in the same song, she remarks, "I'm not suicidal, just idling insignificantly;" in "Pedestrian at Best," she's "having an existential time-crisis." While she's certainly not mining new territory, her approach is what's novel: by avoiding cliche and emphasizing the minutiae of everyday life, she finds more meaning than generalizations alone possess.

There are two sides to this album, the most immediate of which is encapsulated in songs like the aforementioned "Elevator Operator" and "Pedestrian at Best," as well as the sardonically-titled "Nobody Really Cares If You Don't Go to the Party." These are characterized by muscular, feedback-saturated guitars reminiscent of '90s grunge and Barnett's rapid-fire delivery of her conversational lyrics. While her vaguely off-key, Australian-accented sing-talking can grow tiresome, there's also charm and charisma in it; I can't imagine any other voice delivering these songs as genuinely. Despite her lyrics' long-windedness, her melodies are never aimless. I haven't enjoyed shouting along to any other chorus more than that of "Pedestrian at Best," in which Barnett pokes fun at the prevailing opinion of older generations toward millennials: "Put me on a pedestal, and I'll only disappoint you/Tell me I'm exceptional, I promise to exploit you/Give me all your money, and I'll make some origami, honey/I think you're a joke, but I don't find you very funny."

The other half of the album is more reflective and expansive but packs just as much punch as the higher-energy moments. "Small Poppies" and "Kim's Caravan" are both over six minutes, building from bluesy, lackadaisical beginnings to heavy and atmospheric walls of sound, over which Barnett wails with unexpected passion. The latter is especially affecting, culminating in a swirling, ominous repetition of the lines, "Don't ask me what I really mean/I am just a reflection of what you really want to see/So take what you want from me." It's the most vulnerable, revealing moment on the album.

Then there's "Depreston," which a lot of people have championed as one of the best songs of the year and rightfully so. On its surface, it's the story of a young couple going house-searching; beneath that, it's a searing expose of the mundanity of domesticity ("It's got a lovely garden, a garage for two cars to park in/Or a lot of room for storage if you've just got one") and the trappings of consumerism ("Now we got that percolator/Never made a latte greater/I'm saving 23 dollars a week"). The music remains as static as its narrator's life until the final moments, when it breaks down into the sad refrain, "If you've got a spare half a million/You could knock it down and start rebuilding," revealing the unattainability of the couple's dreams. It's a sobering message that Barnett conveys with impressive nuance, a skill which she'll hopefully refine even further in the future.