The content of legendary, popular albums -- those recorded by artists whose material continues to be revered and collected long after their Top 10 glory fades -- are made of more than collections of catchy, crowd-pleasing hooky choruses. The lyrical content of songs penned by the greats -- Bono, Dylan, Lennon et al -- interpret so brilliantly the complicated, sticky, ultimately compromising mess that is the human experience that fans find a friend, confidant and helpful pal in every song. That, plus the delicate melodies, engaging guitar riffs and addictive bass lines are the stuff of pop greatness. It's what separates the Justin Timberlakes from the Marvin Gayes, and, largely, what gives bands like Wilco, The Pixies, The Flaming Lips, Death Cab for Cutie and everything Jack White touches a timeless quality that's evident in even the earliest of encounters.

While there was evidence of their rightful place in this category on their first two albums, Wincing the Night Away officially pushes The Shins over the top into the stratosphere of permanence. There is nothing fleetingly clever in their third, and most complex, release, a spacey, delightfully romantic and often pragmatic offering of 11 tracks of captivating, ingratiating and delicious pop gems. As far as rock albums go, it's breakfast, lunch, dinner and a bedtime snack all rolled into one.

Fans listening for a "Kissing the Lipless" may, at first listen, find the album a bit airy for their taste, although they will find a close cousin in the steady, bassy grooves of "Sealegs." However, like all good art, the album just gets better and better with every listen. There are always the remnants of the '80s post-punk influences that gave their first albums so much love, especially the Smiths-esque guitar effects of "Black Wave." From an instrumental standpoint alone, Wincing is terrific. However, it's James Mercer's biting, occasionally irreverent and sometimes desperate commentaries about relationships that will allow Wincing to stand the brutal and punishing tests of time.

There are moments of pure heart-achingly beauty, such as when, on top of the effervescent, delicate guitar of "Sleeping Lessons" Mercer insists -- pleading almost -- "you're not obliged to swallow anything you despise." Then there's the shrewd choice to allow the a sweet banjo to pluck away ironically underneath the adolescent-angst ridden ode that is "Australia" while Mercer the man makes a boyish observation that "your shape on the dancefloor will have me thinking such filth I'll gouge out my eyes."

Lyrics like that were clearly forged from a deep fandom of Morrissey, and potentially Bowie. Like them, Mercer knows how to address tragedy even on top of an innocent and playful melody. "Red Rabbits" has a music box tone, with Mercer cringing that "we've p***ed on too many sprites, and they're all standing up for their rights." Almost nothing prepares their audience for the wisdom and sensitivity of "Girl Sailor" (a tenderly perceptive song about a woman motivated exclusively by crisis and tragedy, where Mercer again insists that "you are not some saint who's above giving someone a stroll through the flowers") and "A Comet Appears," the closing track which ends the album on its most hopeful and bittersweet note. If nothing else, it's refreshing to listen to a band that embraces beauty so openly and without compromise. It's even more endlessly delightful to partake in an album that is just -- put simply -- this good.

By Rachel Parker