On its new record, Darling… It’s Too Late (Suicide Squeeze Records), Portland trio Guantanamo Baywatch doesn’t scrape the muck of its previous outings away so much as makes it less opaque. Darling is a swinging tribute to the dark hormonal intentions and frustrated ambitions that often characterize one’s early twenties, played with clear-eyed ferocity and single-minded purpose, but also with a winking self-awareness and playful attitude that keeps the collection of well-trod references fresh.

The highlight of the record, “Sea of Love,” is good enough to make you forget—at least for its three minutes—the Phil Phillips classic with which it shares a name. Chevelle Wiseman’s bassline provides a foundation both solid and slick enough to groove, but never fall; Chris Scott’s hip-shaking drums make the floorboards bounce; and Ben Coleman’s pounding piano adds spikes throughout. It’s a beautifully nasty merging of Buck Owens and early doo-wop, with backing vocals of bass grunts and almost cracking falsetto slipping between fore and background around Jason Powell’s lackadaisical yet confident vocals.

Other high points dot the record. “Too Late,” featuring Curtis Harding, is a sultry take on a Solomon Burke ballad—complete with spoken bridge—that carries the couples-skate tempo and shoots it right into the ceiling. “Beat Has Changed” takes on an uptempo Sam Cooke dancefloor revelation and slightly bumps up the aggression while still glowing with barely contained joy, a reminder of how close bliss and fury are when you’re on the verge of a breakthrough. Along with opening salvo “Jungle Bride,” these songs show off how flexible Powell’s voice is. He luxuriates in the purity of vowel sounds sliding across each other, stretching meter in contrast with both his guitar and the rhythm section, and the triangulation of those three slightly different beats gives this a groove and texture that separates it from most of the garage-punk pack.

Elsewhere, the record is woven together with sharp, kicky instrumentals. The best of the lot, “Raunch Stomp,” teases repetition into a cross between a go-go dance and that moment you step off the tilt-a-whirl with all the lights spinning on a different axis from the ground, queasy from the candy (and maybe a flask). There’s not a dull track on Darling… It’s Too Late. It conjures dancing in basements, your steps given a jerk from sticking to the floor and trying not to bump into other people, the feeling that your sweat is evaporating, mixing with everyone else’s and redeposited on your face, on her shoulders, on his back. It’s an ass-shaking monster that demands to be played again and again and again and then once more because you know the sun’s already up.