Between mainstream music's crevasses lies a magnitude of multi-genre bands that are often discriminated. Possession of a unique sound now works against a band's progression in the inequitable music industry.

Anything resembling any type of genre is immediately, and often unfairly, thrown into it.

Slipping through this tight grip is the grain that is Gomez. Swinging through multiplicity and mood, Gomez sways back into the music scene with their third full-length album, In Our Gun.

Shots of temperament and absurdity fire out of Gomez's proverbial pistol in an album smeared in shifting styles. From the get-go, "Shot Shot" rolls acoustic thunder over synthetic beats -- a tag-team wrestling match between confusing samples and slapdash horns against English arrogance and slow-mo trip-hop. Neither side wins, but the bout discharges a great deal of energy to unbolt the album.

If listeners hope this will be the album's flow, they're in for a kick in the head -- but a pleasant one. Groove-laden joint "Rex Kramer" adds a middle-class funk to what would normally be a blues song if stripped to the standard modern rock instrument lineup. But more confusing is the surprising swap of frontman Ian Bell for Ben Ottewell, the latter sounding like a throaty version of Soggy Bottom Boys' vocalist Dan Tyminski.

Under the smoke of "Detroit Swing 66," clever lyrics tease the ears with slick metaphors cited over loosely gripped acoustic chords. Ascending through a down-to-earth anthem about lying around stoned is a glitter of wobbling snazz awkwardly fashioned to experimenting samples. Easily the album's catchiest song, "Detroit Swinger 66" evokes smiles from first second to the last while reciting a tale of cheerfully wasting the day. "I've been thinking one thing but doing something else in a daze, yeah/ I'm trying to keep myself from getting uptight."

Turning a 180 from the album's established buoyancy is the spooky title track. To translate its feel, imagine staring at a star-lit Montana night while campfire and acoustics crackle in the background. Mysterious chills dance around shooting-star whistles and social criticism -- an intimate caress of music directly going after our sense of touch rather than hearing. But then out of nowhere, a calamity of polished techno intrudes on the song's peaceful daze.

In the same breath, transitions between the songs are poor, given Gomez's arbitrary angles of approaching music. However, the album's random vibrancy detracts from songs with less make-up to them. Stripped down to quiet acoustics and three-part harmony, "Sound of Sounds" ironically seems out of place on an album full of surprises.

The album wears away at the tired ears. The tail end of In Our Gun can evoke an eerie uncomfortableness similar to that of reading an ex's away message.

Too many contradictions summarize Gomez's unformulaic, yet mastered, inconsistency: strident yet soggy, confident yet confused, inspiring yet sometimes irritating. Putting this album's puzzle pieces together may be as difficult as understanding a computer repairman, but the challenge is welcoming.

Overall, In Our Gun holds a hand of aces but keeps a poker face that keeps you guessing with every bullet in Gomez's arsenal.