The album packaging looks kind of violent, what with the half-naked, ski-masked chick flaunting her mini-blowtorch, and the disc kicks off with some deep-voiced, omnipotent-sounding dude intoning, "When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire."

But, um, beside that stuff, Stars' Set Yourself On Fire is some of the prettiest, sweetest, most radiant indie pop out there -- dare I say, even more toothsome than label-mates and Canadian comrades Broken Social Scene? Not quite, but almost, my dears, almost. If you just listen to the bassline of "Reunion" on the way to class, you'll do-si-do in your head and smile at strangers, including that lascivious oldish guy who's always leering when you scuffle past him on Allen Street before you've even guzzled your morning latte.

Stars (no "the," thankyouverymuch) is Montreal-based, and at the risk of sounding really derivative and repeating exactly what the New York Times and Spin have already said, and probably more eloquently: Montreal is where it's at.

The Arcade Fire are rock's biggest and best thing right now; then there's the Stills, Pony Up!, Godspeed You Black Emperor! and the Unicorns, although I think they broke up or something. But back to Stars. If you enjoy fluttering about to glockenspiels and trombones and violas and synths and boy-girl vocals and lyrics about a rebellion set to the sounds of the Velvet Underground, then baby, this one's for you. Set Yourself on Fire, the group's third album, is luscious, orchestral-lite chamber pop that's as sprightly as can be -- except for when it's lyrical and epic and ribboned with doleful strings on tracks like "Celebration Guns" and "Calendar Girl," though those are absolutely beautiful, so the lack of sprightliness is more than permissible. Usually, Stars uses its mixed-gender vocal chords for dulcet, New Pornographers-esque harmonies ("Ageless Beauty" and a bunch of others), but sometimes, like on opening number "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead," Stars channel Mates of State with the dueling dialogue and call-and-response verses.

"The First Five Times," which keenly recounts a couple getting it on, implements a similar convention, with wispy, effervescent Amy Millan reciting the chick's point of view, and Torquil Campbell narrating his side of the story. All this culminates in music that's more about relating a restorative narrative than about dwelling on those pesky intangible emotions. Yes, most of the album copes with sexual urgency, desire, lost affairs and former lovers, but there are some crescendoed mutinies thrashing under such porcelain skin. On the crazed, wired and spastic "He Lied About Death," Torq demands, "What gives you the right to f--- with our lives?" as Amy spits out, "I hope your drunken daughters are gay!"

And the aforementioned "Celebration Guns" is both a dirge for the nameless, numbered soldiers and a pleading contemplation on our disappearing freedoms.On the second-to-last song, "Soft Revolution," Stars recount singing alone "backwards through a microphone" and whisper about a revolution that changes everything so "they couldn't tell we couldn't sing." Such reluctant vulnerability certainly comes as a surprise at the end of such a strong album. The way I see it, Stars doesn't have to incite any revolution to get people listening to Set Yourself On Fire.

The album, which cheekily disobeys its downbeat title and apocalyptic opening lines, strays from any of that drifting, scarred despair, preferring to impart listeners with gentle resilience, all-consuming beauty and some killer pop tunes to boot.