Misery loves company, but if we’re really honest with ourselves, we love misery, too. There’s something about the universality of heartbreak that draws all of us hopeless lovers into one big dogpile of masochism and regret, and on Dr. Dog’s latest album, “Shame, Shame,” the psychedelic quintet brings that pile to life in one big, sleepy ray of sunshine.

It should be said that it’s almost impossible to dislike Dog; their music is laid back yet exuberant, earnest without taking itself too seriously. On “Shame, Shame,” they seem more confident than ever before in their identity and their method; they’ve struck a happy balance between paying homage to their heroes and inventing their own style. And although they borrow heavily from some seminal artists (“Station” evokes the elegiac, free-wheeling attitude of The Band, and the soft croon that runs throughout “Shadow People” has a Neil Young ring to it), they always make it their own. There’s a contented, juvenile energy that enlivens the whole album, and on tracks such as “Later” you’ll find it damn near impossible to resist the urge to dance.

“Shame” is a battle between the band’s natural elation and the pain they are trying to squeeze out of their systems by way of their voices, guitars and drums. Dog develops a dynamic among the album’s opposing tendencies that lends the work a complex maturity; for example, on tracks such as “Shame, Shame,” it sounds like Scott McMicken has been listening to “Free Bird” as he grinds out slow, painful wails on his guitar. Similarly, although “Later” is a fast-paced song with a bopping piano part and a driving drum beat, the lyrics belie the frustration and disappointment beneath the surface.

It’s unclear whether there’s a resolution to this conflict or just the eternal, self-inflicted ass-kicking facilitated by our persistent pursuit of heartache. Dog is sympathetic: They’ve seen it before, and they’ve been there. They’re not as concerned with finding a way out of the cycle as they are with examining how absurdly solipsistic the whole thing can be. On the title track, for example, McMicken laments: “I used to act like I was in a movie, / so mysterious and misunderstood,” and on “Jackie Wants a Black Eye,” he alludes to a kind of c’est la vie tough love when he sings, “You could say that we’re alone, / but we’re lonely together.” The album title’s resemblance to the Rolling Stones’ single “Sad Sad Sad” may be coincidental, but it seems to tip its hat to their stoic proclamation, “Sad, sad, sad, / but you’re gonna be fine.”

“Shame, Shame” is exuberantly exhausted, the collective memoir of a few guys who have seen the best and worst love has to offer and are resigned to the fact that if they haven’t figured it out by now, they probably never will. Which is to say, there’s a puzzle, but they aren’t as concerned with solving it as they are with knocking a few back and commiserating as they watch all the younger fools shoot themselves in the foot. They’ve made it through the darkness and come out on the other side with nothing to lose.

It’s fitting, then, that there is a sense that McMicken is relieved on “Stranger” when he sings, “I do believe / that there’s no more tricks up my sleeve.” Yes, Radiohead, we do it to ourselves (it’s true), but that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun in the process.

Contact austin bernhardt at

austin.bernhardt@yale.edu .

It should be said that it’s almost impossible to dislike Dog; their music is laid back yet exuberant, earnest without taking itself too seriously. On “Shame, Shame,” they seem more confident than ever before in their identity and their method; they’ve struck a happy balance between paying homage to their heroes and inventing their own style. And although they borrow heavily from some seminal artists (“Station” evokes the elegiac, free-wheeling attitude of The Band, and the soft croon that runs throughout “Shadow People” has a Neil Young ring to it), they always make it their own. There’s a contented, juvenile energy that enlivens the whole album, and on tracks such as “Later” you’ll find it damn near impossible to resist the urge to dance.

“Shame” is a battle between the band’s natural elation and the pain they are trying to squeeze out of their systems by way of their voices, guitars and drums. Dog develops a dynamic among the album’s opposing tendencies that lends the work a complex maturity; for example, on tracks such as “Shame, Shame,” it sounds like Scott McMicken has been listening to “Free Bird” as he grinds out slow, painful wails on his guitar. Similarly, although “Later” is a fast-paced song with a bopping piano part and a driving drum beat, the lyrics belie the frustration and disappointment beneath the surface.

It’s unclear whether there’s a resolution to this conflict or just the eternal, self-inflicted ass-kicking facilitated by our persistent pursuit of heartache. Dog is sympathetic: They’ve seen it before, and they’ve been there. They’re not as concerned with finding a way out of the cycle as they are with examining how absurdly solipsistic the whole thing can be. On the title track, for example, McMicken laments: “I used to act like I was in a movie, / so mysterious and misunderstood,” and on “Jackie Wants a Black Eye,” he alludes to a kind of c’est la vie tough love when he sings, “You could say that we’re alone, / but we’re lonely together.” The album title’s resemblance to the Rolling Stones’ single “Sad Sad Sad” may be coincidental, but it seems to tip its hat to their stoic proclamation, “Sad, sad, sad, / but you’re gonna be fine.”

“Shame, Shame” is exuberantly exhausted, the collective memoir of a few guys who have seen the best and worst love has to offer and are resigned to the fact that if they haven’t figured it out by now, they probably never will. Which is to say, there’s a puzzle, but they aren’t as concerned with solving it as they are with knocking a few back and commiserating as they watch all the younger fools shoot themselves in the foot. They’ve made it through the darkness and come out on the other side with nothing to lose.

It’s fitting, then, that there is a sense that McMicken is relieved on “Stranger” when he sings, “I do believe / that there’s no more tricks up my sleeve.” Yes, Radiohead, we do it to ourselves (it’s true), but that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun in the process.