I can’t comment, with any authority or specificity, as to the precise identities of these Old Friends, but, were I a gambling man, I dare say I’d wager that they’re all of the dusty vinyl variety. Generally speaking, it’s a knock to say that a band is merely the sum of its record collection, but I don’t mean it as one here; this second I Was a King album is a cratedigger’s fancy, in the very best possible way. Of course, part of that is simply a result of a pretty unassailable record collection, but most of it has to do with their attitude. There’s nothing formal or self-aware about this raggedy rock and roll shindig, but instead, the impression I get is of a band that just wants to make a joyful racket, damn the comparisons and full speed ahead.

So, old friends: the oldest, and perhaps the fondest, is the Beatles, and that’s no big surprise. This is an album built on the trusty foundation of cocksure power pop and warm vocal harmonies. But if that’s the basic blueprint, the spirit of the thing reminds me more of the homespun, recorded-in-my-basement charms of the best Paul McCartney albums — which, in my book, find their pinnacle in the lo-fi appeal of Ram, not the high-gloss Band on the Run, to which this King album bears basically no resemblance. There’s a woozy brass band that steers its parade through some of these songs, something that, given the context, is probably another subconscious Beatles homage, but, given the rugged, off-the-cuff nature of its pomp, never really sounds like one. For that matter, there are some instrumental moments that could almost pass for psychedelic, did they not blend so well into the basement-tapes din of this thing. Add some of the sonic wankery of Pavement and you’re beginning to get the picture, even if this band never sounds anywhere close to aping Stephen Malkmus’ hipster apathy — and thank God for that.

Actually, detachment is about the furthest thing from Old Friends; if Pavement made it cool not to care, this is a band that revels in the do-it-yourself camaraderie of record-making, and the thing that sets this album apart as a thing unto itself is the sense of spontaneous joy it derives simply from making a bunch of noise. To that end, take note that these Norwegians have, since the release of their debut, been welcomed with open arms into the Sounds Familyre family, thus affiliating them with Sufjan Stevens, Wovenhand, and Danielson. Old friends, and, it would seem, new friends: Sufjan was actually a guest player on their first album, and here his spindly, banjo-lead folk provides the lead-in to the ghostly “Learning the Fly,” while Danielson’s own cacophonous exuberance is as much a guiding spirit as that of Ram for this homemade party album.

At times I think it almost works to their disadvantage, insofar as the sheer noisiness of this thing — as well as its breakneck pace, careening as it does through twelve songs, only two of which clock in past the three minute mark — obscure the fact that, even if the band doesn’t take themselves seriously, they do take their craft seriously. In other words, don’t be thrown by the seemingly improvised ratatat drumming and jangling tambourine that herald the beginning of “The Wylde Boys” — the hook is no joke, and the way its half-goofy pomp and circumstance is underscored by wheezy brass is a stroke of percussion genius. That song crashes into “Echoes,” a pitch-perfect marriage of Beatles-styled harmonies (and more horns!) and college-rock jangle.

An even brighter highlight is “Forgive and Forget,” which strikes me as exactly the kind of thing Rivers Cuomo might write if he had any lingering interest in appeasing Weezer fans for whom greatness begins and ends with Pinkerton. If he ever did do another song like this, it would be an instant career highlight; the lyrics are earnestly emotional, loveably honest and a tad goofy, but the handclap beat and propulsive hook are nothing but power pop smarts, plain and simple.

But I don’t mean to suggest that I Was a King harbors any interest in being a band in the same sphere as Weezer; their aim isn’t for arena-rattling theatrics so much as the giddy rush of banging around with a bunch of friends, making an album of simple pleasures and homespun charms. How else does one explain the heavy metal squall that begins “Unreal,” or how it settles into an steady country/Western gait before erupting again into pure, devilish noise? It doesn’t particularly make sense, but its construction is nevertheless whipsmart and its spirit one of unpretentious fun — something that can, of course, be said of the album as a whole. The hooks mean that the album sinks in pretty quickly, while the ramshackle production and ragged performances help it maintain a certain freshness long after the fact — meaning, I imagine, that the album itself will eventually become an old friend to a good many of us.