Some artists are prolific and some are efficient; but then some are the Wrens. The prolific tend to run into trouble with the overall consistency of their music: some is excellent, some just all right and the rest leaves the listener only to shudder. The efficient release an album every two to three years like clockwork. The Wrens, however, are in a category all by themselves.

The Wrens, from Hoboken, N.J., last released Secaucus in 1996, and in September they (finally) released the follow up, The Meadowlands (Absolutely Kosher). In the seven years that had passed between releases there had been two presidential elections, a presidency was reduced to a trashy romance novel with The Starr Report and John Ashcroft was appointed to head up the nouveau Gestapo. All political events aside, the collective Macalester student body had yet to be eligible for their driver’s licenses. However, years of sociopolitical changes and a recession have not been able to defeat the Wrens.

What truly matters is that the Wrens, along with a handful of other artists, show that American rock music can still have a legitimate effect on people and transcend tenuous politics. The Meadowlands doesn’t follow a cue from any current trend, and after a quick listen can sound misdated. But what holds The Meadowlands together is its central theme of blundered moments, like slackers finally realizing they have misplaced seven years of their prime.

The album opens with the contrite “The House That Guilt Built,” which eases in with the sound of chirping crickets and cicadas. Following is a lulled guitar and a harmonized, “It’s been so long/ since you heard from me/ got a wife and kid/ that I never see.” From the beginning it is apparent that the Wrens feel apologetic, but it is not quite discernible to whom they are apologizing: a single person, their fans, their parents or themselves. The first track goes on to finish much like it started: “I’m nowhere near/ what I dreamed I’d be/ I can’t believe/ what life has done to me.”

The Wrens’ message is best encapsulated in this first song. It is not one of latent, brooding teen angst, but a controlled feeling that they have betrayed themselves as well as the ones around them and the only way to make it up is through music. On “This Boy Is Exhausted,” a supercharged guitar and drum-driven song about the band’s dread while passing the time between albums, they lament “I can’t tell/ a hit from hell one sing-along/ but then Greg plugs in/ a treble checking that says we might win.”

It is obvious when listening to the way the first two tracks flow from one to another musically and thematically that the Wrens have won. With Secaucus there was something missing as the Wrens fired through a sprawling 19 tracks. With seven years of rewriting and production there is a sense of confidence, even though the lyrics might say otherwise. Nothing on The Meadowlands needs to be spruced up, quieted down or reworked. I had read one review that likened the album to a “personal journal” with its bipolar feelings, like the Pixies juxtaposed to a strung out Yo La Tengo—giving the album more of an honest and spontaneous feel rather than something contrived.

Though it is not the best album of the year, The Wrens’ The Meadowlands is objectively the most complete and definitive album I have listened to so far. The Wrens’ recent obscurity (seven years of it) has made it difficult for them to keep a large fan base. However, The Meadowlands is an album that lovers of American indie rock should find solace in. And if you stick with them long enough, you might get to hear more.