On their third album, Days of Abandon, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart frontman Kip Berman is a young romantic in a state of flux. The Pains' still-stellar self-titled debut and 2011's Flood-helmed, fully Corgan-ized Belong put precious little distance between Berman's heart and his sleeve: these were head-spinning, chest-swelling records, drunk on romance, dizzy with possibility. Abandon doesn't completely ditch the heart-bursting intensity that powered the Pains' previous work, but it's no longer its driving force. Once a starry-eyed daydreamer pitching woo at anybody in earshot, Berman now sounds like a guy who's seen his share of heartbreak, and is looking to reconcile his youthful idealism with the complexities and complications of post-adolescent coupling.

For some, Belong's buzzsawing guitars and brazenly romantic lyrics were all just a bit much. Still, given the leap between the debut's mid-fi melodrama and Belong's amplified alt-rock ambitions, it seemed only natural that Berman might take the Pains into bigger, more bombastic places on his new record—and that notion dissolves just a few seconds into "Art Smock", Abandon's delicate, Felt-referencing opener. From the very first notes, Abandon is subtler, more graceful and, sure, more "mature" than any Pains record before it. The spindly, hushed "Smock" might just be the single most delicate song in the Pains catalog, but more tellingly, it's easily the most nostalgic as well, a sweet-and-sour remembrance of a relationship-that-wasn't. So many of Berman's songs seem to take place in the immediate present: whatever's being felt, it's being felt right then and now, and the vibe of "all we have is this moment" gives his best songs their crackling urgency. Up against those early records, "Smock" feels more reflective, more wistful. It's a look at the present through the lens of the past, in which Berman allows lived-in experience step in and take over for all that untempered passion.

This fine-tuning of Berman's emotional outpouring—more pragmatic, less excitable—carries throughout much of Abandon. "Tell me that we're still so young," Berman sighs atop the high-test twee of "Beautiful You", before adding, "But you’re wrong, so wrong." On "Until the Sun Explodes", Berman's in a hospital room, at the bedside of his betrothed, making big promises. This is hardly Berman's first song about unwavering devotion, but with its implication of mutual addiction and somewhat startling reference to "funeral clothes", it's probably his most complicated. As he sings on bouncy lead single "Simple and Sure," Berman wants something that just feels "absolutely right." But that's the ideal, not necessarily the reality; sometimes, things get messy, and you wind up gurney-side, looking on helplessly as the object of your affection breathes through a tube. These wrinkles—anxious memories, telling recollections, none-too-idyllic scenes from the past—are all over Abandon. Berman's certainly turned in sweeter, more rousing sets, but he's never written anything that feels quite so true to life.

In the wake of Belong, Pains underwent a fairly seismic personnel shift: several original members—singer/keyboardist Peggy Wang, guitarist Chris Hochheim and bassist Alex Naidus —have either left the band or taken diminished roles, leaving just the core lineup of Berman and drummer Kurt Feldman. On Abandon, the pair are joined by Beirut's Kelly Pratt and A Sunny Day in Glasgow singer Jen Goma; when she's not matching Berman harmony-for-harmony, Goma—like Wang before her—takes the lead on several of these tracks. Goma's sweet yet knowing tone makes a good foil for Berman's delicate heart-to-hearts, as her spry turn on the buoyant "Kelly" is maybe Abandon's finest moment, its sputtering drumbeat at one point all but backing up just to make sure it doesn't miss anything she's saying.

Musically, Abandon's the fizziest Pains record yet. Gone are the plumes of distortion, and in their place there's a crisp, effervescent gallop, splitting its time between dreamy balladry and spotless indie-pop. Granted, it's not all perfect: the sun-dappled insurance-commercial chug of the too-rousing-by-half "Coral and Gold" gets smothered by its own bombast, while elsewhere, Pratt's lighter touches fade gently into the background. But there's a newfound patience to just about everything else here, a deliberate, well-heeled sound that sits well with Berman's more ruminative lyrical turns.

On first contact, Abandon can come across as muted and brittle, lacking the laid-bare emotional charge that carried its predecessors. Berman's in fine voice (faux-British accent and all) throughout Abandon, and—the overblown "Coral and Gold" aside—these melodies are sturdy, even regal. But it's certainly a less thrilling record than what came before it, more refinement than reinvention, more likely to gather its thoughts than spill them out to anyone within earshot. the fact that Berman didn't try to outdo the grandiose Belong is a good thing, but Abandon can't help but come across as a transitional record, the first entrant in the Pains' "mature" period, with the promise of more to come.

Berman's called Abandon the most personal Pains record to date, and there's no reason to doubt him: he's applying the lessons of his own life to this music, all the tiny triumphs and harrowing heartbreaks that come from being young and in love. So as good as Abandon is, one can't help but think the more he goes through, the richer and more resonant his music will become. "He’d come to my garret, and we’d make something like love," Goma recalls halfway through the bustling "Life After Life". Still, she says, "The flowers he gave me have wilted/ But I keep them, like I keep him." Some love lasts forever; most dries up like tulips in a vase—but with every heartbreak comes a well-earned lesson, a souvenir to keep until the next one comes along. On Abandon, an increasingly wizened Berman seems to've picked up plenty.