The Cherry Glazerr kids apologized for not being able to talk about being in talks with other labels — a situation with which Mr. Rickard and Mr. Bohrman seem cool — but were clear that they owed a lot of their forward motion to Burger. Two years ago, Mr. Bohrman found Ms. Creevy’s solo recordings on Soundcloud (as Clembutt). Within months, the band formed, and Burger put out its first tape; then Burger promoted its first gig at a skate park. A little more than a year later, the group was playing to 5,000 people at Burgerama, the label’s annual festival, in nearby Santa Ana; attendance tripled from 2013 and 2014.

What was that about fourth-wave garage rock? It’s not a thing; there’s little acknowledgment or self-consciousness about that idea among Burger or its bands. But the Burger aesthetic is cheap, messy, in praise of kicks and deep feelings rendered clumsily: three-chord guitar songs through trebly, reverb-ed amps about girlfriends, boyfriends, food, intoxicants, crushes, sex, breaking up, other bands. Those are the common denominators that relate Burger’s music to a past tradition in rock ’n’ roll. It’s all pretty straightforward, and pretty sunny minded. Cherry Glazerr’s song “Grilled Cheese” is about exactly that. Its song “Bloody Band-Aid” is about falling in love and being rebuffed, but in floppier, realer terms:

I had a crush on you

And now I have this weird bloody Band-Aid

And I’ve got the pin that your band made

And I feel weird.

The first wave of garage rock was in the mid-’60s: the Seeds, ? and the Mysterians and so on. The second, conscious of its precedent and in thrall to “Nuggets,” the garage-rock compilation-LP series, happened in the late ’70s and ’80s: the Cramps, the Lyres, the Chesterfield Kings. The third came in the late ’80s and ’90s, looser and cruder and punkier but still history minded: the Gories, the Dwarves, the Mummies. And now this, with a fainter influence of the old masters and overlays of fragility, ambition and weirdness from all directions. Burger bands sound informed by all kinds of things: Syd Barrett, Beat Happening, the Monkees, Cat Power, Otis Redding, the Minutemen, Orange County punk bands of the ’80s. (The Shears’s father, Steven, played drums for one of those bands, Shattered Faith.)

Its basic unit, besides the cassette, has been the all-ages gig — especially at the Smell, in downtown Los Angeles — or an art space, or a skate park, or someone’s house. A few years ago, Danny Bengston from Together Pangea was a fine art major at California Institute of the Arts; he used to break into studio spaces at school during the summer and put on gigs. “That was the only place we could throw shows and not get in serious trouble,” he said. “They can’t shut down CalArts.”

Will fourth-wave garage rock change American culture in any measurable way? Perhaps not, but who knows? The musicians around Burger are interested in the past but not beholden to it: They’re fast moving, productive, interconnected, up to many things all the time. They’re too busy working, or having fun, though there may not be a meaningful difference, to second-guess themselves. The story of garage rock’s third wave was told with authority in an excellent recent book called “We Never Learn,” written by Eric Davidson of the band the New Bomb Turks. Mr. Rickard and Mr. Bohrman haven’t read it.

Mr. Rickard and Mr. Bohrman, as facilitators of this world, make nothing but sense. One way to understand them is that they have known each other since high school in Anaheim, and were in a band together, Thee Makeout Party!, spending nearly 10 years on the road in a van, meeting pretty much everyone else in the gathering fourth wave. Another way to understand them is to know that Mr. Rickard used to live above, and work in, the tack and feed store at Rancho del Rio Stables in Anaheim, which his mother managed; and that Mr. Bohrman was kicked out of high school for disseminating a zine full of nonsense, satire and scabrous reactions to school policies. A stable, a subculture, a store and samizdat. That’s pretty much the blueprint for what they’re doing now.

Also, Disneyland is in Anaheim, five miles away. Burger, finally, aspires to be a dream factory. I asked Mr. Rickard about his model for the label, now that it’s popping, now that it’s got distribution and press and bands being courted by bigger labels. “The Monkees,” he said. Well, sure, I said, but I mean in a business sense. “The Monkees,” he repeated, his eyes going googly. “We love bubble gum music. With bubble gum, cartoon bands in particular, you could manipulate and create what you want with the best studio musicians and create your own world. We’re big on creating our own world.”