I don't know what it is, but I've grown up with a particular love for doo-wop and '50s romantic music. Of course, a large part of it has to do with being raised on the defunct 97.3 KBSG, which truly did play oldies. The latest they would extend would be to play some falsetto rock from the '70s, and of course they'd liberally pepper hours with the Beatles, but their true treasure was showing the pristinely beautiful offerings of the pre-Beatles era of the mid-'50s to early '60s. It was here where I got my exposure to Del Shannon, Gary and the Pacemakers, and Neil Sedaka, among many others. The Vogues provided the pop soundtrack to my childhood, and that love remains with me, even after years of being exposed to exponentially more daring music.

What is it about these songs that bewitches me? They consistently trade in cliches and tropes, but there's a purity of songwriting spirit inherent in these bits of wondrous music that transcends corniness. Even in the most standard-sounding songs, there is a heart that bleeds. Del Shannon's "Hats Off to Larry," for instance, finds a singer at his most bitter and ruthlessly spiteful. When a woman has betrayed him, he applauds her next boyfriend for breaking her heart. That this all sounds like candy essentially adds to the gleeful menace.

So, here, we find Raven Marcus. Yes, they don't quite equate to the paradigm that I've established, but it was their doo-wop-inspired "Oil & Water" that I first heard, and that was enough to hook me in. The idea of two people not being able to mix, like oil and water, is a classic in these romantic songs. Still, here, there's a sense of something more. The narrator laments that her love won't collaborate with her, musically, so she threatens that she'll end up stealing his music. In the end, it all feels like a bluff - we could make a beautiful pair if you'd only open your eyes.

The trio of Raven Marcus, hailing from San Francisco, consists of Natalia Montana Rose Miner (vocals and mandolin), Rob Johnson (drums and percussion) and Bronwyn Dexter on bass. They describe themselves as "cowboy glam rock," which does a nice job of describing their folky approach to pop songs. With a mandolin as the lead instrument, there is an inescapable lightness that lends a bouncy quality to even their darkest compositions. The trio of voices harmonizing gives a grace to their songs that even surpasses the delicacy of the instrumentation.

When they throw distortion into the mix, Raven Marcus start to approach the bratty pop of Cyndi Lauper. An electrified mandolin creates a buzzy din that easily lends itself to yelpy pop-punk. As these moods and sounds shift and change, lead vocalist Miner proves herself to be a capable conductor of off-kilter pop. When she needs to shout, she shouts; when she's burning slowly, you can feel it under your skin.

I started this off by talking about the beauty of '50s pop, and about how it can be immensely satisfying to find perfection in proven models. I still find this to be the case, even after years of writing about music have strongly steered me toward writing about the unusual. What I find to be ideal, ultimately, is the idea of the unusual and the expected being mashed together (like in The Fly) to produce something satisfying in both a familiar and frightening way. Raven Marcus reached into that stubborn bit of my brain and tickled it just right.

RAVEN MARCUS, w/ Aan, Fruit Juice, 8 pm, Friday, Jan. 9, Deadbeat Olympia, 226 N. Division St., Olympia, $5, 360.943.0662