The first words on the debut EP from Son of George – the nom de rock of accomplished New York songwriter David Doobinin – portend darkness. Over a taut guitar strum worthy of Matthew Sweet or Velvet Crush, Doobinin softly sings, "I was the wreck/ you were the wreckage."

Those dualities -- rise and fall, wreck and recovery, dying and being born -- run throughout the 5 songs on Son of George, acting as a stirring reminder of the power of the ever-passing moment, testifying to both the fragility of life and the endless possibility for renewal. "When I was in my old band, I used to wear pearls," Doobinin says, "because pearls represent to me life's moments. I know it sounds corny, but that's the idea I keep coming back to: that life is a series of moments, all strung together. I try to write songs that allow you to put yourself in those moments."
 
Recorded by Doobinin and ex-Longwave frontman Steve Schiltz, who Doobinin met when he was fronting storied New York buzz band skywriter in the late '90s, the EP is an exercise in masterful pop songwriting, delicate but indelible melodies strung across glimmering musical backdrops. And while Doobinin showed hints of this panache with skywriter, Son of George finds his knack for an instantly-memorable chorus has grown tenfold. The album's ease and grace is a testament to the Doobinin and Schiltlz' enduring partnership. Says Schiltz, "The best thing about working with Dave is that he just jumps right in. He was fearless -- he would try a totally new approach if I thought the original wasn't working, and he didn't care if I had a completely different idea. He would listen to it and consider it." The album was recorded at a home studio in Queens, with Doobinin playing and singing in the dining room while Schiltz monitored from the basement. Jokes Schiltz, "Dave is a rock star -- but boy does he eat a ton of sweets. I'm still picking up M&M's from under the bass drum. Though the duo played all of the instruments on the EP, Doobinin chose the Son of George moniker both as a tribute to his father and a reflection on his own recent journey into fatherhood – the passing from one generation to the next being yet another of life's great dualities.
 
The EP favors roaring power-pop, bringing to mind the keening soulfulness of Rhett Miller, the pop panache of Fountains of Wayne and even the soft ache of Elliot Smith. Offsetting the sterling songwriting, Doobinin's voice is treated with a rare 1970s Electra Delay pedal, which gives it a distinct, ghostly effect. The combined impact is potent, offset by Doobinin's painterly approach to storytelling.
 
"In the past, when it came time to write lyrics, I culled from this little 'garden of pain,'" Doobinin laughs. "Now, I'm going through the next door. I want to try to be more of a narrative writer. And sometimes, it was a challenge -- I needed to learn how to move forward as a writer."
 
The songs on Son of George bear witness to a challenge successfully met: in "Summertime," he crafts a radiant bit of sunshine pop that rivals Ryan Adams and Teenage Fanclub; the ringing, jubilant "Shadows" has the potency and triumph of early U2 – with the indelible melody to match. And in "Forgotten Ones," the EP's most arresting song, Doobinin crafts a storyline worthy of Raymond Carver, contemplating the cold, anonymous fate of the people buried at Potters' Field against an aching, minor-key backdrop. The song builds slowly, arriving at last at its poignant refrain: "There's a place where 'Hallelujah' means nothing at all."

"Having a child, and thinking about all of the roads in life that were open to her, and loving her and wanting the best for her just made me realize all of the different places that other, less-fortunate people have ended up," Doobinin explains. "Some of them have ended up in this field where no one knows who they are. That's where that line came from: 'Is there a place where 'Hallelujah' means nothing at all?' As I was finishing the song, I actually went out to City Island and looked across at the cemetery, because I wanted to actually feel what it was like to be in that moment."
 
"Forgotten Ones" works largely because of Doobinin's mastery of nuance and implication – creating images rather than hand-holding the listener into a forced revelation. "I had a friend who was a painter," Doobinin explains. "They told me: you don't paint the subject, you paint everything around the subject. I liked that a lot, and try to use the same approach when I write – I try to rely more on hints and nuance than anything else."
 
That skill comes through over and over, from the breathtaking, Henry Miller-inspired ballad "Hummingbird" to the insistent turbulence of "About to Break," all of them small moments, expertly rendered. They're short stories as pop songs, snapshots of life's odd intersections. Appropriately, Doobinin will be exploring more literal intersections throughout the course of 2011, playing a string of dates in the U.S. and Europe, with a number of sets at South By Southwest.
"Someone once told me, 'I was listening to one of your songs and I had to pull over to the side of the road to listen to it again,' Doobinin recalls. " That's what I love, and that's what I hope for – that people get so caught up in the song that they are able to take themselves out of what they were doing and just experience it."