I recently read somewhere that Pink Nasty (nee Sara Beck) is a protégé of Will Oldham. As evinced on this particular release, said master/pupil relationship is subtle at best. Absent are the haunting starkness and the mumbled lyrics of sexual perversions and self-deprecation typical of much of Oldham’s repertoire. There are no lines like, “she’s a fine looking lady, and she likes to go down on me.” Rather, Mold the Gold is crisp — occasionally too polished — and a bit more polite. At times, it’s reminiscent of Liz Phair, circa Exile in Guyville. It’s got those terse, jangly guitars and cleaver turns of phrase that made falling out of love so much fun back in 1993. Unfortunately, despite Ms. Nasty’s best attempts to disavow the hackneyed singer/songwriter persona and create something eclectic and less conventional, there are several moments that are way too familiar, and she ends up sounding too much like Sheryl Crow or even Liz Phair on her last album, which was mostly forgettable pop for the Nick-at-Nite set.

Those who make it to the end of this album — and this is shouldn’t be too arduous of a feat — will be rewarded with an ironic take on the call-and-response love ballad, featuring none other than Oldham himself. There is something so damn endearing about Oldham singing: “please, baby, won’t you shut the fuck up … you know that I love you/and words can’t describe this feeling that I’m feeling.”