On their third disc, Self juxtapose hip-hop samples with power pop, jazzy breaks with symphonic flourishes, and barbershop harmonies with psychedelia. Their lyrical whimsy (''Radar hoses go on noses'') is endearing, and their genre-busting is admirable, but the patchwork experimentation is hardly novel in this post-Beck universe. At its best, though, Breakfast With Girls is as flavorful as a bowl of Lucky Charms. B
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