As folkish singer-songwriters go, Levi Weaver has an unusual biography: the son of a “professional cowboy,” he traded his Texas upbringing for an extended visit to the U.K., where he perfected his songs and live performances in Birmingham clubs. He traded the country music of his early years for Damien Rice and Radiohead. He also happened to meet the reigning queen of electronic pop, Imogen Heap, who promptly asked him to join her tour. After following Heap on a loop through the major U.S. cities, he returned to the Dallas area in time for the release of his first full-length record last week. His debut attempts to bridge the chasm between the rootsy confessions of his American ancestors and the layered intellect of his new British muses.

The eleven tracks on this record may not have many tricks, but they execute their primary trick well. For strolling along such well-worn conceptual paths, Weaver’s narratives relate first-person accounts of love found or love missed with brooding intensity and nuanced complexity. And an assortment of instruments—banjo, mandolin, melodica, wurlitzer, ragtag percussion—shakes seasoning over even the less distinguishable tracks.

When Weaver is good, he’s up there with the best. Over gentle guitar and mournful violin, he whispers “Oh, you are home/And no matter where I go you’re in my bones/And no matter where I sleep/I can never rest outside the place I keep my soul” (the hushed, mournful “You Are Home). The tempo and the outlook brighten on “Sick, or Determined?,” the brief ditty that could easily be mistaken for Josh Ritter. But in place of Ritter’s religious cynicism is open-hearted faith (“What it means to be a man is to believe in something grander than his hands can hold.”)

The indisputable highlight, a cover of Radiohead’s “Idioteque,” achieves transcendence by replicating nearly every sound in the original without electronically-generated instruments. After establishing a subtle loop of guitar-generated percussion (strumming across the bridge, tapping the body), Weaver plays his acoustic guitar with a violin bow to mimic Radiohead’s filtered keyboards. With layered vocal loops, the dense, gorgeous Kid A melodies are slowly unwound and sent to a swelling climax. Weaver is the proud owner of a nuanced voice that adjusts perfectly to the dynamics of his record, but nowhere is his singing more effortless and entrancing.

Wrestling with conflict, love, and faith, You are Never Close to Home, You are Never Far from Home is a record with plenty of highs and lows, carried by undercurrents of inventive, intriguing intelligence.