Most people mark the changing of seasons by updating their wardrobes; Ty Segall simply puts out another record. Twins is the prolific San Fran garage-punk prodigy’s third release of the year, coming hot on the heels of this summer’s scuzz-rock scorcher Slaughterhouse and Hair, the acid-addled collaboration with psych-folkie White Fence that dropped in the spring. Fortunately, the evidence continues to suggest he’s not even close to spreading himself too thin.

Where the aforementioned records presented Segall at, respectively, his most killer-stare focussed and his most unapologetically shambolic, Twins falls somewhere in the middle, showcasing his uncanny ability to pass off punk-rock slop as bubblegum-tasty pop and vice versa.

That balance between aggression and agreeability is a lot harder to pull off than Segall makes it appear, but beneath his ramshackle charm simmers an unsettling preoccupation with mortality: Twins is rife with calls for doctors, fears of becoming a ghost, and stern warnings that “There Is No Tomorrow.” Therein lies the method to his madness: Segall’s disco­graphy is so long because he’s fully aware life is too short.