Starlight Mints have traced a breadcrumb trail straight through our collective unconscious to reveal that perhaps all of the classic pop radio songs of previous generations have now become part of our genetic make-up.

As a result, the Norman, OK, quintet seems to suggest that we've all been sharing the same dream — and the soundtrack is the dream that stuff was made of.

Just as any new generation shows signs of mutation, Starlight Mints are bred from such disparate progenitors as British Invasion spunk, bubble-gum pop, Latin American psychedelia and late 20th Century alternative rock. Like any dream, it somehow all makes perfect sense.

Begun as a seven-piece moody pop orchestra — complete with string section — the group has since solidified into a five-piece that exudes the gliding, mutant grandeur heard on its debut album. Guitarist/vocalist and principal songwriter, Allan Vest contends that his surrealist songs are borne of a need to "find the melody with the odd note." Like David Bowie leading the Latin American psych-pop legends Os Mutantes, or Lee Hazlewood fronting the Kinks, Vest and company sound like the unsung heroes of our subconscious record collection.

According to drummer and co-founder, Andy Nunez, the band's members — Vest, Nunez (who played guitar and keyboards on the album), keyboardist Marian Love Nunez, bassist Javier Gonzales and guitarist Matt Goad — have always been more drawn to the music of distant influences. And, somehow, the melodies that comprise the dream that stuff was made of sound just like a sleepy stroll down memory lane in David Lynch's neighborhood. "At times we were trying to write traditional, catchy pop songs," explains Nunez, "but because Allan's kind of skewed — and I guess I am too — things just came out strange."

Consider the perky pop opener, "Submarine #3," which begins with an introductory overture of strings heralding the eleven Baroque pop songs that follow. The waltzing sway of cello and violin is quickly jabbed by Vest's slicing whammy-bar bends and a stomping Ringo-ready beat. "Sir Prize" pits a minuet string melody over a whistled harmony as guitarist Matt Goad strums ringing open chords and bassist Javier Gonzales plucks out the tune's sturdy frame. "Cracker Jack" hangs on a tremolo-soaked minor-chord guitar line, as Vest sings over a despondent, descending melody, "it's an illusion."

"I'm your classic bedroom songwriter kind of guy," Vest admits. "I'd rather be writing songs at home than out playing a show." Perhaps it is this willful solitude that has allowed Starlight Mints to hone its anachronistic and boundless sound, rather than harbor in the sounds of its geographic locale. Asked if the band were influenced by the traditionally skewed Norman music scene, a surprised Nunez sarcastically asks, "there's a Norman scene?"

Being a band from the American Bible belt, some will find it odd that Starlight Mints sound simultaneously like troops of the British Invasion and descendents of Latin American psychedelia, among other things. But, the band's warped netherworld hits are essentially the product of the hummable harmonies that now resonate in the genes of those raised on pop radio. "This seems so cliché," Nunez admits, "but we really love the music that everybody likes: we love the Beach Boys, the Beatles, the Pixies, the Kinks… But, with all the right people contributing to our sound, it comes out somehow new."

Busily crafting the soundtrack to the dreaming universe, Starlight Mints are the band that's been sleeping in your head.

Like David Bowie leading the Latin American psych-pop legends Os Mutantes, or Lee Hazlewood fronting the Kinks, Starlight Mints are the band that's been sleeping in your head.