The throughline from Case Oats' first show to their debut album is trust, in the songs and in their players. Resonating from the messiest chambers of the heart, Last Missouri Exit is a bruised affair, the band swelling around Gomez Walker as she describes coming of age in terms of being loyal to desperately flawed people and eventually, with some distance from home, being true to herself. The songs found their shape live, and initial recordings took place, as Gomez Walker recalls, "Big Pink-style," in the basement of a house shared by Ashworth, Subar, and touring member Chet Zenor. "We tracked these songs over three hot August days with our friends, just trying to capture the energy that existed between us." "It was intentionally bare-bones," says Tweedy, who engineered the session with Ashworth and Subar and produced the album. "We brought just enough stuff to the basement to be able to record. We were lucky to have played a lot of shows in the months leading up to the session, so we just played like we had been playing, no preciousness." That initial basement session is the home in which Last Missouri Exit grew up, serving both as place of origin and destination as Gomez Walker and Tweedy recorded the vocals in separate sessions at home. Lyrics that read as wincingly true-"Your brother was the golden boy and you were your mother's pup / The safety of her guiding arms kept you from f***ing up" goes one couplet from "Buick Door"-fully bloom to life in the light of that attention, steeled by the distance between Gomez Walker and the inciting incidents of her songs. Her voice is confident and tender, catching the thrill of a drum fill or the aching expanse of pedal steel and channeling the momentum into the hopes and heartaches of small-town Midwestern life. On the drive north on the freeway to Chicago from Gomez Walker's hometown, the sign just before the Illinois border reads, in part, "Last Missouri Exit." It is a point on the map, and, for her, a point of no return. Crossing it one day signaled the end of her childhood and the beginning of the rest of her life. The album is a hinge between those two states, it's pangs of homesickness overlapping with the thrill of breaking for the horizon. "In a Bungalow" regards that overlap in golden-hour light, a song whose keen longing for home-it's sweet springs and slow days and old friends-is only possible because she left a place that once felt like the center of the universe. "Nora," like the band's buzzed-about Merge debut single "Seventeen," is brooding and playful (Gomez Walker calls it "a love song for the woman your boyfriend left you for"), and it's unexpected refrain ("I'm glad you are here now / I can see now") is a bolt-from-the-blue revelation, a bit of late-night introspection brimming with wit and grace. Last Missouri Exit is an album that longs to be listened to while one watches the sun set from their porch swing, but it's wistful, idyllic take on the Midwest isn't nostalgia for the past-it's what Case Oats conjured in the basement one summer on an ad-hoc rig, a document of a band that grew together around these songs at a newfound peak of their collaborative powers. What they've made is warm and inviting, an album that reveals itself on first spin and grows deeper with each listen.