Most Little Wings albums are toy chests, caches of simple playthings where a single shiny knickknack worries itself into the consciousness at the exclusion of everything around it. The rhythmic tumble of a "Next Time" or the subtle sucker punch of a "Shredder Sequel" bliss a full-length into a glorified single. By contrast, Magic Wand is all worn wooden trucks and scruffy teddy bears, forcing the whole menagerie into sharp, comfy focus. Wings major domo Kyle Field is known in the Anacortes, Washington, scene as "Uncle Kyle" (see the Wand lighter lifter "Uncle Kyle Says"). Accordingly, these dozen songs work a sea-sloshing gait with a surfer-guru grin. Field used to seem awestruck by existence; this time around, he's awestruck and trying to come to grips with his role in the universe. His edge is the ability to make this journey of self-discovery sound like the soundtrack to some obscure, short-lived children's program. Soft acoustic guitars, piano and steel drums cushion his whimsical warbles and yelps, sucking you helplessly into his affable, Jack Johnson of the Northwest twilight zone.