Warwick’s Secondhand Stories are (grand simplification here, but we only have so much space) somewhat along the lines of a Talk Talk (note the extra “Talk”; not the local band of old) or Sam Beam if either of those acts were signed to an up-to-the-minute indie-like Thrill Jockey: The music is soaring yet hushed, harmonically bell-clear and so analog-warmed that you forget all the digital whoseewhatsits comprising the lush backing. What’s more, Warwick can cut to the bone with a melancholy note or hopeful couplet with equal grace, and his gift with what the French call “le mot juste” is justifiably applauded in local songwriter circles. Now if we could just hear that new record.