Cult status tends to flatten its subjects, rendering them as two-dimensional objects permanently sandwiched like fossils by the mounting strata of time and taste. Just consider so many of the private-press or new-age obscurities that returned to attention through the loving efforts of reissue labels and online enthusiasts during the past quarter century; so often, their veneration hinges more on their creators’ past work (and, frequently, its prescience) than who they have become or what they’re doing now. The implicit message? Be who you were, not are.

For their part, and so far, Duster have navigated this position nobly. Since the wonderfully opaque and subdued California trio faded back into existence in 2018, when a rising tide of streaming numbers helped prompt an indispensable box set from Numero Group, Duster made two very good records, essentially doubling their commercial output in three years. They gently brightened and occasionally toughened their space-rock and slowcore hymns, once so fragile they seemed like very old skeletons. Like Stratosphere and Contemporary Movement before them, those new LPs felt like collections of bittersweet 45s the band remembered they had stashed in the basement, dust permanently lodged into the grooves. Duster sang about the present—desire and disappointment, brightness and ennui—amid slight updates on the sounds of their past. That’s sometimes the best bargain a band excavated from the crates can get.

But Duster’s second phase has now lasted longer than their first; their cross-country run this fall marks nearly six years since they stepped back onstage. This feels like the time when Duster should move definitively beyond their legacy, or when the novelty of becoming a band salvaged by Spotify (and, later, TikTok) must give way for some definitive newness. Released without warning in late August, In Dreams makes no such gambit. Its 13 songs of love and disgust mostly hinge upon the cosmic drift and slow-motion amble that made their early work so enchanting and enduring. The scowl and sway of “Close to Home,” the gentle sweep of “Quiet Eyes,” the quiet roar of “Baking Tapes”: It is absolutely prime Duster, so spot-on it all suggests they may never actually expand upon what that phrase means. However enjoyable In Dreams is, it seems that Duster have forever accepted that two-dimensional version of themselves.

The best moments on In Dreams are the ones that surprise you, that remind you that this is a new album and not another set of salvaged castoffs. “Like a Movie” is a nice-enough song, its simple riff sparkling beneath a patina of fingerprints and underlining its accusations like a wink. “What are you gonna tell all your friends?” Canaan Dove Amber sings, voice as faint as the flicker of a faraway lantern. “Just making up shit for kicks.” But then the band goes nearly silent, with muted pedal whirrs and repeating notes segueing into lonely strums of ragged chords. In a song about never going home, it’s as if Amber’s testing out the feeling of real loneliness, a deliberate pairing of form and function that is almost novel given Duster’s nonchalance.

The middle of “Poltergeist” works in a similar way. A classic Duster tale about the lies we tell one another, the accusatory lullaby slips eventually into a rivulet of static dotted by a faint keyboard melody. It is the feeling of holding onto reality, even if you know what you believe might not actually be real or right. These bits suggest that Duster are searching for other ways to illustrate their sad and sweet tales, staying true to the ragtag charm of their archive but not necessarily its structure.

These, though, are the exceptions that prove the past largely rules here, which is not to say In Dreams is bad. “Quiet Eyes” is a lovely bedtime lullaby, its patient chords and insistent rhythm like a heart rate coming to rest. Amber coos a lover into dreams, his voice curling like a sleepy smile. Above a spring-loaded beat and the twinkle of a Rhodes keyboard, Clay Parton sings during “Black Lace” as if he’s trying to disappear behind the sound, a repetitive guitar lick swiping across the mix like it’s covering for him. This ineffable sense that Duster are perpetually in the act of vanishing has always been one of their primary lures. It remains effective.

Though not their best song, “Inside Out,” from Stratosphere, became Duster’s biggest hit (nearly 13 billion TikTok streams) because it pulls outsized emotions into a small space, 140 ragged seconds that somehow contain a lifetime of tumult. Twice as long, the instrumental wonder “Cosmotransporter” is similar, a cycle of tension and release that holds a world of frustration and redemption, anxiety and exhalation within a tight window. Think M83, pulling the shades on the city to record in some drab suburban living room.

Last year, in celebration of Stratosphere’s 25th anniversary, Numero Group shot a copy into space. On YouTube, you could watch it leave behind its earthbound gray day and rise above the clouds, sun glinting at the camera’s edge. It was a funny little stunt for a record that achieved proverbial liftoff nearly 20 years after it was made, once a new generation stumbled upon its wealth of lo-fi glories online. Why not the sky, then? It didn’t attain orbit, of course, so you could watch it come back down, too, returning through the clouds and over an endless expanse of farmers’ fields before sending rabbits scurrying as it hurtled toward the earth. In Dreams isn’t at all a crash-landing, but it is a soft one, as Duster settle into a perception of themselves rather than fly above it.