Max and the Wild Things are a band that would defy expectations — if, in fact, they were the sort of band anyone was in the habit of expecting anything from. Digressing just a bit, you may have heard of the “infinite monkey theorem,” which suggests that a roomful of chimps pounding keys at random at a typewriter will at some point turnout some Shakespeare. Granted, this gobbledygook is more about illustrating the perils of reasoning regarding infinity — and that while the chance of a couple of monkeys turning out Billy Shakes during any appreciable length of time is slim, it’s not entirely impossible. So maybe it’s not so far a stretch that Nashville’s own punk-by-proxy outsider twang ensemble has turned out one sonically pleasant collection of the least obviously catchy songs of the year. So who knows? Maybe if we lock them in the studio long enough, they’ll turn out the next Blonde on Blonde.