Let’s set aside a few minutes to give John Mayer’s new album, “Paradise Valley,” a try. You might like it. You might not, but two things are for sure: We don’t have the same tastes, and you won’t know how you feel about it until you listen for yourself. Consider this, if you wish, as your guide along the way.

The most listenable part of the upbeat and shallow album-opener “Wildfire” comes around 2:24. That “Layla”-esque piano coda is pretty all right, and Mayer solos like “Terrapin Station” – and “Shakedown Street” – era Jerry Garcia. Right on.

“Dear Marie” is laid-back and pleasant, with an immediate, anecdotal feel, like a Guy Clark narrative of and for the millennial generation. Here, Mayer’s lyrics perfectly temper the creepy (“From time to time I go looking for your photograph online”) with the humorous (“But some judge in Ohio is all I ever find”). But jump back! The too-big, Mumford and Sons-style “oh-oh-oh-oh” at the third minute is disappointing – mercifully, it lasts only for a few incongruous seconds.

“Waitin’ on the Day” opens like the Stones’ “Torn and Frayed,” but I can’t force myself to actively listen to the song in its entirety. It occurs to me now that this album would serve as an excellent soundtrack for folding and/or hanging laundry. And by no means is that necessarily a put-down. Hey, everybody needs to fold laundry.

This album picks up in the sort of Americana, country-rock vein with which Mayer began toying with on 2012’s “Born and Raised.” His take on the genre is much more Western than Southern, which makes for a more pleasant, but less sincere listen. That has always been mine and others’ issue with Mayer’s stuff – all too often his obvious talent is wasted on tracks in which he fails to convey any prerequisite standard of genuine meaning beyond catchy choruses and lovey-dovey generalities. But I digress. More on this later, maybe.

“Paper Doll” reads like a super-slowed-down Vampire Weekend broadcast live from a dude ranch. Once again, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

There’s some unbelievably sweet footage on YouTube of Leon Russell and the recently late, forever great J.J. Cale jamming together back in 1979. Judging by the maturity and taste with which Mayer approaches his cover of Cale’s “Call Me the Breeze,” he’d fit in with those dudes just fine. I can think of no greater compliment to bestow. Mayer’s interpretation is just the right amount of mellow and groove, just like Cale did it. And he sounds like he’s got a real, tight Tulsa section backing him up, with just a little organ thrown in there! This may very well be the most satisfying listen on the record.

“Who You Love,” a duet with ex Katy Perry, provides a more forthright synthesis of his folky experimentation and pop inclinations than “Wildfire,” but it’s still largely skip-able. Perry’s bits are better than I expected.

Get past the elementary platitudes of the lyrical content of “I Will Be Found (Lost at Sea),” and there’s a whole lot of music going on there. It’s got just enough slide guitar to be fun the first time around, but so many sounds straddle each other here. You may need to listen, take a minute to think about what you heard and go back to listen again.

“Wildfire” makes another appearance, this time sung by Frank Ocean. Ocean’s version is subtly soulful where Mayer’s was irritatingly cutesy, and the Phil Collins-esque drum runs near the end of the minute-long track contribute haunting exoticism.

I find “You’re No One ‘Til Someone Lets You Down” to be “Paradise Valley’s” most immediately likable cut. From the opening millisecond, it hits you with an avalanche of classic, “rEE-uuu-Ree-du-REER-ee-uu”-style pedal-steel guitar. Mayer channels his inner Willie with his verse line-ending octave drops. Readdressing the tangent above, this is one where Mayer’s recent aspiration to country-folk and catchy-chorus pop combo really hits the spot.

“Badge and Gun” is an interesting mesh of “Pet Sounds”-esque echo chorus and traditional Appalachian-type folk, but it goes on about a minute too long, and the only thing I remember about the album-closing “On the Way Home” is the over-the-top, obnoxiously Mumford-y chorus. But there again, that may be more your thing.