Pitchfork

Critics hate good bands: give us genius or give us Andrew WK. In our world of effusive, odd similes, arcane accusations and contrarian revisionism, either extreme will do, yet to our chagrin, some musicians don't set out to make a quick million or push things forward. Some artists just take what other people do, and do it much better. Such, for instance, is the appeal of the New Pornographers, or Luna, or Aimee Mann.

And Earlimart. There's absolutely nothing on these Californians' third proper album (they released an EP earlier this year) that you haven't heard before on a hundred indie discs. Languid strum patterns, spooky pianos, shimmery arpeggios, distant e-bows sawing away under half-whispered, heavy-lidded vocals-- it's all there. But it's better than you might think.

"We're So Happy (We Left the Piano In the Truck)" opens as a dreamy march, carried along by gentle snare rolls and male/female cooing of the title phrase; I imagine this is what Mirah would sound like if she were sprung free from Phil Elvrum's clutches. The evident single "We Drink On the Job" is a faster and goofier affair, co-produced by Jason Lytle of Grandaddy (this bit of patronage will probably pay off in publicity but it feels quite unnecessary; Aaron Espinoza, who masterminded the rest of the CD, is a terrific producer-- more on that later).

"The Movies" was the first song to leap out at me, demanding replay. It's stately and sad, beginning with a minor piano figure and featuring a slightly strangulated vocal. I'll risk a disservice to Earlimart by comparing it to the Smashing Pumpkins circa Adore-- which is not at all a criticism: j'adore Adore. "Lost At Sea" is a jarring segue, and rocks it like Sparklehorse-- twin funnels of guitar distortion and a barking Vocoder are yours for 1 minute 26 seconds.

The ill-placed "Untitled" is a bit of instrumental filler that makes you suspect Earlimart are straying, but thankfully that's not the case: the catchiest song on this album, "Burning the Cow", is right around the corner. In case you're curious, the chorus actually does go "Burning the cow, burning the cow", not unlike the Judas Priest classic. With any luck, it will become the summer-barbeque sing-along of 2003.

Everyone Down Here stops alternating tempos midway through, and achieves a certain sun-glazed Cali Zen. "Hospital" and "Lazy Feet 23" sway darkly in slo-mo, like seaweed underwater; by the time "Night, Nite" rolls around, you've been lulled into hypnotized contentment. At this point, Espinoza could be whispering assassination orders in your ear and you'd comply tomorrow morning.

The reason it all works? Texture. Aaron Espinoza pays more attention to texture than just about anyone out there twiddling the proverbial knobs. I tend to fall for producers with signature tricks-- Jon Brion's glockenspiels and harmonia, Dave Fridmann's unique way with drums, Albini's ability to press the "rec" button-- but Espinoza's greatness is subtler. Every instrument on "Everyone Down Here" sounds warm, yet weird: hearing a simple tremolo on a guitar lick is, somehow, a revelation. Even the tape hiss that haunts the first and last several seconds of each song is somehow rendered pleasant, like a handful of sand oozing between your fingers.

Earlimart may not allay Grandaddy's Luddite worries, but they do score a small victory over technocrats by providing the best argument for analog studio recording I've heard in a long while. The bedroom is a fine place, and you can loop your uncle's hacking cough into a most excellent percussion bit, but can your sophtware do this?