Any medium which relies on the passage of time, whether film, literature or music, is destined to wage a battle against sprawl. With no real, natural boundaries to hem the development of a novel or an album, the things can grow to monstrous and unwieldy proportions. And though a book can only be so thick, and only so many minutes of music can be fit on a CD, sequels and double albums abound. The universe of fiction is filled with sprawling, prodigious, excessive achievements. Gravity's Rainbow, like, or Ulysses. Lately, it seems this sort of novel has been enjoying a certain faddish appeal-- remember a couple of summers ago when Henry Holt & Co. were pushing Mason & Dixon like it was the latest member of Oprah's Book Club? Or consider those few months a while back when David Foster Wallace was suddenly and inexplicably as cool as Take That and even more of a hottie than Robbie Williams.

These things seem to have a sort of life cycle, as well: buzz accrues around a book even while it's being written. The thing is then instantly canonized upon publication (and seemingly, for some, even while still in galleys), and hyped until it's snatched up by unwitting Barnes & Noble customer-herds. Within weeks, thousands of copies begin gathering dust on IKEA bookcases nationwide. It's not that a lot of these books don't deserve the attention. But most American copies of Infinite Jest will likely languish-- half-read or less-- until about 20 years from now when the melting of polar icecaps forces citizens of Nevada, Idaho and Arizona to improvise emergency dikes.

Rock music has similar problems with sprawl. Modest Mouse's The Lonesome Crowded West, despite its status as a borderline indie classic, isn't unlike choking down 50 pages of William T. Vollman when taken in one sitting. And who's to say whether or not the excess of OK Computer won't feel tarnished and empty in a couple decades. These things are difficult to predict, and more often than not, the things which remain rewarding year after year are the quietest and most unassuming releases.

Take as proof the bassline from "Val," the opening track on the Czars' debut album. Its slowly descending, slightly sinister sequence doesn't seem like much initially, but since listening to the song for the first time last October, it's been trapped in my skull like brain (only catchier). The rest of the song has a similar timed-release effect: you might not notice right away, but by the third time through, the song's chorus is suddenly unbearably lush, and John Grant's voice-- which at first appeared to be just a little afternoon shower-- is hitting the arroyos of your ears like a flash flood.

Before... But Longer is an antidote to the sprawl of modern rock. Some have called it alt-country, but to my ears, the Czars play traditional country the same way the Birthday Party played aboriginal Australian music. Maybe this is what country would sound like if some temporal malfunction caused Hank Williams to grow up listening to the Smiths and Slowdive. If they don't exactly have a country sound, though, the Czars definitely have a country sensibility: these 11 songs have a restraint and directness that runs counter to the bulk of contemporary music; they're compact and energy-efficient without skimping on the atmosphere.

John Grant's lyrics are simple without being thin, and guitarist Andy Monley keeps his instrument quiet until it really has something to say. Rhythm section Chris Pearson and Jeff Linsenmaier keep things straight and spacious until circumstances call for denser and spookier measures. This is underscored by the signature production of Bella Union founder and Cocteau Twin Simon Raymonde, which manages to be simultaneously fastidious and lush.

Songs aside, though, the truly remarkable thing about the Czars is John Grant's vocals, which come off like Tim Buckley without the '70s folk-metal edge, or like Jeff Buckley's without the histrionics, even if Grant lets it strain at the end of its leash occasionally. As an additional treat, a handful of songs (among them Patsy Cline's "Leavin' on Your Mind") feature backing vocals by Tarnation's too-eiry-to-be-true Paula Frazier.

Calculated or not, the approach of so much of today's music seems to be to nail its audience with as much of an initial impact as possible, and then keep that audience captive for as long as possible in a state of stunned overstimulation. That strategy's efficacy will almost doubtlessly wane over time. Before... But Longer, on the other hand, will surely prove as viable and evocative years down the road as it does today. Maybe Americans of the future will listen to it while they use Tortoise CDs to plug the chinks in that impromptu dike.

-Zach Hooker