Since the days of the Beatles there have been plenty of great marginalized songwriters, sent to the sidelines to stew in their own creative juices until their main meal ticket takes a break (or, in the case of George Harrison and those Beatles, breaks up). New Pornographers albums always make room for a couple of tracks spotlighting Dan Bejar or Neko Case, but those two have their equally prominent solo projects as outlets. Hell, even lead Porno Carl Newman felt the need to release something under his own name. As for rest of the busy bunch, Newman's niece Kathryn Calder plays in the Immaculate Machine, John Collins aids Bejar in Destroyer, Kurt Dahle recently played drums on Chris Walla's solo bow, and Blaine Thurier makes movies.

Which brings us to New Pornographers guitarist Todd Fancey, who has his own solo project, not very creatively but still appropriately enough called Fancey. Fancey's 2004 debut was unabashed in its affection for 1970s soft rock, and listening to it you can hear why there might not be room for Fancey's tracks in the New Pornographers. Unlike many side projects, Fancey sounds nothing like the main gig, save for his love of pop and ear for pleasant chord progressions.

Fancey has already begun work on a third album, but in the meantime there's album number two, Schmancey, which was released last fall. Schmancey offers more of the same AM rock, stuff that goes down smooth but doesn't exactly rock the boat (and we're talking yacht). Still, a few exposures to the tight harmonies of "Lost in Twilight" or the mildly subversive (ELO by way of Steely Dan) "Blue Star"-- a breezy paean to taking drugs-- and you're likely to ask permission to come aboard.

If that boat metaphor seems cheesy, wait until you hear the music, always well-crafted and rife with twisted (if subtle) lyrical details. Heck, songs like the country rock-lite "Fader", "Heaven's Way", or the disco-on-downers "Feels Like Dawn"-- while perfectly produced in glorious state-of-the-art (circa 35 years ago) hi-fi-- sound like they should be played at low volume, the better to replicate an elevator's hidden sound system or the thin murmur of an old transistor radio behind the front desk as you check into a cheap hotel. But the kitsch factor isn't always a bad thing, since Fancey's aforementioned affection is certainly infectious. This is innocent appropriation, short on smarmy irony but long on mellow tunes, music made to be enjoyed, forgotten, then rediscovered years down the line as more effective (and affecting) than the soundtracks to all those long cross country car rides may have seemed at the time. It's thrift-store chic, music that smells a tad of mildew and mold but which brings a smile to your face all the same.