In the age of the single download, Jeff Harford rediscovers the album.
Too often, the deeper they delve into life's miseries, the more things tend to sound the same and we goad them for it. Yeah, your dog died and the farm's going under; get over it!
Lucinda Williams has never been shy of wearing her heart on her sleeve, yet something about her world-weary countenance and knife-edge vulnerability makes her immune from prosecution. Even when buffing her sound to a pristine sheen, as she did on 1998 commercial breakthrough Car Wheels On A Gravel Road, what might otherwise have come across as generic American roots-rock bore earthier qualities that saw it rise above the ordinary.
Even the staunchest of curmudgeons would find it hard to resist the album's invitation to share in a little inclusive wallowing. Many songs are so generously coated in hooks that they beg to be sung along with, preferably as you drive down dusty gravel roads in a yellow El Camino. With Williams at the wheel, you're taken on a tour of the Deep South, taking in each town that has left its mark and each affair that has flared brightly before dying.
Williams' vocal delivery has always set her apart from the mainstream. Here, her lazy drawl suggests mild inebriation, the kind that loosens the tongue and makes you spill secrets. It's also the thing that conveys the truth in her lyrics, each weirdly bent syllable and breathy tail encrypted with its own message.
But it's not all hay bales and heartstrings. The clean, punchy sound delivered by producer Roy Bittan adds muscle to the bluesy rockers and momentum to the country shuffles. Guests Steve Earle and Emmylou Harris augment a solid backing unit that thrives on being fed such worthy material.
When Williams sings of wresting back the happiness that has been taken from her (Joy), it's reassuring. At least she's doing something about her pain.
