With a touch of Robyn Hitchcock in his vocal timbre, a smidgen of Steve Earle in his narratives and instrumental writing and a heap of Gram Parsons in the fullness of his overall sound and structure, Ryan Adams steps well above Whiskeytown with Heartbreaker, his solo debut. By turns raucous, wistful, raspy and simply sweet, Adams makes the most of a top-shelf acoustic band, including Gillian Welch and David Rawlings and even a guest spot from Emmylou Harris on the tenderly yearning "Oh My Sweet Caroline". There is little dependence on the usual alt-country twang and a far more rounded sense of textures here (the multiple vocal tracks on "Amy", for example, sound Beatles-esque), with glockenspiel, organ and more signalling a sonic field of extensive depth. His spare guitar and stretched-thin vocal delivery alternate smartly with a bigger-shouldered guitar and throaty voice, never leaving behind a band conception straight out of Parsons's oeuvre. Adams signals occupancy of the post-alt country vanguard-if there is such a thing. -Andy Bartlett.

Will Oldham, the artist formerly known as Palace, has never been concerned with creating pop music. Oldham's forte, murder ballads, anti-spirituals, dead-sea chanteys, and lost-love songs, has always been "difficult", forcing the listener to confront some rather unseemly topics. Say this about Oldham, however, despite his quirks (cracking vocals, shambolic instrumentation, baroque language), at its best, his music is bracing and, often, very beautiful. That said, I See a Darkness, his second LP since abandoning the Palace moniker, is the most accessible, gorgeous, and moving record of his career. Instead of the gothic, low-fi country feel of many of his projects, Darkness comes off sounding like an early-1970s Neil Young album, comprised of a stately piano backbone and fleshed out by loose-fitting guitar strums. Stylistically, Oldham mixes things up on Darkness and his full band sounds, for once, well practiced and well recorded. Sure, Oldham is still singing about the blackness of his soul, but in between-in small bursting moments-there are bits of light, hope, and a suggestion that maybe-just maybe-there may be redemption through love. That message, presented in these carefully constructed, gently offered songs, pushes this recording beyond the usual, curious appeal of Oldham and into an entirely new realm of greatness. -S. Duda.

With Jerusalem, Steve Earle stops pining for ghosts and gruffly makes his own claim to the agit-folk crown. (Remember how on 1997's El Corazón, he wished for the return of Woody Guthrie to a world sorely lacking voices of righteous dissent?) The controversial "John Walker's Blues" drew attention to Jerusalem and provoked the ire of many who misunderstood it, but it's only one of many topical tunes on a disc that issues a kind of call to arms: over the distorted guitars and garbage-bin drums of "Amerika v. 6. 0" and in the spare and creepy satire "Conspiracy Theory", Earle rallies listeners to resist the corrosion of culture by consumerism, xenophobia and apathy. And as often with Earle's songs, several tracks offer sympathetic portrayals of folks on the margins: a Mexican migrant writes a letter home as organ chirps and guitars blaze through "What's a Simple Man to Do?" and in "The Truth" Earle's fuzzed-out drawl depicts life behind bars. Although nearly every moment of this ambitious album is laden with meaning, there's room enough for simple beauty-like the velvet voice of Emmylou Harris on "I Remember You"-and, more importantly, hope. "I believe there'll come a day," Earle affirms in the closing track, "when the lion and the lamb will lie down in peace together in Jerusalem. " -Anders Smith Lindall.

What's stranger: Willie Nelson singing lilting reggae melodies, or a Jamaican chestnut like "The Harder They Fall" set to an acoustic country arrangement, complete with Dobro? Given Nelson's well-publicised taste for ganja, it's not surprising he's also fond of the island's major musical export. The genre-straddling Countryman, replete with dub effects, skanking beats, ringing steel guitars, and Nelson's signature nylon-string picking, doesn't measure up to his earlier, artful Lost Highway releases. But his voice is still mellow gold, and there are tunes-like his duet with reggae/R&B singer Toots Hibbert on Johnny Cash's "I'm a Worried Man" and his own somber reading of Jimmy Cliff's "Sitting in Limbo"-that tap into the souls of desperate men to extol the power of faith over adversity. -Ted Drozdowski.

Though the arrangements stray from Lucinda Williams's motherlode blend of blues, country, and folk, West may well be her best album. It is easily her most musically adventurous, and often her most lyrically inspired. Williams's singing has never sounded better, from the aching tenderness of "Where Is My Love?" to the ravaged catharsis of "Unsuffer Me. " New York producer Hal Willner, who has worked with artists such as Marianne Faithful and Lou Reed, enlists the support of eclectic progressives like guitarist Bill Frisell, keyboardist Bob Burger, and violinist Jenny Scheinman, along with harmonies from the Jayhawks' Gary Louris, to weave a subtly rich sonic tapestry. Much of the material was inspired by the death of Williams's beloved mother ("Mama You Sweet," "Fancy Funeral") and the bitter breakup of a relationship (the jagged-edged emasculation of "Come On," the repetitive incantation of "Wrap My Head Around That"), though "Are You Alright?," "Learning How to Live," and "Everything Has Changed" could reflect the aftermath of both. Other highlights include "Rescue," with a languid subtlety and ambient pulse reminiscent of Beth Orton, and the dreamy, wistful title track. Where Williams's music has long cut close to the bone, the best of West slices right through it. -Don McLeese.

When you first heard that Billy Bragg and Wilco were teaming up to set some Woody Guthrie lyrics to music, you knew it'd be an interesting project. But did anyone realistically think Mermaid Avenue would also wind up being one of 1998's finest albums? That's exactly what it is, a distinction it pulls off by simultaneously honouring Guthrie and blasting away any folksy expectations we might have of his music. Walking Guthrie's World War II-era lyrics into the 20th century's second, rock & roll half, Bragg and Wilco's Jeff Tweedy take turns on lead vocals, and the entire group collaborates on a sound that draws on folk- and country-rock, from Bob Dylan and the Band to Gram Parsons and Uncle Tupelo. The results are nearly flawless, ranging from yearning laments and playful children's rockers to horny ballads and brave protest songs that are not merely political but also profoundly moral. Like all of Guthrie's work, Mermaid Avenue is music to live better by. -David Cantwell.

Named in honour of the three-word codes used by short-wave radio operators, Wilco's fourth album Yankee Hotel Foxtrot sounds like a late-night broadcast of some weirdly wonderful pop station punctuated by static and the sonic bleed of competing signals. Songs that begin with simple, elegiac grace-"Ashes of American Flags" and "Poor Places"-end in a cathartic squall of distortion. The results can be initially jarring, but it's these tracks more than the sturdy jangle pop of "Kamera" or "Heavy Metal Drummer" that demand, and reward, repeated listens. Mixed by studio experimentalist Jim O'Rourke and produced by the band, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot harkens back to a time when the words "pop" and "sonic adventurism" weren't mutually exclusive. The Beatles and Kurt Cobain knew this, and clearly so do Jeff Tweedy and company. -Keith Moerer.

This 1989 album was k. d. lang's generous farewell to the country music world that had given her the cold shoulder after her stellar collaboration with legendary producer Owen Bradley on Shadowland. Songs such as "Pulling Back the Reins"-written by lang with co-producer guitarist Ben Mink-combined classic country and western imagery with more revealingly personal emotions. At the same time, the album maintained a sly sense of humour missing from much of her later work. The covers of Willie Nelson ("Three Days") and Wynn Stewart ("Big Big Love") certainly don't hurt. The Reclines, lang's band, is notable for the presence of Greg Leisz on steel guitar. -Rick Mitchell.

Pulling out all the Nashville stops, k. d. lang's 1988 album is a meticulously crafted work, her bid for mainstream country acceptance and a homage to her idol Patsy Cline. Surrounded by the brilliance of Owen Bradley's string-laced production and a host of legendary pickers (Buddy Emmons and Pete Wade) and singers (Kitty Wells, Brenda Lee, Loretta Lynn), lang's voice soars and moans like a dove. After the lush Chris Isaak-penned opener "Western Stars", lang follows with more-familiar country writers, from Roger Miller ("Lock, Stock and Teardrops") to Harlan Howard ("I'm Down to My Last Cigarette"). Both a commercial (the album went gold) and artistic success, Shadowland ranks as one of the best country records of the 1980s. -Roy Francis Kasten.

Consider this, Emmylou Harris's emancipation proclamation-an album that confirms that 1995's adventurously atmospheric Wrecking Ball wasn't an aberration, but a preview of more radical changes to come. Long the godmother of alternative-country's traditionalist wing, Harris here writes songs with Luscious Jackson's Jill Cunniff, sings a duet with Dave Matthews ("My Antonia") and recruits Bruce Springsteen and Patti Scialfa to provide harmonies on the album's most compelling ballad ("Tragedy"). The production by Malcolm Burn applies sonic treatments of drum machines, shimmering guitars and echoed vocals to a song cycle by Harris that is largely original and deeply personal, filled with dream imagery and evocations of a spiritual quest. While material such as "Michaelangelo" and "Bang the Drum Slowly" suffers from an arty ponderousness, it's doubtful that Harris has ever recorded an album that means more to her than Red Dirt Girl. -Don McLeese.

Granted, Sweet Old World isn't the masterpiece that 1988's Lucinda Williams is. The too-simple explanations of "He Never Got Enough Love" aren't up to Williams's mile-high standards, and the arrangements throughout are often so similar to that previous release's that the melodic differences here aren't as clear as they might've been. But when she raises her vulnerable cry to sing the three, pained perspectives on suicide that are at the heart of this album-the title track, "Little Angel, Little Brother", and "Pineola"- -Williams's very humanity provides its own proof that, while this world can indeed be cruel, it can also be oh so sweet. -David Cantwell.

After their wild experimental streak of the past decade, Wilco's sixth studio album might feel like a bit of a comedown. Sky Blue Sky is mellow, moody, and uncharacteristically monotone, opening with a pleasant jangle and Jeff Tweedy singing a simple song: "Maybe the sun will shine today, the clouds will blow away. " He doesn't even follow it up with a barbed punchline. Could it be that the restless Chicago band has settled back into its gentle Americana roots-or does this sudden mid-career reappraisal represent Wilco's gutsiest move yet? Mostly written in the studio by the full band, it's certainly the group's most cohesive album in ages, presenting a dense song cycle padded with intricate guitar work, brushed rhythms, and '70s soft-rock accents. In places it sounds like Wings ("Hate It Here"), in others Harry Nilsson ("Walken"), and in the middle it goes a bit Grateful Dead ("Shake It Off"). At the same time, there's a distinct sense of hearing a band finally at ease in its own skin. Sky Blue Sky represents the sound of Wilco finally pulling through its petulant adolescence. -Aidin Vaziri.