COUNTRY: Alan Jackson, "Thirty Miles West" (ACR/EMI Nashville)
The liveliest track here is "Dixie Highway," an ode to rural Southern life written by Jackson that has mischief in its eye and bluegrass in its veins. Elsewhere on this album, however, Jackson is more cautious, more generic and more stoic, even when it would serve his purposes to push into the red. "Thirty Miles West" is his first album since ending a 20-year-plus relationship with Arista Nashville, but you'll find no hint of disruption in the album's honky-slick sound. He doesn't sound like he's trying to chase after Nashville's contemporary norm, which is admirable. But his confidence often scans as complacency.
Some of the songs do little to help. "Long Way to Go" dully evokes his pal Jimmy Buffett, down to the setting and choice of beverage. His best moments are wildly, damningly better, including the single "So You Don't Have to Love Me Anymore," a fine, old-fashioned tear-jerker that captures a distinctly masculine blend of gallantry, taciturnity and martyrdom. "I'll be the bad guy," Jackson sings at the outset, and if he doesn't entirely sell that pledge, it's not for lack of trying. Jackson will play the Minnesota State Fair Aug. 24.
NATE CHINEN, NEW YORK TIMES
POP/ROCK: Kelly Hogan, "I Like to Keep Myself in Pain" (Anti)
It's nice to have talented friends. Hogan has collected dozens in a career marked as much by her personal generosity as her remarkable voice, and ace songwriters such as Vic Chesnutt, Robyn Hitchcock and Stephin Merritt step up with some durable tunes on her first studio album in 11 years. But it's what Hogan does with the songs that makes this album such a landmark. It stands at the crossroads of soul and country, with drummer James Gadson and keyboardist Booker T. Jones providing subtle flourishes and Hogan's longtime collaborator Scott Ligon contributing everything from country guitar to vibraphone.
Everything is cued by Hogan's deft touch as a producer, arranger and singer. Her voice dominates the album, often with grace and subtlety, but with startling power when needed. Her backing harmonies take the place of strings and horns, adding shadow and color to the songs. She never oversings, a sign of an artist who's not just belting out notes, but telling a story. On the remarkable 3 a.m. confession, "Daddy's Little Girl," written by M. Ward and sung from the perspective of Frank Sinatra apologizing, sort of, to his daughter Nancy, Hogan lets each word linger like smoke curling from a cigarette. This album is a fascinating introduction to one of the most accomplished, underappreciated vocalists of the past two decades.
GREG KOT, CHICAGO TRIBUNE
