Dixie Chicks Home

For their first two major label outings, the Dixie Chicks straddled the line between neo-traditional and country pop, then seemingly out of nowhere (they'd already had three indie albums behind them in 1993) became one of Nashville's most bankable acts with the release of Wide Open Spaces in 1998. The next year they followed the same formula and sent Fly to the top of the charts as well. Three years and a nasty legal battle with their record company later, those fiddle- and banjo-playing sisters, Martie Seidel and Emily Erwin, and sassy blond singer Natalie Maines (acquired just before Wide Open Spaces) are back with their most rootsy and impressive collection to date. Home is not a masterpiece, but it is pleasant throughout, and at certain points, damn near sublime.

On the Music Row ballbuster Long Time Gone — thus far the year's catchiest two-step single — Maines cutely carps, They got tired but they ain't got Haggard/ They got money but they don't have Cash/ They got Junior but they ain't got Hank, while, a playful fiddle and array of lively string instruments propels the song forward.

Another highlight on the all-acoustic album is Bruce Robison's Travelin' Soldier. It's one of those country songs folks love to poke fun at because you know the titular character is gonna die even before the first lyric is sung, but it works nonetheless thanks to Maines' subtle delivery and the fittingly sparse arrangement.

On the cover of Fleetwood Mac's Landslide, the results are less favorable. The balmy fiddle-banjo-steel instrumentation works, but Maines' singing brings nothing new to the classic to make it worthy of being more than a one-off concert surprise or a B-side.

Arguably the most important aspect of Home is that the Dixie Chicks were given the freedom to co-produce themselves along with Maines' father, Lloyd Maines, a pedal-steel virtuoso and prominent Austin-based producer. The veteran, who's worked with Texas heroes Robert Earl Keen and Joe Ely, gives the girls just enough edge to make their music stick without completely losing the pop sheen. (In other words, the CD's accessible enough to sustain the million-plus fanbase who'd be hard pressed to name a Waylon Jennings tune.)

Hopefully the Dixie Chicks will continue in the same direction, that they remain one of those rare breeds of country acts capable of making cash registers ring while turning in something more genuine than pop schmaltz sung with a hint of twang. (Sony)
—Wade Tatangelo

Guy Clark The Dark Guy

Clark released a stark debut of self-penned originals in 1975 called Old No. 1. It's hailed by many, especially Texans, as one of the finest singer/songwriter albums of the era. Since then, though, the Lone Star native has released only 11 albums — all strong, but with little commercial appeal and none quite as remarkable as his debut. Until now. Dark is every bit as compelling as the album that won him the respect of his peers and sharp-eared music enthusiasts more than 25 years ago. Maybe it's because Clarke opts to collaborate on Dark, rather than compose alone (all the songs are co-written by venerable, albeit rather obscure, performers like Buddy Mondlock and Lubbock legend Terry Allen). Or perhaps what makes this album stick like nothing the man has recorded in two decades is the production. Each song is fitted with tender, airy arrangements that provide Clark's everyman, storyteller voice plenty of room to operate. But the voice is never isolated. Out of roomy spaces emerge timely banjo and fiddle duels or Dobro runs, or a lilting mandolin, or bouncy accordion. Despite Clark's reputation as a serious song man, not to mention the album title, Dark has plenty of lyrics that warrant playful instrumentation. On Arizona Star, Clark sings She was a pre-Madonna prima donna, part-time Southern belle … She made real an oxymoron/ she made mirrors, she made smoke. Dark's most memorable songs are heart-wrenching ballads. Bag Old Bones offers a meditation on old age that recalls the emotional clout of Desperados Waiting for a Train. On Homeless, the final verse serves up the haunting, When the final line unfolds/ It don't always rhyme. (Sugar Hill, www.sugarhillrecords.com)
—Wade Tatangelo

Grits The Art of Translation

Tennessee rap duo Grits' 1999 LP Grammatical Revolution broke them through to the mainstream and positioned the pair as one of hip-hop's new crews to watch. But their latest disc, while an engaging listen, jettisons much of their intriguing individuality and seems too contrived as an easy vehicle to platinum status. Grits make no bones about their mainstream Southern associations on the upbeat Tennessee Bwoys, proclaiming themselves dirty south boys about a million times, and most of The Art of Translation is an amicable amalgam of radio-aimed bounce and soulful, organic, Outkast-esque touches. Two formulas prevail: the lightning-flow soundalike Atlanta jam (Here We Go, Tennessee Bwoys, Get It) and the moody, often acoustic guitar-laced ballad (Ooh Aah, Be Mine, Believe). Sometimes it's superior; sometimes it's average. The excellent Ooh Aah aside, however, Grits are at their best when they break away with tunes like the strident Make Room and aptly-named Sunny Days. Several tracks are preceded by related interludes; most are redundant or downright silly (At the Video Shoot), but the brief Ill-Coined Phrase is a highlight. The disc certainly isn't bad but largely fails to set itself apart from the bulk of Southern rap, and coming from such a pedigreed outfit, that's a bit of a disappointment. (Gotee, www.gotee.com)
—Scott Harrell