Blues

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Just as Muhammad Ali once boasted that he could "float like a butterfly, sting like a bee," Louisiana's Sonny Landreth can make his slide guitar roar like a rocket ship and dance like a ballerina. As this live set recorded on his home turf attests, few guitarists combine such power with such precision. Landreth’s veteran rhythm section of bassist David Ranson and drummer Kenneth Blevins provides whipcrack support on a set of supercharged instrumentals ("Native Stepson," "Z. Rider," "Pedal to Metal") and original blues ("Broken-Hearted Road," "Wind in Denver"), building to a climax with the guitarist’s signature tune, "Congo Square." Though Landreth established himself as an ace sideman from his apprenticeship with zydeco kingpin Clifton Chenier through his extended stint with John Hiatt, he really cuts loose with his own trio, generating a dynamic propulsion that threatens to levitate this Lafayette dancehall. --Don McLeese

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Some singer/songwriters (think Paul Westerberg and Elliott Smith) develop their world-weariness through the unforgiving trials of passing years and the heart-breaking grind of the music business. Others (Van Morrison, Neil Young) seem to have sprung from out of nowhere with the fully formed soul of a life well-lived. Ray LaMontagne belongs with the latter. On this, his debut, LaMontagne has crafted a handful of quietly devastating meditations on life and love--and delivered them with a raspy vocal all his own. The simple, mournful lyrics of "Burn," "Shelter" and the title track recall a Hank Williams ballad, and the reserved production by alt-country/americana genius Ethan Johns (the Jayhawks, Ryan Adams, Kings of Leon) make this a great disc for smoky Saturday nights, and rainy Sunday mornings. --Ben Heege

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With his chocolaty cool, soulful Memphis croon and sure sense of melody, Robert Cray has never been considered a straightahead bluesman. His often interchangeable albums have instead stayed closer to R&B, adding compact, stinging lead guitar to songs about matters of the heart. That formula remains, with minor variations, on Cray's 14th release, rather confusingly named Twenty. The title track, a gripping, emotional anti-war ballad of the experience of a GI in Iraq (that, incidentally, doesn't contain the word "twenty") shows the singer/songwriter shifting his emotionally charged storytelling lyrics to the political arena. It's a brief but confident detour from his usual M.O. of relationships on the brink of collapse or in general disrepair, typically related in the first person. Subtle yet effective forays into loungey jazz on "My Last Regret" and even reggae on the opening "Poor Johnny" indicate a healthy tendency to push his established envelope, if only gently, into other genres.

But Cray sticks to his established bread and butter for the majority of this sturdy album, effortlessly churning out shoulder-swaying, foot-tapping R&B accompanied by a clean, clear tenor voice and a road-hardened band that finesses these songs with the perfect combination of fire and ice. Old fans won't be disappointed, and newcomers can start here and work backwards.

--Hal Horowitz