Blues, Brother: Lucinda Williams Gets Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone

Lucinda Williams’ generous new double-album, Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone, is easily her finest release since 2003’s World Without Tears, a record which capped perhaps the most remarkable decade an Americana artist has ever enjoyed. (While Car Wheels on a Gravel Road might have been Lu’s breakout record, 1992’s Sweet Old World is arguably its superior). Since then, her output has been merely solid, as happiness in her personal life and a move to Southern California polished up her existence in a way that was best for her, if not for her songwriting.

But with her new album (out September 29 on Higway 20 Records), Williams no longer needs to tell listeners how content she is, having reached a point where she’s comfortable looking back on her life and exploring its darker corners, as well as revisiting the American South as she knew it. These are the places where her work thrives most consistently, and a vivid, emotionally rich album ensues.

While it would be inaccurate to classify Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone as strictly a blues album (“This Old Heartache” is straight-up honky-tonk country, for instance), there’s a full—and fantastic—LP’s worth of blues heavily salted among its 20 tracks. Like the genre’s best offerings, lyrical redundancy is accentuated by emotive licks and rhythms that set a precise mood. Of particular note is the drumming of longtime Elvis Costello collaborator Pete Thomas, whose style is peppier and more intricate than Lu’s regular stickman, Butch Norton. All due respect to the big man, who remains a highlight of her live shows, but Williams was in need of a certain seasoning to enliven her studio sound, and Thomas was the perfect pick.

Befitting an artist who has earned the right to do whatever she damn well pleases, Williams opens and closes Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone with a pair of covers. On “Compassion,” she sings words put to paper by her poet father, backed only by her own acoustic guitar. And on the sensational, slow-burning “Magnolia,” she strings out JJ Cale’s luscious lyrics at a placid pace that suits them better than the original. On these tracks especially, Lu’s voice sounds slightly discordant, blasé about enuncitation and downright creaky, descriptions that would be used to slay most any other vocalist. But with Williams, they’re unlikely hallmarks, and ones which grow ever more endearing with age.