She had come to L.A. to record for a big label after creating a buzz for herself with an EP she grubstaked after leaving “Ole Miss” and her college career. No longer fitting the mold, her label released her and suddenly she was just another songwriter singing in Silverlake. She was young but wrote and sang songs about very adult feelings. It seems that those two parts of her needed time to catch up with each other. It took awhile, as those things often do. And when she was able to put all those pieces together in song, the result was stirring.

On the two tracks of Garrison’s featured by Moonstruck Records, she sings in a husky, honest voice of wishing she had never gotten to know a lover so well, wishing that they hadn’t opened up like a flower, because that makes the end more bitter. And she sings of accepting heartache, which, as she tells, “...nobody is safe from... we all take what we’re given.”

The Queen of England opened the doors of Buckingham Palace to the music industry in 2005, to celebrate its contribution to British culture. Among the musicians attending was Richard Thompson. He was introduced to the Queen as a singer and songwriter. Her Majesty remarked, “Oh! How lovely for you!” He told her, “I hope it was lovely for everyone else as well.” A proper rock & roll reply for such a highbrow event, but maybe not as tongue-in-cheek as it would seem. For although Richard justly earned that invitation to the Palace by being one of the founders of British folk-rock (starting with Fairport Convention in the late 60s), he’s never been a really top-selling artist. Which is a mystery. Richard is one of the best guitarists around. When he rocks, he displays a rare subtlety of tone and volume.

Richard’s double gifts for songwriting and guitar playing are brightly displayed on Cooksferry Queen. The song, based on a fellow Richard knew, is the story of a a violence-prone thug, who hates everyone but himself All of that changes when he falls for a beautiful woman who softens his heart and opens his mind with a little help from modern chemistry.

Listening to Lila’s music is an artistic experience. It’s global and transcendent. You are not listening to only a song, but a creative expression through poetry, activist insight, multi-cultural sensibilities, and a voice that sings with unabashed soulfulness. Born in America, raised in California and Oaxaca, Mexico, she attended college in Minnesota earning a double degree. Following school, Lila went back to Oaxaca to be closer to the music and culture of her ancestors.

Mother Jones mixes her passion for that music with ample amounts of American blues, jazz and even hip-hop, combining instruments indigenous to both sides of the border to create sophisticated and powerful music which is much at home in Latin America as it is in the Mississippi Delta. The Los Angeles Times put it well: “Exotic beauty and startling voice...Lila Downs is a reflection of a 21st century world culture where ethnicity and national boundaries blur.”

Kris Kristofferson put it best when he said this about Paul’s songs: “they are absolutely Southern, absolutely original, full of heart and humor and surprises and street-wise details of trailer parks and turnip greens and love and lust that have the unmistakable ring of truth. And he sings them with the soul and pure joy of a true artist.”

The son of a Pentecostal preacher, Paul grew up in Mississippi, singing at revival meetings beginning at three years old. He’s had a remarkable past...everything from skydiver to prizefighter. His songs are filled with Deep South soul and fascinating twists. One listen to Mission Temple Fireworks Stand, and you’ll be ready to hand over your money to the song’s roadside preacher who sees salvation flickering at the end of a fuse.

Cassandra Wilson left Mississippi in 1982, headed to New York and began to fill the venues of Harlem with a sound seeped with sophistication and seduction, clearly well versed in the nuances of the great ladies of jazz — Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald and Betty Carter. Her voice, an earthy contralto of New York swing and hip, made more magical with the underlying presence of her native land, immediately distinguished her on the jazz scene.

But she has always had more than an incredible voice; her musical styling avoids the standard approach to a song. On her textural treatment of Miles Davis’ “Run the Voodoo Down”, she seeks out cues from the rhythm and sways away from the obvious. The song fades in, like it has always been playing. Percussion and wah-wah guitar unfurl as she begins her tale of self-pride, with the words, “I got High John in my pocket; got mud on my shoes; walked all the way from Mississippi; just to spread the news.”

The ghosts of Robert Johnson and Mississippi John Hurt enjoy hanging out in John Hammond’s soul. For 40 years he’s brought their music and the music of other blues greats to life in remarkable clarity with an expressiveness that would lead you to believe he is channeling their immortal vibe. Listening to John is like a private performance. His voice is filled with hush-hush intimacy whether he’s singing of love lost or love found.

No One Can Forgive Me But My Baby is a Tom Waits composition of a man filled with evil and who seemingly couldn’t care less; a man who steals the coins from his mother’s eyes as she lays in her casket and who whips his dog. But when John performs this song, you see past the man’s bravado and feel his remorse at being who he is; all the while he knows that there is at least one person who truly understands him.

"I understand that music is entertainment, but I'm not entertained by smoke and mirrors. I'm entertained by substance, tone, and a solid groove," says Shannon McNally. She proves this through her songwriting, her voice — sometimes coy and come hither, sometimes intellectually contempt, sometimes shouting like a honky-tonk queen — and with her impeccable choice of musicians.

Hard Way is a roots rocker, filled with surreal encounters of hustling men, stranded mothers nursing their babies, cable news tragedies and self selected exile in New Orleans. Produced by Charlie Sexton, who adds remarkable guitar playing, the song rips through life lessons, which can only be learned the hard way.

There’s no denying it... Robbie Robertson is important. His devotion, passion, imagination and frankness have been ringing from his vibrato-bar-laced guitar for decades, beginning in the 60s as the creative force of The Band. Robbie’s songs are filled with characters who live in a timeless America—maybe a century ago, maybe a week ago—telling of their struggles over love, pride, corruption and deception with salt-of-the-earth candor, accompanied by a soundtrack which is unmistakably Robbie’s own. From “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” to “The Weight,” he helped create an American mythology and he made it rock.

In recent years, Robbie, who is half Mohawk, began merging the music of the tribes into his own, creating songs that portray the powerful dignity of his other people. Making A Noise is one such song. It’s a Native American’s in-your-face pronouncement that he intends to make a noise in this world, singing the song that was given to him by his creator.

This is what Nathan Larson, Angela’s producer has to say about her: “...all big hats and velvet and a dense Scottish slur... she possesses an inexplicable magnetism, an infinite energy, scattering practical advice, poetry, Dorothy Parker-isms, and foul-mouthed jokes like fairy-dust. The force of her personality alone is enough to make her legendary, but here’s the thing: when she sings, only then will she righteously kick your ass.”

Her voice is truly unique: almost like all her tone knobs are turned to the left. She sings with a weary, world worn wisdom that makes you know she’s telling you the truth with every breath. Sleep On It begins with a mournful cello joined by a muffled snare drum, beating like her broken heart. Her dismay at her love affair gone awry builds and builds. Listen to her deliver the fatal blow as she reveals that there are cameras in the ceiling fan.

She had come to L.A. to record for a big label after creating a buzz for herself with an EP she grubstaked after leaving “Ole Miss” and her college career. No longer fitting the mold, her label released her and suddenly she was just another songwriter singing in Silverlake. She was young but wrote and sang songs about very adult feelings. It seems that those two parts of her needed time to catch up with each other. It took awhile, as those things often do. And when she was able to put all those pieces together in song, the result was stirring.

On the two tracks of Garrison’s featured by Moonstruck Records, she sings in a husky, honest voice of wishing she had never gotten to know a lover so well, wishing that they hadn’t opened up like a flower, because that makes the end more bitter. And she sings of accepting heartache, which, as she tells, “...nobody is safe from... we all take what we’re given.”

So these two British schoolboys try out for the choir because they heard that the choir would be performing for the Queen — something of a twist on the classic motivation of wanting to be in a band in order to meet girls. But it seems typical of Turin Brakes, the name they gave their duo, and which they claim has no real meaning. Olly Knights and Gale Paridjanian are sensitive and non-threatening, with their near falsetto vocals and big acoustic guitars. They are about accentuating the positive through songs that immediately wrap you in a blanket.

That’s not to say that they don’t rock. On Jackinabox, a double acoustic guitar intro — something of an upside-down, inside-out version of Clapton’s signature line on “Crossroads” — barrels through the song. But instead of heading to a meeting with the Devil, Turin Brakes is civilly telling you that while “life ain’t no piece of cake,” they can handle it.

“We don’t come from a scene,” Gomez’s Tom Gray told Rolling Stone. “We don't have an identity to defend. In a way, we’re anti-identity.” Indeed, this five-piece band from England is difficult to pigeonhole. Their music—layers of clean and distorted guitars, world percussion and tight drums, synth pads and flat bottom bass—is a unique and compelling sound made even more amicable with gravelly vocals and harmonies from Gray and Ben Ottewell.

After winning Britain’s prestigious Mercury Prize with their first album, Gomez survived the slings and arrows of early fame, but their follow-up albums needed the kind of support their tiny record label was unable to give. Ultimately, the label folded and Gomez was left in the lurch. But these young men, who have been friends since grade school, stuck it out and continue to make incredible music together.

As if a premonition of things to come, Get Miles is a song about knowing when to move on, even from the comforts of home. The song bathes you in a sea of rolling sound as they sing, “I love this planet, man, but this planet is killing me...”