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.

"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.

How many of us have been caught in those all night, heart wrenching, circular conversations with someone, trying to rationalize why a love affair must end? It seems there are no simple words that will untangle the nets of loss, fear, guilt and anger. Like all of us, Lucinda has had her share of those all-nighters. Maybe it was after one of nights that Lucinda was able to filter it all down to the core: her lover did the unforgivable. He stole her joy and she wants to reclaim it. She knows that this man will never bring her happiness again and so she declares that she will search determinedly in the places she found peace in the past.

Joy thumps in straight fours, mirroring Lucinda’s resolve. Four guitars create a warpath march of bottleneck slide, tube-driven distortion and solid-wrist strumming on a vintage Dobro, courtesy of Steve Earle. Anger-driven triumph never sounded so cool.

Maybe the coolest part of listening to Bob Schneider is that you never know what may come next. His songs range from pleasant ballads to outrageous chronicles about separation, illicit habits, and love lost. He started out as a funk-rap performer, but, perhaps influenced by so many other artists in his hometown of Austin, his music moved into a more individual direction.

Those rap roots serve him well, giving him an acute ear for a funky line, as heard from the loose-playing acoustic and wah-wah pedal second guitar on the intro to Bullets. Add a waterfall of lyrics that twist in and out of one surreal scene to another. Mix in a tight horn section, tasty organ swipes, and ashcan drums and the result is an incredibly hip song whose meaning perhaps shouldn’t be explored too deeply.

It may seem strange to include a band so associated with New York’s urban rock mythology on Chicken Fired Rust. But everything about this song seeps with a feel as much at home in Mississippi as Austin. Twangy guitar hammer-ons, the throat-filled harmonica and an unashamed broken knuckle piano line punctuate a John Lee Hooker vamp as Willy DeVille, in an unforgettable growling croon, pays homage to the man-killer, Rita.

From the first snapping guitar notes of Cadillac Walk, you can imagine the mosh pit at CBGB’s open up, the sweaty punks composing themselves, and the whole house commencing the universal toe tapping that this song demands.

In rural Mississippi, a young Claire Holley sat alone in the family sedan, strumming a ukulele, biding the time between Sunday school and the Church service. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, making mental notes of people and places. It was the start of a lifelong talent of mixing music with incisive observation and a sweet, playful and sometimes reverent voice.

Years later, traveling from one gig to another, she saw a sign that said 6 miles to McKenney. She liked the sound of it and started singing it over and over. A bit later, after an encounter with an oddly mannered woman at a gas station, Claire put together this straight ahead barroom honky-tonk tale of a quiet nobody who tries to stay invisible around a free spirited drifter, all the while fantasizing about joining her, clanking down the highway in a rusty old car to see what adventures lay ahead, just 6 Miles to McKenney.

Simple lyrics that cut to the bone, blues-based song structure, swelling horns and drop-to-your-knees emotion, are the key ingredients to both Soul music and Southern-style R&B. Maybe that’s why Soul classics like, “At the Dark End of the Street” and “Do Right Woman, Do Right Man” could be written by a white man from Vernon, Alabama. Dan Penn co-wrote those immortal songs and a truckload of others back in the day when Muscle Shoals was the Tin Pan Alley of the South, often producing them as well. And if he wasn’t producing, he was still there, never wanting to miss the experience. As he’s said, “I stood in the corner enough nights and watched... you know...I'm a shade-tree guy.”

On Memphis Woman and Chicken, a salute to the twin allure of the women of Memphis and the greasy sexuality of their down-home cooking, you can tell he was paying close attention. Its deep-fried groove creates involuntary head nodding to the beat. The horns swell up and down over some of the tightest chicken pickin’ rhythm guitar you’ll ever hear. Listen to it and you’ll agree with Dan when he sings, “...my mouth starts to water, and I’m a goner...”

In the mid-60s, Peter Wolf was living in Cambridge, MA, in an apartment just a stone’s throw away from the celebrated Club 47, a favorite among blues greats such as Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf. The club’s dressing room was so small that Peter invited many of the performers to use his apartment as a dressing room between sets. When the club would close, the musicians would go back to the apartment for all night music jams.

Peter’s version of Isaac Hayes’ Never Like This Before shows that he was paying close attention during those jams. It’s a moving celebration of upbeat blues and soul with razor-sharp horn lines and tasteful guitar and bass from former Dylan band mates Larry Campbell and Tony Garier.

Between drugs and some trouble with the authorities, things in New Orleans started getting a little too hot for boogie piano master Mac Rebennack in the mid 1960s. So he went to L.A., renamed himself Dr. John, the Night Tripper, taking the name from a reconstruction-era medicine show purveyor, and began putting out songs that combined traditional New Orleans music with psychedelic rock. When he added his smilingly growl voice to his songs, voodoo had found its place in rock & roll.

More than 30 years later, Dr. John’s music is unmistakably identifiable. It’s a sound rooted in the joy of a funeral marching band, layered with a funky backbeat, and driven by Jelly Roll piano that makes anyone who hears it feel a little bit Creole. With some help from English admirers, Spiritualized, Kiya Gris is a spooky boogie of a tale of voodoo conjurers whose potions became part of rock & roll’s secret recipe.

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.

“So this was lean days,” says J.J. Cale reminiscing about life after leaving Tulsa and moving to L.A. with fellow Okie, Leon Russell. “...what I'm telling you ain't nothing you couldn't ask 900,000 other guys today and they'd tell you the same story. But I never did quit music.” And he never compromised his music either. His laid back sound and tastefully understated guitar playing influenced players like Eric Clapton and Mark Knopfler. When Clapton’s cover of J.J.’s “After Midnight” became a hit, J.J. knew that songwriting would pay the bills while his playing would satisfy his soul.

On Long Way Home J.J. tells the story of leaving an all night party with his girl, only to discover that what she has in mind just can’t wait. Backed by a who’s who of hugely influential players J.J. makes you feel like you’re hearing an outrageous anecdote in a barroom. The story couldn’t be told in a more perfect setting.

Little Feat has been preaching the glory of Southern jump for more than 30 years. Fueled by drop-dead funk and the tightest playing around, the band survived what could have been their final curtain: the death of co-founder Lowell George in 1979. But as incredibly gifted as Lowell was, Little Feat was always more than just his backing band. Paul Barrére and Fred Tackett’s guitar work mix tube tone, twang and down home funk like a runaway freight train and Billy Payne’s keyboard playing puts the D in Dixie.

These boys have spent the better part of their lives making magic in the studio and on the road. It’s a lifestyle that’s “all right for awhile” as they say in Home Ground, but they’ll overcome under inflated tires, red-hot blacktop and the temptations of alluring admirers, just to be home once again and hang out in the kitchen.