A relationship of trust turns to clash, and thoughts ricochet between hope and consequences. It’s an age-old story, but one brilliantly told by Sheila Nicholls in How Strong. Wondering if she can live by a high standard and straddle the division between problem and resolve, she also questions if her lover can summon that same strength. Her voice is contemplative as the song begins, backed by thumb-plucked guitar and textural keyboard pads. But as her questions unfold, the music intensifies, as does her voice, repeating the last consonant of each line—an incredibly passionate punctuation mark.

And it makes you wonder, is this story about two people, or perhaps a world, straddling the divisions that separate them?

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.”

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.”

Lily Holbrook knows a thing or two about running into walls. Her striking beauty is what caught the attention of record label execs, who were eager to make her into the next Britney. Yet, she refused to use her looks over her artistry to get a record deal.

On Running Into Walls, she tells a tale of two lovers divided by walls they’ve created. There is a doorway out, but they can’t see it, because, as Lily tells us, it’s “covered in freedom, covered in guilt.” Starting with sorrowful empathy and ending with an elegant, soaring strength, Lily’s voice draws you in, while a beautiful mix of ethereal sounds, strings and rhythms become the soundtrack to the fate of these lovers.

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 Gardenia, 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.

You ever hear a song that within the first few measures transports you into a dream? That’s what Amy Correia does with Lakeville. It’s a sonic picture of Amy’s childhood home in New England, with images of a shimmering lake, lilac flowers and sunlight glowing through leaves. Recorded in the candle-lit ballroom of a Hollywood Hills mansion, the song subtly leaves you longing for a place like Lakeville, where “nothing really ever happens” and you can be at peace for a flickering moment or two.

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 Hardest Part of Living, she sings in a husky, honest voice of accepting heartache, which, as she tells, “...nobody is safe from... we all take what we’re given.”