On his 1994 debut album, Bloomed, Richard Buckner built a memorable song around the line "This is where things start goin' bad," but Buckner made that notion the overriding theme of his second full-length release, 1997's Devotion + Doubt. Written and recorded in the wake of the collapse of Buckner's first marriage, Devotion + Doubt abandons the largely acoustic, string band-influenced approach of Bloomed in favor of a stark, dusty sound that suggests a sleepless night in a motel room in the Arizona desert. J.D. Foster's production and the accompaniment from Calexico founders Joey Burns and John Convertino is often as spare as a whisper in the dark, but the production is a perfect match for the deep insinuations of Buckner's textured voice and the artful, impressionistic heartache of the lyrics, and this is a significantly more ambitious and accomplished effort than Bloomed, as fine as that album was.

The Long Ryders kicked off their major label debut, State of Our Union, with one of their most anthemic and most explicitly political songs, "Looking for Lewis and Clark," and that tune set the tone for the rest of the album – State of Our Union found the Long Ryders reaching for a larger audience at the same time that they were using their music to say a great deal more than they had in the past. Musically, plenty of roadwork had tightened the band's interplay to an even finer point than on Native Sons (Sid Griffin and Stephen McCarthy were both in superb voice, and their guitar work meshed perfectly), and Will Birch's production gave the songs a poppier sheen that still allowed the band's roots-conscious sound to shine through. Lyrically, State of Our Union took a long look at Reagan-era America as the gulf between the rich and the poor began to divide the nation, with "You Can't Ride the Boxcars Anymore," "Two Kinds of Love," and "Good Times Tomorrow, Hard Times Today" all exploring issues of economic injustice, and even the less obvious political songs often having a progressive subtext ("WDIA," a tribute to the great Memphis R&B radio station, deals with how the love of music brought together black and white listeners in the 1960s).

On his seventh offering, and his first since 2001's Texoma, Okie beatnik cum Austin songwriter Jimmy LaFave listens deeply to the tender whispers of his Muse and lets flow with his most personal offering to date. LaFave has always given us song pictures of an America that has either disappeared or is on the verge; he has celebrated its highways, its people, and its heart. He has also given us some choice love songs. But on Blue Nightfall he has gone deep into the latter theme and has come up with a beauty. It's not that he's ignored his other concerns; there are road songs and topical tunes as well. But it's in LaFave's love songs that listeners get to hear a depth and vastness that feel new. LaFave's voice is his greatest asset and he uses it to great effect here, and his production is spot-on throughout. The title track, "Revival," "Sweet Sweet Love," "When You Were Mine," and "Rain Falling Down" are all broken-hearted ballads, colored in woven and textured acoustic and electric guitars accented by Radoslav Lorkovik's accordions, pianos, and organs, and supported by a taut yet subtle rhythm section in bassist Will Landin and drummer Wally Doggett.

When it was first released in 1994, Richard Buckner's debut album Bloomed seemed little short of miraculous, a beautifully spare but rich and compelling set of songs about the sweet and bitter sides of love, accompanied by a superb, primarily acoustic ensemble led by producer Lloyd Maines. In retrospect, Bloomed turned out to reveal just one of the many facets of Buckner's musical personality, but if his muse took him many places after this (and continued to guide him in fascinating ways), this still remains one of the most satisfying and engaging albums in his catalog. Buckner's songs on Bloomed dig deep, whether he's pondering the mysteries of love on "Blue and Wonder" and "Mud," or sketching an indelible portrait of a young man succumbing to despair and self-pity on "22," and his wordplay is at once artful and down to earth, and all the more effective for Buckner's strong, burnished voice and thoughtful phrasing; it's hard to imagine another voice putting so much effortless resonance behind lines like "This is where things start going bad," or "Christ, how this life, from mud to miracles, is just the prettiest little burden."

A mixture of utterly trad folk and country tunes with some hipsterish indie touches, The Black Dove is uneven, but it works more often than it doesn't. The songs sung by Sharron Kraus, a British folksinger whose voice bears comparison both to U.K. folk icons like June Tabor and American country singers like Gillian Welch, fit uneasily against those featuring Christian Kiefer's hushed bedroom-rock murmur. Imagine Norma Waterson collaborating with Elliott Smith and the parameters of the project's influences will become clear, as well as its flaws. However, the songs featuring Kraus are uniformly excellent, as are the atmospheric instrumental interludes between songs, which occasionally recall Dolly Collins' fantasias for harmonium on her albums with sister Shirley. Kiefer's whispery material, which works better on his solo records, simply sounds out of place in these surroundings.

"Hell, everybody's sick of all my f–-ing happy songs anyway," Steve Earle declares in the liner notes to his 2015 album Terraplane as he explains why he chose to cut a blues album. If you feel like you somehow missed Earle's Pollyanna period, you're not the only one, but if he was motivated to turn to the blues because of personal troubles – he was going through his seventh divorce while he wrote and recorded these songs – it sure sounds like he chose the right kind of musical therapy. Terraplane is the most relaxed and least fussed-over album Earle has made in quite some time, and frankly, he sounds like he's having a ball on these sessions; with rare exceptions, this isn't music that ponders the dark night of the soul, but semi-acoustic roadhouse boogie that rocks with a steady roll and gives Earle a chance to crow like a rooster as he ponders broken hearts, long lonesome highways, battles with the forces of destiny, and the enduring appeal of women in go-go boots.

Tift Merritt has become unexpectedly (and thankfully) prolific since she signed with Fantasy Records in 2008, after going four years without releasing a record. See You on the Moon is her third album in as many years, and from the first track, the gentle and soul-infused love song "Mixtape," she demonstrates that she can maintain solid quality control at this pace and does so with ease. See You on the Moon is a more spare and intimate-sounding set than 2008's Another Country, as if she learned a bit about the value of concision with her 2009 solo acoustic live set Buckingham Solo, but Merritt clearly works well with others (the backing musicians are uniformly great, and Jim James of My Morning Jacket contributes some solid harmonies on "Feel of the World"), and while the arrangements wisely avoid cluttering the clean landscapes of her melodies, producer and engineer Tucker Martine gives the recordings a full-bodied sound even when the performances are purposefully simple. As on Merritt's other albums, the real key to See You on the Moon lies in her songs and her voice, and both are in splendid form here.

Texas singer-songwriter Guy Clark has been a patriarchal figure to many in the Nashville songwriting community for decades. Artists like Rodney Crowell and Steve Earle studied under the watchful eye of Clark during their early years. Like friend Townes Van Zandt before him, Clark is a master storyteller, a dream weaver blessed with the ability to match ear-catching melodies with poetic lyrics that aim for the deepest part of the listener's soul. Somedays the Song Writes You, Clark's eleventh studio album, is a well-crafted collection of compositions that rank among some of his best. Clark's tobacco-and-whiskey-stained voice has never sounded better than it does on such tracks as "The Guitar," a fiery number about a wayward musician and the pawnshop guitar that causes an unexpected awakening in him, and "Hollywood," a slow-grooving cut that takes a sideways look at the world-famous district of Los Angeles, CA. Clark, as he has on previous albums, covers a Townes Van Zandt tune on Somedays the Song Writes You.