Clarity of Voice and Vision

It starts with the song. Then it gets complicated. Or not. In this time of Auto-Tune, low/mid/hi-fi, off-the-charts reverb and synthetic everything, there are still a few who keep it simple and real. Here are three exponents of the original idea.

JUSTIN TOWNES EARLE is the son of Steve Earle, the bad-ass hell-raiser who has cleaned up his personal life if not his artistic output, which remains a delightful mess. His son followed his father’s example by getting, and then dropping (and then getting back?) a nasty drug habit.

Justin’s staked out his own musical space. It’s more austere and rooted in traditional country. His voice is clear, even courtly. He’s shown steady growth over the course of his three albums, but his latest is quite the leap forward.

HARLEM RIVER BLUES is the kind of album that justifies an obsessive’s questing. Halfway through the first listen I was praying Earle would at least tread water the rest of the way, so good and immediately endearing was the first half.

No worries. He just about pitches a perfect game.

Having just moved to Brooklyn, he writes here about what he knows, lately. The title cut leads off with a jaunty tale of impending self-annihilation, the narrator giddy over finally deciding to end it or from toying with the idea and our concern. Its organ fills, gospel backing vocals and hand claps are perfect condiments.

“One More Night in Brooklyn” is the aural equivalent of a best friend – if it has any faults, they’re invisible or ingratiating. A booming acoustic bass dances a limber shuffle with junkanoo drums while sweet fiddles and vibes discreetly hang in the back.

Earle’s running partner for this album, Jason Isbell (former guitarist for the Drive-By Truckers), kills with Latinized rhythm and lead guitar. Earle’s singing about big city squalor and missing his rustic home, but he literally could be talking about trade imbalances with China and the song would still shine.

Rockabilly, that creaky old uncle, gets dusted off twice. The feisty “Move Over Mama” is all mannish boy swagger; “Ain’t Waitin'” is about as domestically tranquil as an Earle can get. “Workin’ for the MTA” tips its hat to Woody Guthrie’s memory. It’s “This Ain’t My Daddy’s Train” line and the next song’s hillbilly stomp, “Wanderin’,” make it clear he’s still got paternalism issues. “I’m older now than he was when I was born” sets a marker and a milestone.

“Slippin’ and Slidin'” is a big wide grin of ambling soul, with swaying horns surprising then reassuring.

“Christchurch Woman” follows and takes the album into the rarefied category of keepers. The narrator knows he’s doomed in love, but can’t help his endless searching. The striding pace bespeaks a damaged dignity. It uses the same horns but for different purposes, and Isbell supports like a best bud throughout. “Learning to Cry” honors Johnny Cash and Hank Williams and isn’t nearly as maudlin as its title suggests. “Rogers Park” hints that the urban influences maybe taking over, with its E Street Band piano figure and Boss-like fatalism. Maybe he should get back south, quick.

KIM RICHEY never fails to connect with me. Something about her voice, her emotional nakedness – I’m not sure. But she always gets to me.

She’s been recording since 1995, yet few know of her. All of her six albums are modest marvels of excellence, with 1997’s “Bittersweet,” my favorite because it hits me in the heart like emotional defibrillator shock paddles (every time, so I only listen to it at most once a year).

Her new one, WRECK YOUR WHEELS, is her most intimate yet.

Eschewing the experimental production of some of her past CDs, Richey records here with minimal backing. Since her songwriting and voice are her trump cards, all’s the better. Richey’s main themes are heartache, loss and getting by in the face of these. Off-putting? Yes, but she’s so adult about it, you can’t help but warm to her and her subjects.

Favorites here are the title track (where love’s beginning features an apology and an inevitability), “In the Years to Come,” with its clear-eyed view of the future (with banjo and trumpet!), “Careful How You Go,” with one of those unexpected melodic turns that tweak your spine, “99 Floors,” one of her few needy moments and all the more potent for it, and “Once In Your Life” and its unabashed joy.

Cliche-free sentimentality is a strong brew, and Kim Richey’s got gallons of it. Be careful not to overindulge.

If THE SECRET SISTERS hadn’t been discovered by über-producer T-Bone Burnett (“O, Brother, Where Art Thou?,” Robert Plant, etc.), I wouldn’t have heard of them, for sure. But life’s not fair or explainable at all. Doesn’t matter – they’re here, and they’re making the most of their time in the spotlight.

The sisters are just that, Laura and Lydia Rogers, from Muscle Shoals, Ala. They don’t have any of that famous town’s grease and grits in their sound, however. Instead they’re devotees of real traditional country, both the hillbilly and honky-tonk strains. So, of course, they sing like angels and harmonize like only sisters can. But they have taste and flair in spades, too.

Their eponymous debut is just out.

“Tennessee Me,” starts the program with swaying seduction, sung with a chasteness that would have been welcome on Andy Griffin’s front porch. The hard-edged George Jones classic, “Why Baby Why” gets a full-throated treatment.

“The One I Love Is Gone” delivers the aforesaid Appalachian chills right after that.

On an album full of delights, special mention should be made of the ’60s campy “Somethin’ Stupid” (stripped here of its kitsch), “Do You Love An Apple,” and two Hank Williams songs to close.

When you look around a public space and see most folks’ heads buried in their smart phones, you know why attention spans are ever-shrinking. When the clutter threatens to overwhelm, simplify. These artists are a great help with that.