Perhaps Tom Waits' most cohesive album, Bone Machine is a morbid, sinister nightmare, one that applied the quirks of his experimental '80s classics to stunningly evocative -- and often harrowing -- effect. In keeping with the title's grotesque image of the human body, Bone Machine is obsessed with decay and mortality, the ease with which earthly existence can be destroyed. The arrangements are accordingly stripped of all excess flesh; the very few, often non-traditional instruments float in distinct separation over the clanking junkyard percussion that dominates the record. It's a chilling, primal sound made all the more otherworldly (or, perhaps, underworldly) by Waits' raspy falsetto and often-distorted roars and growls. Matching that evocative power is Waits' songwriting, which is arguably the most consistently focused it's ever been. Rich in strange and extraordinarily vivid imagery, many of Waits' tales and musings are spun against an imposing backdrop of apocalyptic natural fury, underlining the insignificance of his subjects and their universally impending doom. Death is seen as freedom for the spirit, an escape from the dread and suffering of life in this world -- which he paints as hellishly bleak, full of murder, suicide, and corruption. The chugging, oddly bouncy beats of the more uptempo numbers make them even more disturbing -- there's a detached nonchalance beneath the horrific visions. Even the narrator of the catchy, playful "I Don't Wanna Grow Up" seems hopeless in this context, but that song paves the way for the closer "That Feel," an ode to the endurance of the human soul (with ultimate survivor Keith Richards on harmony vocals). The more upbeat ending hardly dispels the cloud of doom hanging over the rest of Bone Machine, but it does give the listener a gentler escape from that terrifying sonic world. All of it adds up to Waits' most affecting and powerful recording, even if it isn't his most accessible.© Steve Huey /TiVo

Sitting atop the charts in 1975, Elton John and Bernie Taupin recalled their rise to power in Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, their first explicitly conceptual effort since Tumbleweed Connection. It's no coincidence that it's their best album since then, showcasing each at the peak of his power, as John crafts supple, elastic, versatile pop and Taupin's inscrutable wordplay is evocative, even moving. What's best about the record is that it works best of a piece -- although it entered the charts at number one, this only had one huge hit in "Someone Saved My Life Tonight," which sounds even better here, since it tidily fits into the musical and lyrical themes. And although the musical skill on display here is dazzling, as it bounces between country and hard rock within the same song, this is certainly a grower. The album needs time to reveal its treasures, but once it does, it rivals Tumbleweed in terms of sheer consistency and eclipses it in scope, capturing John and Taupin at a pinnacle. They collapsed in hubris and excess not long afterward -- Rock of the Westies, which followed just months later is as scattered as this is focused -- but this remains a testament to the strengths of their creative partnership.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Johnny Cash was in the unenviable position of being a living legend who was beloved by fans of classic country music without being able to interest anyone in his most recent work when he was signed to Rick Rubin's American Recordings label in 1994. Rubin, best known for his work with edgy rockers and hip-hop acts, opted to produce Cash's first album for American, and as he tried to brainstorm an approach that would introduce Cash to a new audience, he struck upon a brilliant idea -- doing nothing. For American Recordings, Rubin simply set up some recording equipment in Cash's Tennessee cabin and recorded him singing a set of songs accompanied only by his acoustic guitar. The result is an album that captured the glorious details of Johnny Cash's voice and allowed him to demonstrate just how emotionally powerful an instrument he possessed. While Rubin clearly brought some material to Cash for these sessions -- it's hard to imagine he would have recorded tunes by Glenn Danzig or Tom Waits without a bit of prodding -- Cash manages to put his stamp on every tune on this set, and he also brought some excellent new songs to the table, including the Vietnam veteran's memoir "Drive On," the powerful testimony of faith "Redemption," and a sly but moving recollection of his wild younger days, "Like a Soldier." American Recordings became a critical sensation and a commercial success, though it was overrated in some quarters simply because it reminded audiences that one of America's greatest musical talents was still capable of making compelling music, something he had never stopped doing even if no one bothered to listen. Still, American Recordings did something very important -- it gave Cash a chance to show how much he could do with a set of great songs and no creative interference, and it afforded him the respect he'd been denied for so long, and the result is a powerful and intimate album that brought the Man in Black back to the spotlight, where he belonged.© Mark Deming /TiVo

Johnny Cash's first album, released on Sun in 1957, is a little more folkloric and traditional than what he put on most of his singles, though not pronouncedly so. In fact, four of the tracks ("I Walk the Line," "Cry! Cry! Cry!," "So Doggone Lonesome," and "Folsom Prison Blues") had already been hit singles. For the rest of the set, Cash drew on some older folk ("Rock Island Line," "The Wreck of the Old '97"), country ("[I Heard That] Lonesome Whistle," "Remember Me [I'm the One Who Loves You]"), prison ("Doin' My Time"), and spiritual ("I Was There When It Happened") songs. Filling out the set is a good, rollicking Cash original, "Country Boy," and a rather sassy tune by the young Jerry Reed, "If the Good Lord's Willing." It's a good, solid record that's very much in the mold of his classic early Sun sound, with spare accompaniment that nevertheless often approaches a rockabilly-country bounce.© Richie Unterberger /TiVo

The Essential Taj Mahal pulls together the bluesman's Columbia, Warner, Gramavision Private Music, and Hannibal labels' recordings, making it the first truly cross-licensed compilation of his work. Given the depth and breadth of this set (it covers four decades), the listener gets not only a cross-sectional view of the artist, but also his innovative and idiosyncratic journey through the blues: Mahal has not only kept the tradition alive, he's expanded it and deepened it, tracing its roots and developments through the course of American, Caribbean, and African cultures. While there is no unreleased material here, there doesn't need to be. The sheer adventure in these recordings reveals the wealth of the contribution Mahal has made not only to the blues, but to popular culture both present and past. This is a comp to own, to be moved by, and to ultimately enjoy. Columbia issued a three-CD set earlier, but there were things there that needed to be trimmed. This leaner and meaner version is superior.© Thom Jurek /TiVo

When a clutch of unfinished lyrics written during Bob Dylan's 1967 sojourn at Big Pink in Woodstock, New York was discovered in 2013, there were really only two choices left for his publisher: either they could be collected as text or set to music. Once the decision to turn these words into songs was made, there was really only one logical choice to direct the project: T-Bone Burnett, the master of impressionistic Americana. He had played with Dylan during the Rolling Thunder Revue of 1975 and 1976 -- a tour that happened to occur in the wake of the first official release of The Basement Tapes -- but more importantly, his 2002 work on the Grammy-winning O Brother Where Art Thou? soundtrack established him as deft modernizer of classic American folk and country, skills that were needed for an album that wound up called Lost on the River. Burnett decided to assemble a loose-knit band of Americana superstars to write the music and play as a band. That's how Burnett's old pal Elvis Costello, Jim James of My Morning Jacket, Taylor Goldsmith of Dawes, Marcus Mumford of Mumford & Sons, and Rhiannon Giddens of the Carolina Chocolate Drops became a band called the New Basement Tapes (the name seems more of a formality than an actual moniker), and if Burnett's intent was to approximate the communal spirit Dylan had with the Band at Big Pink, the execution was much different. The New Basement Tapes recorded Lost on the River in a real studio fully aware there was an audience awaiting their output, an attitude that's the polar opposite of the ramshackle joshing around of the original Basement Tapes. Thankfully, nobody involved with Lost on the River contrives to replicate either the sound or feel of the 1967 sessions, even if the artists consciously pick up the strands of country, folk, and soul dangling on the originals. Wisely, the songwriters steer their given lyrics toward their own wheelhouses, which means this contains a little of the woolliness of a collective but Burnett sands off the rough edges, tying this all together. Certainly, some musicians make their presence known more than others -- there's a slow, soulful ease to James' four contributions that stand in nice contrast to Costello's canny bluster ("Married to My Hack" would've fit onto any EC album featuring Marc Ribot) -- but the best work might come from Goldsmith, who strikes a delicate, beguiling balance between his own idiosyncrasies and the Americana currents that flow out of The Basement Tapes. Then again, the whole project is rather impressive: Burnett and the New Basement Tapes remain faithful to the spirit of The Basement Tapes yet take enough liberties to achieve their own identity, which is a difficult trick to achieve.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

On their fifth album, 2016's Blindfaller, Mandolin Orange once again show they have a true gift for keeping one foot in the past and the other in the present day. Group founders Andrew Marlin and Emily Frantz can harmonize with a casual but emphatic touch that sounds Appalachian at one moment, and like modern-day Big City folkies at the next. Marlin's mandolin and Frantz's fiddle work a similar magic, clearly inspired by vintage bluegrass and mountain music but also with a touch of the smoky drift of psychedelia when the music floats along a cloud of twang and reverb. Marlin and Frantz expanded Mandolin Orange into a full band for Blindfaller, with the duo joined in the studio by Josh Oliver on keyboards and guitar, Allyn Love on pedal steel, Clint Mullican on bass, and Kyle Keegan on drums. The additional musicians fill out the sound as well as the spirit of the group, and on "Hard Travelin'" they sound like a good, rowdy country-rock band kicking up their heels on a Saturday night. However, the six-piece Mandolin Orange gain most in dynamics, not volume, on Blindfaller; at their heart, they are still an acoustic band, with Marlin and Frantz dominating the arrangements, and the texture of this music has more to do with the close interaction of the players than an effort to beef up Mandolin Orange's attack. And as songwriters, Mandolin Orange remain literate but down-to-earth storytellers, whether they're singing about love ("Take This Heart of Gold"), touring ("Hard Travelin'"), or the spiritual insincerity of certain politicians ("Gospel Shoes"). Blindfaller finds Mandolin Orange taking some strong steps forward while keeping a close watch on what they do best, and this music should please old fans while intriguing new ones.© Mark Deming /TiVo

In less than 24 months, Taj Mahal (guitars/vocals/banjo/harmonica) had issued the equivalent of four respective long-players. The electric Giant Step (1968) was released alongside the acoustic and decidedly rural De Ole Folks at Home (1968). The nine cuts on Giant Step feature support from the instrumental trio of Jesse Ed Davis (guitar/keyboards), Gary Gilmore (bass), and Chuck Blackwell (drums). They back Taj Mahal on a wide selection of covers ranging from Carole King and Gerry Goffin's "Take a Giant Step" to the upbeat and soulful reading of the Huddie Ledbetter blues staple "Keep Your Hands Off Her." The arrangements are unique and offer the artist's distinctive approach. Nowhere is this more evident than the practically jovial midtempo "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl" or the freewheeling abandon brought to the 18-wheeler anthem "Six Days on the Road"." Similarly, it recalls the version of "Ain't That a Lot of Love" from Taj Mahal's preceding LP Natch'l Blues (1968). Additionally, Blind Willie Johnson's "You're Gonna Need Somebody on Your Bond" stands out with a strong and soaring gospel-flavored arrangement. The project concludes with "Bacon Fat," a number attributed here via Garth Hudson and Robbie Robertson of the Band. That said, it may be better-known from the man they called Mr. Rhythm, Andre Williams, whose scattered down-home spoken interludes punctuate his February 1957 Top Ten R&B hit -- which incidentally was created under the working title "Diddle, Diddle Womp, Womp." Parties searching for an apt introduction when discovering Taj Mahal's voluminous catalog are encouraged to consider Giant Step as a highly recommended reference point.© Lindsay Planer /TiVo

In 2015, guitar hero Joe Bonamassa set out on what he called the "Three Kings" tour, in which he paid homage to three of his favorite guitarists: B.B. King, Albert King, and Freddie King. The tour concluded with a show at the venerable Los Angeles venue the Greek Theatre, in which Bonamassa and his band treated the audience to a night of classic blues standards. A mobile recording studio and a camera crew were on hand to capture the performance, and Live at the Greek Theatre (released on CD, LP, DVD, and Blu-ray) documents the event, in which one of the 21st century's top guitarists demonstrates how much he learned from the masters. © Mark Deming /TiVo