I put Lucinda Williams' long-promised Car Wheels On A

Gravel Road on the stereo, cranked up the volume, grabbed a

beer and, not minding the light rain, settled down on my back porch

to listen.

It was the perfect setting for a near-perfect record, one that

transcends

categories of rock and roll, country and blues. This is not an album

for escapists; what it will probably do, in fact, is bring your current

situation and surroundings into sharper focus -- something Williams

accomplishes with lyrics that are as real as rain.

"Metal Firecracker" (slang for a tour bus) is a perfect song about love

and

loss. The anger and hurt pass, but the ache lingers on: "Once you

held me so tight/I thought I'd lose my mind" is followed by the slow

sigh

of "I used to think that nothing could go wrong." As if that's not

devastating enough, the chorus is over-the-top simplicity: "All I ask,

don't tell anybody the secrets, don't tell anybody the secrets, I told

you." If telling a secret is the ultimate broken promise, not telling a

loved

one something you should is worse. Throughout Car Wheels,

Williams opens up, compelled to give and to share, knowing that that

very process allows hurt to enter in as surely as love. In "Drunken

Angel," she's angry at a

small-town music star, "a derelict in your duct tape shoes," who's

been crushed

by alcohol and fame. In "Concrete And Barbed Wire," she laments not

only

the fact that her lover in is prison, but that an inner prison holds her

heart captive as well.

The stunning clarity of "Jackson" is what puts her head-and-

shoulders

above her peers. Listing the towns of the deep South as she travels

through them, she tells herself that the process of driving will help

lessen her feelings of loss and hurt. Of course, as much as a change in

geography allows for a change in

perspective, it also means that unfinished business is left behind. As

Gurf Morlix's gentle slide punctuates Williams' verse,

we realize that she'll never get to that place of not-hurting -- at least

not all the way -- and neither will we.

Much has been said about Williams' difficulties in the studio -- the

entire album was recorded twice over six years, with three different

producers and

studios. But the product justifies her effort. The sound is perfect --

raw and rugged and plenty tough, and despite all the

work, relaxed. The guitars (including guest performances from

Charlie Sexton,

Buddy Miller and Steve Earle) are gritty, and churn with energy. Her

vocals are wonderfully understated. Sure, she sings with the usual

tricks

of cracking and moaning, but she never overdoes it -- her drawl

envelops the words with warmth and ease. Criss-crossing

Delta blues, Cajun waltzes, Southern boogie and power

pop, Car Wheels bounces along with an energy and ease that

belies

its meticulous construction.

"If I give my heart, will you promise not to break it?" she asks on "I

Lost It," a tune that originally appeared on her 1980 Folkways

album,

knowing full well that nobody can guarantee that a promise like that

will

always be kept. So should we continue to give, knowing ultimately

that there's no guarantee of reciprocity, no guarantee even of

freedom from punishment, betrayal and pain?

In the end -- regardless of the consequences and the hurt --

Williams' answer is yes.