On A Mile South of Heaven, Jess Williamson yields to diminished returns

Anyone familiar with U.S. geography knows this, but no one understands the lengths of that journey quite like Jess Williamson. Not only does the born Texan walk the line between country and indie, she literally splits time between a tiny town in West Texas and her adopted home of Los Angeles. Williamson was feeling stuck between these two stations when she struck gold on her last album, Time Ain't Accidental. A Mile South of Heaven navigates the same emotional terrain from a slightly different direction. It's still rewarding but requires more than a little patience for less in return.

Arriving back at the crossroads Williamson reached on Time Ain't Accidental, "Goodbye to All That" opens the album with her farewell to L.A. "I love you and I'm leaving," she sings without a trace of regret, as if trusting the pedal steel not to steer her wrong. Indeed, many of the alt. country bells and whistles of her earlier work have been scrapped for more traditional parts; "Tracking the Tropics" longs for Southern comforts but is perfectly fine taking the scenic route behind a baritone guitar that rolls like the plains.

The trad country direction isn't in itself the problem with A Mile South of Heaven. Like good whiskey, Williamson doesn't need fancy production. Her voice is strong and sweet on its own. Even the begrudging "Battle Scar" goes down smoothly. Predictably, pairing her with super producer Shooter Jennings and his crack band proves a match made in heaven. Though never flashy, the playing is so solid that every song boasts at least one shining moment. Just the gospel chorus that breaks through the clouds of "Dark Day in Dallas" leads me to believe my above rating is too low.

But I'll be damned if A Mile South of Heaven couldn't use another gear. To be fair, the album's unrelentingly slow pace does serve a purpose. Williamson has to fight for her seat at the table with the good ole boys, but she's made peace with herself. "Let 'em think I'm a one trick pony," she preens in proud falsetto as "Texas Time" sweeps the floor with a stomp and a twirl. I'm not asking for Slayer, but another knee-slapper or two would help drive her point home.

Even though A Mile South of Heaven isn't all that quick on the draw, Williamson remains a pistol with the pen. She pours her heart into concise phrases that turn on a dime. When the songwriting raises its pulse to her lyrical level, the results are divine. Stirred by fiddle and banjo, "Hum of the City" is restless for home but torn over where that might be. "Just play some old country music," she pleads with the hotel bartender. As keys fall like a quarter into the jukebox, her voice climbs with the grace of an angel, moved by her belief that a song can take the most lonesome devil anywhere. Here's hoping this album is just a stop along the way to Williamson's next revelation.