40 Best Country and Americana Albums of 2019

On 2014’s A Sailor’s Guide to Earth, Sturgill Simpson made a psychedelically soulful album that successfully blended themes of fatherhood and a mariner’s journey. For Sound & Fury, he blew up the ship, making a “sleazy synth-rock dance record” that serves as a fuck-you to Music Row and beyond. Simpson torches flash-in-the-pan artists (“Everybody’s worried about a good look/But they need to be worried ’bout a good hook”) and yes-men trying to surround him “(They come backstage and on my bus pretendin’ to be my friend.”) Simpson, who started out with a bluegrass band, couldn’t sound farther from his roots. He spends minutes on end jamming on his Les Paul, with a sound that channels Trans-era Neil and T. Rex. He paired the album with an anime film. Those left-field choices paid off: Simpson is now headlining arenas for the first time. Simpson summed up his mission on the last track, “Fastest Horse in Town”: “Everybody’s trying to be the next someone. But I’m trying to be the first something.” P.D.

Thomas Rhett has been carving out a persona as a country music dad, putting his kids and his wife in his videos and all over social media. Center Point Road then firmly planted the father flag, as Rhett offered personal and emotional statements like “Blessed,” “Things You Do for Love,” and “Remember You Young.” The concept of family runs all through the record. But Rhett is still comfortable hosting an adults-only kegger too. He reconnected with his country-boy roots on “Beer Can’t Fix” with guest Jon Pardi, and threw a dance party on “VHS,” a kinetic blast of pop that shows him to be modern country’s most eclectic creator. J.H.

“I’ve always been the kind of person who was too much,” Sarah Potenza told Rolling Stone earlier this year about Road to Rome over a lunch of hot chicken. And yeah, Potenza doesn’t do anything subtly, but why have a light touch when you have a voice like that? Hers is monstrous. “They said that I was too big/damn straight now I’m a giant,” Potenza sang on “I Work for Me.” Loaded with full-throttle soul, the genre-playful Road to Rome was a locomotive journey of self-acceptance and empowerment delivered with so much conviction that it’s nearly contagious. We could all be a little more extra, after all. M.M.

There was something so endlessly refreshing about Lauren Jenkins and the songs of No Saint: her delivery, in particular, that was never afraid to get a little more raspy, a little more breathy, a little more raw than any of her contemporaries. Her songs — dreamy, frank, cinematic — looked at romance from a more nuanced perspective, because sometimes there’s more than one person to blame when things go sour. The album was called No Saint, after all. Jenkins could write a hit song (“Payday” could have easily been shipped to radio if a dude in a trucker hat recorded it), but her approach was way more Sheryl Crow-era Americana-pop than run-of-the-mill mainstream country. No Saint was one of the more promising, self-assured debuts of the year. M.M.

Justin Moore is stone-cold country on his fifth album, Late Nights and Longnecks, a record whose blood alcohol content is so high that it probably shouldn’t be listened to while driving. “Why We Drink,” “Jesus and Jack Daniels,” “Airport Bar,” “Never Gonna Drink Again,” “On the Rocks,” and “Someday I Gotta Quit” all have references to boozing, but Moore is way too savvy to make them all tip-it-back anthems. Instead, he explored the fallout of getting fall-down drunk, dropping some real-life consequences into country’s party-all-the-time fantasy. “Gonna drink till I swear that I’m never gonna drink again,” he sang in one forlorn track; in another, he lamented the frequent sight of the “longneck in my hand getting low.” These were country drinking songs done right. J.H.

Lady Antebellum were old souls from the get-go, which didn’t always work to their advantage after “Need You Now.” But on their seventh album Ocean, the trio of Charles Kelley, Hillary Scott, and Dave Haywood brought an emotional maturity that felt fully lived in. Lead single “What If I Never Get Over You” mined Tom Petty’s “Learning to Fly” for a tale of lingering memory and threw sparks at the intersection of Kelley and Scott’s voices, while “What I’m Leaving For” looked at the sacrifices made when a parent has to hit the road for a paycheck. There was also a newfound crispness to the hooks found in the wistful funk-pop of “Pictures,” the jangly heartland rock of “Boots,” or the us-against-the-world tale “Crazy Love” that showed the group’s knack for fusing moments of emotional and musical resonance. Ocean reached its high point with the Kelley-led “Be Patient With My Love,” which unflinchingly described a soul-crushing test of marital commitment. It was a set of impossibly high stakes that Lady A — now grown people with their own families — understood better than ever before. J.F.

Sure, it’s a duets project of songs you’ve heard countless times before, but Reboot pulled off the tricky task of giving them new life. Credit the musical chemistry of Kix Brooks and Ronnie Dunn, of course, but also their smart idea to not enlist the “obvious suspects,” as they told Rolling Stone. “I don’t think either one of us cared about cutting [the songs] with Keith and Tim and Faith and George,” Brooks said of their longtime friends, with whom they had already collaborated countless times. Instead, they handpicked young artists that they influenced: Luke Combs, Jon Pardi, Midland, even Kacey Musgraves, whose “Neon Moon” alone is worth adding the LP to your library. J.H.

New York City hardcore fixture Jesse Malin has been dipping his Converse All-Stars into the Americana genre since his 2003 solo debut The Fine Art of Self Destruction. On this year’s Sunset Kids, he dove in headfirst, enlisting Americana’s queen Lucinda Williams and her husband Tom Overby to co-produce this album of mid-tempo ballads and acoustic ruminations. Williams cameos on a few tracks, most prominently on the grinding “Dead On,” but this is ultimately Malin’s show and his songwriting distinguishes the LP. “I really love his lyrics,” Williams raved to Rolling Stone. Listen to the hopeful “Shining Down,” in which Malin sang about “sentimental kids with movies in our heads,” and you’ll hear exactly what she means. J.H.

The most atmospheric Americana record released this year, Dylan LeBlanc’s Renegade swallowed you whole. It swirled, cascaded, and, at times, flat out rocked. The title track slashed with its opening riff, while “Damned” pummeled with both pounding drums and LeBlanc’s indictment of organized religion. (“Religion screws itself,” he said.) On the startling “Domino,” he recounted the complicated story of a New Orleans prostitute. LeBlanc bucked producer Dave Cobb’s tradition of using session players in favor of recording with his road band, and the decision proved a smart one: this was a tight, electrifying record. J.H.

Though his album title may have suggested a certain male archetype, Alabama native Dee White did plenty to promote a new understanding of the term on his Dan Auerbach-produced debut. He was as gentle as Don Williams on the sweetly nostalgic “Bucket of Bolts” and “Ol’ Muddy River,” but also willing to get funky on the groove-driven “Wherever You Go.” Top-tier guests included Alison Krauss, with whom White harmonized beautifully on “Tell the World I Do,” and Ashley McBryde, who performed the duet “Road That Goes Both Ways.” White tapped into the epic heartbreak and longing of Roy Orbison in “Rose of Alabam” and “Crazy Man,” showing off vocal and emotional range that didn’t require aggression to get his point across. Other Southern men should pay attention. J.F.

It’s about damn time a masked gay country singer came to save us all. And save us from musical monotony Orville Peck did, with his moody crooning, impeccable style, and brooding, noirish take on country music. Across his debut album Pony (Sub Pop), the anonymous singer in the glitzy fringe mask imbued his singular take on country music with glossy traces of Chris Isaak, Roy Orbison, and even Robert Smith, to dazzling effect. Album standout “Turn to Hate” glowed and glowered, with Peck’s rich baritone lending a dramatic heft to the track’s portrayal of loneliness and longing. For obvious reasons, you (quite unfortunately) won’t hear Peck on country radio any time soon. But no matter. He’s too busy styling in Dior and furthering the Yeehaw Agenda to worry about that. B.M.

The Texas singer swerved in and out of the white lines on Room 41, named after his den of iniquity in a Dallas hotel. Cauthen left nothing to the imagination on songs like “Cocaine Country Dancing,” “Slow Down,” and “Freak,” in which he preached about getting pinched for possession of the “devil’s lettuce” and bonding with his cellmates, all “freaks like me.” The country-funk production is as intoxicating as the subject matter too, making for a listening experience that can make you want to dance or get fucked up. As Cauthen shouted in “Big Velvet,” “Cocaine, meet tequila!” J.H.

In some ways, we took Joy Williams for granted — that crystalline voice that launched the Civil Wars and pushed an Americana movement past the tipping point, or that way of moving and singing that T Bone Burnett once described as “snake charming.” Or maybe because the Civil Wars were just so casually influential (there would be no Lone Bellow, no Lumineers without them). Or perhaps it’s because Williams’ last solo project veered more into the pop landscape. Either way, the Kenneth Pattengale-produced Front Porch was Williams’ triumphant return to country and Americana. She never sounded more at home on “The Trouble With Wanting,” written with Natalie Hemby, where she traced the pains of longing, or on “Canary,” in which she refused to ignore the signs of a world crumbling all around her. “I will not fall silent,” she sang, her voice quivering to those familiar minor keys. It’s good she’s home. M.M.

Hayes Carll’s What It Is wasn’t exclusively a “relationship album,” though it was inspired by his newfound happiness and security with wife Allison Moorer. And What It Is wasn’t exclusively a political album, either, though it didn’t hold back when taking on the current state of affairs or the patriarchy. Instead, Carll described it as “made with the spirit of change, about my world and the world around me.” He was more open than ever, singing about love with an innocent joy and mature commitment (“None’ya,” “I Will Stay”), and holding nothing back when taking white supremacists to task on “Fragile Men.” “It must make you so damn angry they’re expecting you to change,” Carll sang in his classic sticky drawl. It was enough to make those fragile men cower in their chinos. M.M.

The opening “Swing All Night Long with You” reminded us, again, what a great western swinger she can be. Reba’s real superpower though is her ability to sell story songs that, on paper and other people’s records, trade in nothing but maudlin sentiment, unearned uplift, or both. Turns out “Cactus in a Coffee Can,” “The Clown,” and “Freedom” were precisely as overwrought, melodramatic, and hyperbolic, respectively, as their titles predict. But you have to hear Reba sing them — overwhelming this hurt-filled line or that by over-singing it, then drawing tears or salving wounds with the way she under-sings the next. The best cut was a piano and pedal-steel ballad that confronted, and guided us beyond, the sorts of losses that can only be termed “Tammy Wynette Kind of Pain.” It was a marvelous homage to a fellow legend — and left you wondering: When will Reba get her tribute songs? D.C.

The curse for mid-career artists as wildly prolific and consistently talented as Justin Townes Earle is that their albums can easily start to get lost in the shuffle. Earle, who’s released eight albums in 11 years, was in danger of that more than most. But the singer-songwriter’s latest was the strongest collection he’s released in years, with a half-dozen or so career classics, including the seven-in-the-morning clarity of “Mornings in Memphis,” the poignant polemic “Over Alameda,” and the gorgeous lullaby “Ahi Esta Mi Nina,” an inverse sequel of sorts to his 2009 signature “Mama’s Eyes.” With a fresh vitality and a renewed sense of purpose, The Saint of Lost Causes made the quiet case for Earle as one of his generation’s most overlooked songwriters. J.B.

Debuting with a concept album is a bold move, but Jenny Tolman isn’t your average debut artist. The Nashville native took listeners to a fictional town in There Goes the Neighborhood, a technicolor patchwork quilt of melodic country-pop with inventive arrangements and plenty of twang. The LP chronicled life in “Jennyville” with the heartfelt, often humorous, stories of its colorful residents made all the richer by spoken-word interludes and infomercials inspired by Tolman’s own life. There Goes the Neighborhood announced Tolman as a singer-songwriter with a fully defined artistic vision, one far bigger than the confines of any small town. B.M.

2019 may just be remembered as the year when an entire generation of Nashville budding singer-songwriters found their fully-formed voices and got to show it off on record. It’s hard to think of a better example than Caroline Spence, whose Mint Condition transformed Spence’s coffeehouse country into a blooming singer-songwriter showcase, from the Kathleen Edwards-indebted roots-rock of “Who’s Gonna Make My Mistakes” to the Guy Clark-esque folk wisdom of “Sometimes a Woman Is an Island” to the achingly personal summation of aged love (with help from Emmylou Harris) on the title track. “There’s nothing like letting yourself get so lost,” Spence sang early on, tipping her listeners off to the self-revelation about to take place, “that you realize you’re someone that you know.” J.B.

Year after year, album after album, Robert Ellis undergoes a reinvention — trick is, though, he does it while still fully sounding like himself. For his fifth LP, Ellis slipped into a crisp white suit, toted along a glistening baby grand, and tickled his way through the keys of Texas Piano Man, his transition into a Billy the Kid/Billy Joel hybrid. Ellis has always attacked his instruments with both mastery and reckless abandon, and he engaged the piano like a sprarring partner, pounding out songs like his green juice-era lament “Nobody Smokes Anymore” and “Passive Aggressive” with so much passion that Lady Gaga would be jealous. Extra points for the perfect album-ending ode to sparkling water, “Topo Chico,” that only Ellis could have pulled off — and convinced even the most faithful La Croix fans to make the switch. M.M.

“Mama has all kinds of dreams/Where she goes looking for hidden things,” sang Emily Scott Robinson in “Delta Line,” a track from her second album Traveling Mercies. That restless spirit coursed through the entire project, a vibrant, mostly acoustic batch of songs from a writer who could evoke the empathy of Patty Griffin (“Ghosts in Every Town”), the narrative concision of Richard Thompson (“Overalls”), and the sly wit of Brandy Clark (“Pie Song”) with her keen observations. The stories weren’t always hers, as with the riveting “Shoshone Rose,” but Robinson’s own experiences informed her writing as well. In “The Dress,” she recalled the horror of her sexual assault and asked questions for which there were no satisfactory answers (“Was it the dress I wore? Was it the wine he poured?”), dragging her anger and fear out into the light. She still somehow ended the album on a hopeful note, offering a prayer and “Traveling Mercies” to anyone who — like pretty much all of us — feels uncertain about where the whole thing is ultimately headed. J.F.

One way to handle a second album bound to anoint a fast-rising superstar as the biggest phenomenon in country music is to take no chances and ensure the transition of power goes as smoothly as possible. Luke Combs did just that, and to great effect, on What You See Is What You Get, his 17-song country-radio-playlist-disguised-as-album that’s crammed with Hallmark-worthy reflection (“Refrigerator Door”), hard-won pick-me-ups (“Every Little Bit Helps”), and crushed Miller Lite cans (most songs). Despite its size, Combs’ second album was shockingly devoid of filler, leaving no hook unsung, no country song archetype not accounted for (A song about Mexico? Check). It was a testament only to Comb’s larger-than-life charisma and vocal delivery that he somehow managed to pull it off. J.B.

This Kentucky singer-songwriter’s debut was one of the startling shocks of 2019: a fully-formed tour-de-force that chronicled the dead-end depression (“Dead on the River”) and gentle grace (“If Today Doesn’t Do Me In”) of 21st-century small-town claustrophobia. But the John Prine-channeling Between the County ultimately triumphed not for treating Appalachia as anthropology (it didn’t), but for its moments of literary left-field country, like the profound portraiture of “Irene (Ravin’ Bomb’),” and “Barbara’s Song,” in which Noe assumed the first-person narration of an early 20th-century coal-powered train. “It’s the way family would talk and how they’d tell old stories,” Noe said of his the plainspoken idioms that litter his record. “It always appealed to me.” J.B.

Pardi got tagged as old school, and it’s not wrong. The opening “Old Hat,” for example, stanned explicitly for old-fashioned values with foreground twin guitars. As the album moved along, the hard and heavy sound he terms “turbo tonk” took center stage. A left-behind-and-balling ballad called “Ain’t Always the Cowboy” built to an arena-destroying guitar solo. “Me and Jack” tag-teamed the booze to a draw while what sounded like a battle of the bands — Hank Jr. v. Hank III — went at it behind him. “I Tied One On” sounded like a great lost Jason & the Nashville Scorchers track. “They used to call me country,” he shouted after listing genre signifiers like freight trains and prisons, Waylon and Willie. Tellingly, he did it backed by power chords and drums cranked to 11 and having a blast. Pardi hearty! D.C.

With cuts for heavy hitters like Luke Bryan, Lee Ann Womack, Alan Jackson, and Randy Travis, Arkansas native Erin Enderlin was always an accomplished writer. But it was her solo work that was truly compelling, and it was on full display on her second studio album Faulkner County. The LP actually comprised four EPs Enderlin released throughout 2019, but, despite its composition, was a remarkably cohesive listen, stitching together thoughtfully detailed songs with strong narrative bents. A highlight was “Broken,” on which Enderlin turned her empathic eye to teenage pregnancy. Co-producers Jamey Johnson and Jim “Moose” Brown — along with a laundry list of guests that included Cody Jinks and Alison Krauss — gave Enderlin’s characters and their stories plenty of room to breathe, making for an album as satisfying as your favorite short story collection. B.M.

What a year it’s been for Maren Morris. The solo artist and Highwoman kicked off 2019 with the release of “Girl,” a soulful slice of empowering country pop (with an equally affecting video) that frankly chronicled the ups and downs of womanhood. The album Girl was equally kaleidoscopic, with Morris’ rich vocal tying together influences of pop, rock, R&B, and soul. Standout tracks included the Brandi Carlile collaboration “Common,” which called for love in the face of hatred, and single “The Bones,” which cleverly likened a successful relationship to a well-built house. Girl won Album of the Year at this year’s CMA Awards, a special moment for Morris who used the occasion to mourn the passing of the album’s late producer, Busbee, who died at the age of 43 in September. B.M.

The wonder of “Buy My Own Drinks” isn’t just that it managed to be a significant radio hit in an era programmed to include just one woman’s voice an hour. It’s that it managed the feat both by beating the gents at their own stack-the-rhymes-high country-pop game with an anthem about just how unnecessary some bros are: Naomi Cooke, Hannah Mulholland, and Jennifer Wayne can also take themselves to bed — and be their own boyfriend once they get there, too. Elsewhere, it was the shocks of singer-songwriter recognition that had you leaning in: the “Reynolds Wrap on rabbit ears” that opens “We Were Rich” or the “makeup still painted on my pillow case” in “Good, Bad & Ugly.” And was that really Dwight Yoakam’s vengeful and randy “Fast As You” they’re killing? Blue Roses promised that the Junes can do whatever they wish. D.C.

After their debut LP On the Rocks, Midland — the Texas trio of Mark Wystrach, Jess Carson, and Cameron Duddy — could have gone any number of ways with their steel-guitar-heavy Nineties country grooves and hearty mustaches. In less capable hands, all that goodness could have become pastiche or parody, or they could have polished up those melodic chops and made something more serious, less rowdy, less (gasp) fun. Lucky us, Midland did no such thing on Let It Roll, which found them both having a blast and producing delicious, traditionally-built tunes that showed paying tribute to the past doesn’t always have to be done with somber fiddle. The songs were meant for long drives (in a pink Cadillac, if you have one), long hours of debauchery (in a pink leisure suit, if you got one), and long nights of line dancing (in pink cowboy boots, if you please). Everything here was done in the key of Midland: a drinkin’ song with a sense of humor, as many cheating songs as love songs, and some gorgeously sentimental moments, too, like “Lost in the Night,” where Duddy took lead vocals. M.M.

Along with friend and fellow Nashvillian Darrin Bradbury, Jeremy Ivey was one of two very exciting new signings to Anti- Records in 2019. Ivey made his Anti- debut with The Dream and the Dreamer, an expansive, immersive collection of cerebral country-rock songs. Lead single “Story of a Fish” bordered on psychedelic, with its allegorical lyrics and off-kilter, Beatlesque arrangement. Opener “Diamonds Back to Coal” pulled no punches about American history, with lyrics like, “Is this the land we borrowed? Is this the land we stole?” The album also featured contributions from Ivey’s wife Margo Price, who produced the LP and provided harmony vocals to another album standout, the laid-back rocker “Greyhound.” Ivey was an integral part of Price’s own solo projects — it’s great to see him getting his due. B.M.

Singer-songwriter Kendell Marvel found an approach that suited his sensibilities for his second album Solid Gold Sounds, which was produced by the in-demand team of Dan Auerbach and Dave Ferguson. Marvel’s outlaw persona — a big presence on his previous album — was able to sneak in and out of songs without wearing out its welcome, riding away one minute in the ominous “Hard Time With the Truth” and worrying about a hell-on-wheels woman in “Blood in the Water.” But the real revelations were in the softer, more delicate numbers like “When It’s Good,” in which he rhapsodized about a complicated love against a pillowy backdrop of harmonies and steel. And in his cover of the Bee Gees’ “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You,” Marvel displayed a smooth, buttery croon that echoed Charlie Rich’s heyday — a mighty flex that didn’t require him to puff out his chest. J.F.

The Nashville songwriter dismantled any notions of being a mere honky-tonk stylist on her fourth album Desert Dove, a textured portrayal of turmoil and restlessness set to a mix of West Coast-country, atmospheric indie-rock indebted reverb, and plaintive folk-pop. “The goal,” she said of her artistic breakthrough, “was to create a vibe.” On highlights like “One Heart,” “Child of the Wind,” and “Somebody New,” Michaela Anne proved that mood-creation didn’t have to come at the expense of old-fashioned song-craft, and should there be any purists with qualms about her newly confident sonic direction, she has a song for that: “If I wanted your opinion,” she sang, “you would know.” J.B.

With a bigger budget, audience, and profile, Tyler Childers could have gone in any number of directions for his follow-up to 2017’s Purgatory. Instead, the Kentucky singer-songwriter simply doubled-down on the type of hardscrabble country on which he made his name, mixing his winking humor on “Gemini” and “Ever’ Lovin Hand” with the sweet-hearted romanticism of “All Your’n” and the tough rural realism of “Creeker” and “House Fire.” Childers’ songwriting was at its best, having reached a new level of plainspoken sparseness. On Country Squire, he emerged as a honky-tonk prophet. “Back when I was younger, didn’t have a clue,” he sang on “Gemini.” “Come to think of it, I still doubt I do.” J.B.

When Rhiannon Giddens, Amythyst Kiah, Leyla McCalla, and Allison Russell announced their new project Our Native Daughters, the foursome’s debut album quickly became one of the most anticipated releases of the year. Songs of Our Native Daughters more than lived up to that hype and was one of the rare “supergroup” projects that was far more than the sum of its (incredibly talented) parts. Through 11 original songs and two covers, the band shared black women’s stories with grace, frankness, and virtuosic musicianship, and notably did so in a genre — old-time string band music — that has historically prized white, male artists. On “Quasheba, Quasheba,” Russell communed with an ancestor who was sold into slavery. Giddens reimagined a minstrel song on “Better Git Your Learnin’,” subverting the genre by singing of agency and empowerment. And the group’s cover of Bob Marley’s 1973 song “Slave Driver” was particularly potent in this context, tying them to a larger legacy of black artists confronting slavery through song. B.M.

With her earlier two albums (2014’s The Goldmine and 2016’s I’ve Got a Way), Kentucky native Kelsey Waldon quietly announced herself as one of the most exciting young voices in country songwriting. To wit, her third album White Noise / White Lines was her first release as a signee to John Prine’s Oh Boy Records, which made her the first new addition to the label’s roster in over 15 years. While it’s undeniable that the Oh Boy seal of approval added a level of clout to the release, the LP spoke firmly for itself. Waldon fashioned White Noise / White Lines as a loose autobiography, taking listeners on a tour of the people and places that informed her Kentucky upbringing and, accordingly, how she understands the world. Standout track “Kentucky 1988” summed this up beautifully, serving as an origin story for Waldon and a thesis statement for a richly rendered album that shares more with each repeated listen. B.M.

After a few years of successful but vacuous radio hits, many of them written by outside songwriters, Randy Houser stepped away from the mainstream country game to write what would become his fifth album, Magnolia. It was a brilliant decision. Stripped clean of any glossy production and emphasizing Houser’s marvelous voice, the LP drove home the fact that the Mississippi native is a traditional country artist — not a homogenized trend-chaser. “When I turned 40 my middle finger started going up,” he told Rolling Stone, “and kept getting stiffer and stiffer.” “No Stone Unturned” and “What Whiskey Does” had hints of that defiance (as well as their share of chemical vices), while “Evangeline” proved not all road trip songs have to be cheesy. But it’s “No Good Place to Cry” that glued the album together, with Houser singing the most tortured, and convincing, country vocal of 2019. J.H.

One of Texas’s quintessential working bands heads to London to make a surprise album with a symphony? This ain’t your daddy’s European vacation, y’all. When Mike and the Moonpies set out to record the follow-up to 2018’s Steak Night at the Prairie Rose, they left the bluebonnets in the rearview in favor of Ol’ Blue eyes, tapping the London Symphony Orchestra to record Cheap Silver and Solid Country Gold at Abbey Road Studios with a heavy Rat Pack spirit. Yeah, there are dramatic strings and some production gloss on tunes like “Cheap Silver” and “Miss Fortune,” and the lyrical references are more cosmopolitan. But only Mike Harmeier and his Lone Star brood could get so out of their element to make something so deeply true to who they are. M.M.

With songs like “Redesigning Women,” “My Name Can’t Be Mama,” and the ballsy title track, the Highwomen’s self-titled album appeared to court a certain audience. But this was a record for everyone, with a message of solidarity that transcended age, race, and, yes, gender. Brandi Carlile, Amanda Shires, Natalie Hemby, and Maren Morris sang about topics affecting us all, from the grand (the persecution of the historical characters in “Highwomen”) to the minute (the glorious kiss-off “Don’t Call Me”). And the tracks that do zero in with a fine point — like the Carlile-sung “If She Ever Leaves Me” — are still wildly relatable. “I love that we have songs on this album about shattering female stereotypes to a gay country love song, and songs about losing loved ones,” Morris said to Rolling Stone. “It’s all real and it’s all country.” J.H.

Prior to launching her solo career, British singer-songwriter Yola worked as a top-line songwriter, sang with Massive Attack, and performed in bands including Bugz in the Attic and Phantom Limb. There was scant little evidence of Bristol-born Yolanda Quartey’s pop and electronic pedigree on her proper debut Walk Through Fire, however — instead, it was a smooth-sipping master class in country-soul, produced by Dan Auerbach and played with knowing expertise by the Easy Eye Sound house band. There were shades of Dusty in Memphis (“Faraway Look”) and even Carole King’s sturdy singer-songwriter pop (“Still Gone”), but Yola sounded equally confident with more down-home traditions, as heard on the fiddle-laced title track and the lush, gentle ballad “Shady Grove.” Above it all, her deft sense of melody and commanding voice shined through, rising from a low purr to an explosive, cathartic cry on “Lonely the Night” and caressing an easygoing, windows-down groove in “Ride Out in the Country.” J.F.

Working with innovative producer Jay Joyce (Eric Church, Brothers Osborne) for the first time, Miranda Lambert reinvigorated her sound with rock & roll energy on Wildcard. On these 14 new songs, the country star shrugged off life’s little mishaps (and men) in the lead single “It All Comes Out in the Wash” and then knowingly chuckled about seeing her face adorning the tabloids in “Pretty Bitchin’.” In “Way Too Pretty for Prison,” Lambert and Maren Morris traded wicked fantasies about knocking off an unfaithful partner. But there were also hints of Lambert’s new love, as with the smoldering “Fire Escape” and the vulnerable “How Dare You Love.” She experimented with her sound on the sleek “Mess With My Head” and the punk-tinged “Locomotive,” but easily switched gears to bedrock country in “Tequila Does” and the stark closing track “Dark Bars.” Through it all she held fast to hope. “If the whole world just stops singing and all the stars go dark/I’ll keep a light on in my soul and a bluebird in my heart,” she sang in “Bluebird,” a perfectly uplifting message for these (or any other) dark times. J.F.

Although Tucker hates to refer to it as such, her “comeback” album couldn’t have turned out any better — While I’m Livin’ featured 10 expertly chosen songs, two Grammy-winning producers, and one unmistakable voice. (It also netted her four Grammy nominations of her own.) A concise 35 minutes, the LP captured the outlaw essence of the one-time teenage star without resting on past laurels — there’s no “Delta Dawn” remake here. Instead, co-producers Brandi Carlile and Shooter Jennings challenged Tucker, throwing a cover of Miranda Lambert’s “The House That Built Me” at her, along with a wealth of brand-new songs written especially for the 61-year-old by Carlile and Phil and Tim Hanseroth. “Mustang Ridge” and “The Wheels of Laredo” nodded to her Texas raising, and “I Don’t Owe You Anything” found her playing the badass to the hilt. But it’s “Bring My Flowers Now,” about gathering those rosebuds while ye may, that was the album’s apex. “Good music is good, no matter what year, what generation. ‘Delta Dawn’ is always going to be a great song,” Tucker told Rolling Stone. “And that’s why you keep striving to find songs like that.” J.H.