On Down on Providence Plantation, singer/songwriter/trumpeter Al Basile reaches way back for inspiration: back to Motown, back to gospel and soul, even all the way back to the blues. Although the set is all original material, every song is a nod to a particular musician or tradition, from the Smokey Robinson smoothness of "Bite Your Tongue" to the B.B. King urban blues of "What Your Kisses Say." Most of the tunes fall under the headings of sweet soul or blues, with an odd funk piece here ("Don't Start Something") and a rock number there ("Prove It to You").

Basile, who has previously made his mark as a horn player with Roomful of Blues, saves his breath for singing, leaving the soloing to former bandleader (and producer) Duke Robillard on guitar. Robillard's fretwork is remarkable; his nimble acoustic riffing jazzes up "When I Reach My Limit," and he scorches a blue streak across "An Understanding Heart." Down on Providence Plantation is available at www.albasile.com.

The cover of Andrea Maybaum's album – a photo of the vaguely Shania-looking singer in a Day-Glo bikini top – suggests, for some reason, southern heritage, a suggestion gainsaid by the disc's decidedly Yankee name. As it turns out, Maybaum's music is so free of regional influence, it sounds like it could be on loan from the Bare Naked Ladies. She rocks harder than BNL, though, and employs more surprising chord changes and irregular forms than standard popsters. "I Am Not Your Friend" is classic gyrl-rock a lá Ani Difranco, albeit with a Queen-style anthemic guitar solo that seems to come out of nowhere, while "Sara" and "The Morning After" are strummy contemplative numbers. Though introspective, her lyrics are frankly unpoetic; even on "Haunted," which, depending on how you interpret it, is narrated either by a deserted woman or a anthropomorphic house, they remain matter-of-fact: "Well, you'll need a flashlight to see/ Put on a hard hat at the door/ Beware falling pieces of me." For more on Ms. Maybaum, see her website.

As genres go, rockabilly and punk really aren't such distant cousins. Both styles are more about working within existing forms – blues changes and straightforward rhythmic structures – than about developing new ones. For that reason both genres could accurately be termed "roots rock," which is to say that their practitioners are generally more concerned with accessibility than with virtuosity.

Fortunately, sometimes they're able to offer both. Take the Big Bad Johns, for instance, who, among a smorgasbord of influences cite rockabilly and punk as the foremost. On one hand, many of the tunes on I Will Be Good have a Jimmy Buffet-esque appeal: even if you're roaring drunk and you've never heard them before, you'll be singing along by the second chorus. On the other hand, guitarist Buzz Gordo's busts his outstanding chops on nearly every track, evoking everything from Chuck Berry to Stevie Ray Vaughn, and then some.

They do a good job of mixing it up, too, laying down thrashers ("Where's Waldo," "Smokin' Joe") alongside sultry delta blues ("This Kinda Party") and authentic boogie-woogie ("Jump Up on It"). They even play a long-haulin' country number a lá Garth Brooks – although it's hard to imagine Garth singing "I couldn't get it up with a crane." For more info, see Feralette Records.

Cathode Bob doesn't have any tricks. They don't have any ironic samples, or blistering guitar solos, or any real hooks at all, for that matter. They don't play power ballads, and they don't even have anything that sounds like a single. What they do have is straight-ahead, no-frills rock. Or something more raw still: the essence of rock distilled – loud, fast, angry, frequently messy, but never disaffected. What they do have are power chords, three or four at a time, and singing that would shred a normal man's vocal cords into the likes of wet Kleenex. This, if you'll remember correctly, is what grunge was all about in the first place. You didn't need a pretty face, or a catchy single, or Hendrix-like chops, as long as you had distortion and something to sound pissed off about. To find out what Cathode Bob is pissed off about, swing by the band's website.

The frontman of Cathode Bob (see above) goes solo and unplugged. Mikulka expresses social indignation and personal despair in a voice modeled on Eddie Vedder and Elvis.

Jimmie's Chicken Shack may be the most canny pop fans alive. They seem to have absorbed every sound, every trend, every gimmick that has been on the airwaves in the last five years and channeled it into the making of Bring Your Own Stereo. The list of influences detectable in the quirky Annapolis, Maryland quartet's work reads like an MTV Best of the '90s countdown: Sublime, Everlast, the Offspring, the Chili Peppers, Cake, and the Spin Doctors, to name a few. They demonstrate mastery of styles from rock-hop to neo-swing to alterna-pop, often several at a time. At their best, as on the intensely fun single "Do Right," they're a darn good Weezer sound-alike, complete with gleefully goofy lyrics, hooky guitar licks, and Beach Boys-inspired vocal harmonies. If you've liked anything going on in the mainstream since the decline of grunge, there's probably something for you on Bring Your Own Stereo.

If Suzanne Vega were dead, there'd be reason to suspect her ghost was animating singer/songwriter Laine Henderson. Henderson shares Vega's earnestness, her penchant for poetic reflection, and her high standards of musicianship. Like Vega's, Henderson's music offers a look at a variety of universal human experiences – loneliness, rejection, spirituality, renewal – from a perspective that is uniquely feminine, although Henderson's lyrics are considerably less abstract than her predecessor's.

Frostbite is a collection of narratives, portraits, and meditations, most of which focus on some shade of the emotional spectrum. Henderson borrows elements from a variety of traditions, from jazz to flamenco to Dustbowl blues, all the while keeping her roots planted firmly in the soil of folk rock. Much of the credit for the album's success belongs to guitarist Sean Driscoll, whose intricate fills, fingerstyle rhythm figures, and crisply articulated solos provide a richly textured backdrop for Henderson's straightforward vocals. Artful arrangements and imaginative songwriting make this acoustic set an effort worthy of Vega herself. To learn more, e-mail rnan@axionet.com.

There's an empty carseat on the Lilith Fair tour bus. Singer/songwriter Victoria Clamp may claim to be "Saturn's Child," but if her sound is anything to go on, it's more likely, biology aside, that her parents are Sarah McLachlan and Alanis Morissette, with Natalie Merchant and the Eurythmics pitching in to babysit and change diapers. Not to say that her music is immature; the songwriting, best described as female folk rock with a dance beat, is sophisticated and cohesive, a testament to sound engineer and multi-instrumentalist Ray Palagy's all-around competence. The lyrics are classic to the genre: childhood friendships, lost loves, God and spirituality. It won't take teenage girls long to discover that Saturn’s Child is great music for slumber parties or driving home after high school with the windows rolled down. Check out www.saturnschild.com for more info.

They say metal is back, but Shango couldn't care less. As far as the Brooklyn-based power trio is concerned, you're gonna buy their album regardless of the genre's social status – or they'll bust your kneecaps. Joking? You'd better hope so. On Metal Mafia, bassist/vocalist Tony Incigeri, drummer Robert Racalbuto, and guitarist Tom Stigi deliver a finely tuned blend of old-school thrash and progressive hardcore sure to please any fans of the heavy stuff. They may sing about masturbation on the aptly titled "Hand & Crotch" and "Balls," but there's nothing messy about Shango's style: it is a precision blitzkrieg in many ways more reminiscent of Rush than of Black Sabbath.

The Rush comparison is a good one: Racalbuto's rapid-fire, highly articulated drumming is closer to Neil Peart's playing than to any hardcore skins basher from Korn or Pantera; listen to "Where You Breathe" to hear the likeness. Incigeri, however, likens them not to Rush but to Bruce Springsteen, the only other performer, he claims, who achieves the same level of onstage intimacy. Personally, I wouldn't group Shango with the Boss – but then I'm not gonna go messin' with the don of the Metal Mafia. For more information, check out the Shango Café.

The guys in Siggy describe themselves as "some sort of musical Rorschach." I wonder what it says about me, then, that when I listen to Harlow’s Girl I hear shades of the Talking Heads, David Bowie, and even the B-52's. What it says about them is that they are upbeat and quirky, with a flair for absurdity. To pin them down further than that, however, is tricky. Stylistically, they're slippery buggers, churning out punk ("Wire Mother"), blues ("The Crossroads of Life"), and light favorites ("Rhythm") with equal assuredness. You wouldn't know it from their minimalist lyrics, but these guys are some of the best-educated rockers around: lead singer Galen Buckwalter is an expert in neuro-endocrinology, and guitarist Ryan Howes is a practicing psychotherapist. ("Siggy" is an allusion to Sigmund Freud.) For a higher education in Siggology, go to the band's website.

St. Huckleberry are pretty serious when it comes to songwriting. Sporting a lineup eclectic enough to challenge anything Jethro Tull ever fielded – viola, flute, saxophone, and mandolin, plus the standard rock trio – St. Huckleberry's arrangements are novel and elegant, whether they're playing densely layered funk ("Verdant Field") or southern-style rock ("Death Trap"). A pair of Pogues-esque Irish folk ballads, "They Think I'm on Drugs" and "Whistling Mike," provide some of We Had a Good Time’s most unexpected delights.

In marked contrast to the studied musicianship of the instrumentalists are lead singer Mike Gallucci's vocals, which recall, by turns, Mick Jagger, Jon Bon Jovi, Bryan Adams, and Meatloaf. Gallucci's voice, which is something between a hoarse whisper and a scream, balances out the Yanni-like prettiness of the viola and flute; together with the Dude of Life-ish nonsense lyrics, it ensures that listeners won't take St. Huckleberry any more seriously than they take themselves.

To listen to Stretcher is to be reminded why rock and roll was once considered a tool of the devil. They're by no means a "Satanic" band, but there's something otherworldly about their music, something volcanic, disturbing, and, well, evil, like a prison riot in Hell. It's the power of dissonance harnessed, an ambitious new tonality unlike anything I'd ever heard before. What's more, Stretcher is tight, so tight that the two live tracks are, amazingly, practically indistinguishable from those recorded in the studio. That's no mean feat considering the open-ended, AOR format of their jams. Dana deChaby's wild guitar eruptions are less masturbatory than they are schizophrenic, and Wolf Knapp's basslines kick and stomp like the boots of the demon hordes. My advice: get on board now so that when you say someday that you liked Stretcher before they were big, you'll be telling the truth. The first step is to get your virtual ass down to www.stretcherband.com.