by Clay Steakley

The most masterful songwriters in any genre -- from Dylan to Van Zandt, Tom Waits to Leonard Cohen, Leadbelly to Greg Brown -- achieve a sort of high poetry of lyric, melody and sound that can eloquently convey the human experience yet still speak the language of the people. They balance on a tether between the transcendent and the ludicrous, chancing embarrassment (the overstated metaphor, the awkward vocal) for communication. On The Wheel, David Olney waks that tightrope well.

From its haunting a cappella track Wheels, in which Olney introduces a semi-medieval melody that will be revisited throughout the album, the tone is set for a weighty record. Weighty, yes. Self-important, no. For all the gorgeous poetry and ominous imagery on The Wheel, there's an equal amount of fun. Whether he's hollering on Voices on the Water and Boss Don't Shoot No Dice, grinding out the kind of nether-worldly country blues/gospel we would hear on Waits' Mule Variations or rocking Hiatt-style on Chained and Bound to the Wheel, Olney is having a big old time. So is the listener.

Although occasional a cappella breaks such as Stars and Precious Time, Precious Love are spooky and moody, they ultimately take away from the record by forcibly jerking the listener from the immediate, sweaty experience of the songs, and they feel incongruous with Olney's lyrical, personal work.