Doug Hoekstra Rickety Stairs Back Porch Music NASHVILLIAN HOEKSTRA PLAYS Americana, the rootsy branch that includes Butch Hancock, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Lucinda Willams, Cindy Lee Berryhill, even Springsteen and Mary Chapin Carpenter. Americana is where we encounter mirrors, not fashions and trends; odd that Music City U.S.A. would be populated by so many musical vampires who cast no reflections of their own. At any rate, Hoekstra's a rare talent, skillfully crafting piano/french horn ballads, Band-styled R&B with Hammond organ and electric guitar, even sweet waltzes for cello and male/female vocal duet. Lyrically, he can be gently reflective, looking back upon missed chances and lost potential. Other moments are darker, such as a tune that charts an abused child's years. There's also a devastating number called "Pieces Of Man" where Hoekstra turns his lens upon not only the homeless ex-Marine who accosts him on the way home, but also upon himself and his own motives. "You can lock your windows, lock your doors/I guess all is fair in love and war," is Hoekstra's dismal assessment. To anyone who's felt the conflicting pangs of intruded privacy, collective guilt and simple compassion, it rings brutally true. --Fred Mills Robert Earl Keen No. 2 Live Dinner Sugar Hill ANYONE WHO HAS seen Robert Earl Keen perform knows that live is the best way to hear him, and this album proves it. Backed by a full band, Keen shows why he's been called one of Texas' greatest lyricists. Yeah, his voice isn't always so hot, but it fits his songs just great. He serves up wry classics like "Merry Christmas from the Family" and "Five Pound Bass," along with ballads like "The Road Goes on Forever," "Mariano" and "Sonora's Death Row," to the accompaniment of raucous crowds. In between he spins some memorable yarns, including one about meeting Willie Nelson. This rowdy disc is an instant, portable party--and you don't have to clean up after it. --Pam Parrish Cheralee Dillon Citron Glitterhouse WITH THE YEAR Of The Woman several years hence, record labels still groom their young sows. It's a business, y'see. Portland indie Dillon eschews this meat packing mentality. Dillon's a folkie with Tim Buckley's limitless sense of operatic flight, an avant-post-punkstress specializing in naughty growls and piercing shrieks (Beefheart meets Joni Mitchell), and a fear-no-cracker hot rockin' mama not unlike Joan Osborne. In one breath she'll strum up a tangy, twangy country rocker ("Little Yellow Lemon"). Then she'll arch away and descend into a bleak, cello/guitar meditation on how dope dooms a relationship ("Sinking Peter"). In "Masturbation Trick" she gets in your face and rattles off the "F" word faster than you can say Liz, Alanis or Poe. Even her own demons are fair game: "Swallow" is a stark tale of S&M degradation spiked with ominous, ugly guitar chords. Daunting, scary stuff--but Dillon gets under your skin and stays there, like that early lover who taught you everything you already knew, and then some. --Fred Mills

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