Vinyl hiss and pop, a strangled and cracking falsetto, redundant and meandering lyrics – the broken-down, busted-up bits of Dudley Perkins's debut album, A Lil' Light, don't sound great recounted on their own. But when filtered through the peculiar production genius that is Madlib (Lootpack, Quasimoto, Yesterday's New Quintet), these throwaway elements gain just enough momentum to keep Stones Throw's latest bumping along. As the first installment of three much heralded projects – the other being separate collaborations with Jay Dee and MF Doom – A Lil' Light serves notice that Madlib is on a roll.

Perkins (a.k.a. Declaime) delivers some truly twisted vocal stylings that are as likely to make people wince as say, "Wow!" Yet that's part and parcel of his charm, along with an awkward honesty and blunted humor somewhat reminiscent of Biz Markie. Perkins is at his best on cuts like his ode to herb, "Flowers," on which his stumbling delivery perfectly matches the hazy subject and the beats share equal billing. When he steps to the front and takes on deeper lyrical matter, as on "Falling," the results are sometimes painful: "Don't you want to stand up for your own? / Don't you want to see with your own two eyes? / Only you can lift you up." Though such platitudes can't match Madlib's soulful production, and make one long for a few instrumentals, A Lil' Light shines through, a summer treat from two of hip-hop's truly unique talents. Dudley Perkins performs with Peanut Butter Wolf and DJ Design Fri/25, Milk, S.F. (415) 387-6455. (Peter Nicholson)

Carlos Guitarlos
Straight from the Heart (Nomad)

Neither as raw nor as bluesy as Mission Blues, San Francisco street musician Carlos Guitarlos's 2001 debut CD, the follow-up, Straight from the Heart, nevertheless cuts an emotionally direct swath across the landscape of American roots music. Cajun, country, blues, rockabilly, and Memphis soul flavor the 17 original tunes – all held together by the weather-worn gruffness of Guitarlos's voice, the whammy-bar sting of his instrumental attack, and the wisdom of lyrics in which optimism somehow outshines weariness. "I'm up every day doin' what I can / Baby, I'm comin' home to be with you again," he cries out on "Ain't That Lovin' You," a surging slice of soul that could have been cut at Stax circa 1967.