As an artist previously lauded for her violin's fluency in the sounds of sorrow, Scheinman has already established a reputation for delivering healthy doses of melancholia, and she seems to have directed much of that same blueness to her vocals. Much of her phrasing is plaintive in feel, as if nursing old wounds and bracing for the next hammer to fall. And it all sounds magnificently authentic, every note aching in just the right places.

It's tough to believe the whole thing wasn't recorded way down deep amongst the magnolia trees in Mississippi, but a quick scan of the liner notes reveals the sepia-toned hoodoo to have all gone down in Brooklyn (in the home studio of fellow jazz-experimentalist-cum-singer/songwriter Tony Scherr). Ultimately, in this case, state-of-mind trumps state-of-origin - and Scheinman comes across as thoroughly Dixie, as do her disciplined and sympathetic collaborators.

And what a crew of collaborators it is. Along with spark-shooting guitarist Scherr, Scheinman is joined by drummer Kennny Wollesen (Tom Waits, New Klezmer Trio), and bassist Tim Luntzel. Ever-inventive boundary-eradicating guitarist Bill Frisell also makes a guest appearance, thus returning a favor for Scheinman's violin textures on his recent two-disc epic History, Mystery (Nonesuch). Speaking of violin: its use here is breathtaking, loaded with Appalachian lyricism and the occasional hootenanny spitfire. The phrasing every now and again hints at her jazz background, but generally this is pure dirt-road violin - fiddle, more like it. On "Miss Collins," for example - a ragged blues originally recorded by Mississippi John Hurt - the weary-boned sighs of her fiddle serves up an achingly lovely foil to Scherr's borderline-playful guitar shuffle. Her vocal performance is particularly noteworthy, deftly balancing the curious mix of sorrow, coyness, and matter-of-fact nonchalance that the song requires. One moment mourning and in the next winking, Scheinman's interpretation is fascinating.

Scheinman's take on Lucinda Williams' "King of Hearts" is riveting - a seven-minute, slow-blazing rip of electric blues that may well have raised the already-high intensity of the original. It is here that she might find the most Gillian Welch comparisons, thanks to a similarly stark, "I'll-get-there-when-I-get-there" Appalachian blues delivery. Scheinman is no rush to completely drain her heart right from the outset, knowing full well that any good blues takes its time, and so her delivery is one of elongated syllables and drained sighs. It would take a cruel, cruel bastard to remain rigid upon hearing the tired cry, "Love is gamble, I knew it from the start" - and by the time Scherr kicks in with a Crazy Horse-recalling guitar solo, tear-streaked eyes are certainly in order.

On to something a bit brighter - the Jimmy Reed classic "Shame Shame Shame" is given a feisty, lip-snarling tear-through, thus giving a fed-up, finger-waving counterpart to the wealth of broken and beaten hearts surveyed on the album. It's a chair-kicking brawler of a cover, a sassy rockabilly blues bolstered by yet another rambunctious guitar accompaniment by Scherr. Scheinman seems to relish every word in her verbal beatdown of her no-good man, finishing phrases with the same sort of pissed-off exuberance associated with Lucinda Williams. Ultimately, it is perhaps the most fun on the album, having temporarily tabled the album's pervasive sadness for something a bit spunkier.

Another cover, "Twilight Time" - the swoon-inducing doo-wop classic most closely associated with the Platters but tackled by everybody from Leo Kottke to Earl Bostic to Willie Nelson - drips with drunken, misty-eyed romanticism and a charming closing-time wobbliness. While Wollesen chugs away at an ever-so-stumbling rhythm and Scherr shreds a few final blues riffs, Scheinman confides, "each day I pray for evening, just to be with you," and it's a genuinely moving, unembellished confession that lingers long after the words have receded into the farthest corners of the barroom.

The disc isn't entirely composed of covers, however. Scheinmann also contributes four originals. "Newspaper Angels" is the finest of the lot, a handkerchief-fetching country-waltz steeped in isolation and misfortune. Over simple acoustic guitar strumming, a slowly absorbing tale of a dysfunctional household unfolds, every detail meted out in carefully controlled cries and moans as Scheinman surveys the wreckage: a mostly absent father, a frustrated mother, and a few poor kids caught in the middle. Papa heads off on three-day gambling binges, Mama sits home and waits, and the little ones are left wondering what's happening. ."Loneliness sits by the window and watches her face," she observes, but the detachment of her third-person narration is betrayed by the carefully controlled weep of her empathetic delivery. The results are simply astonishing.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find any clips of Scheinman's flawless vocal stylings, but for an altogether different side to the musician, check out this jazz performance from last year at the Knitting Factory in New York: