Sean Rowe - Magic (2010)

Sean Rowe doesn't look like a typical spindly folk singer. He's a barrel-chested bear of a man, more trucker than troubadour. Also, at 36, he's no spring chicken, which makes it rare that he's just now releasing his first decently distributed CD. Yet one listen to his voice shows why he has a buzz around him.

Rowe sings in a dark-brewed baritone, deep, rich and sturdy. Because he also favors conversational phrasing, it's hard to listen without thinking of Leonard Cohen. It helps that his lyrics allude so often to wine, religion and a tactile kind of love. Of course, that facile connection falls apart fast. Unlike Cohen, Rowe can sustain a tune, and even has a decent range. His timbre, which most recalls Gil-Scott Heron's, has a lovely, tawny tone. More, the experience and authority in it have to be Rowe's own.

The singer has been playing clubs near his home in upstate Troy for years. The rural setting shows in his music, a rustic brand of art-folk that takes special note of the physicality of the guitar. Rowe fashioned his debut, in part, as an ode to the unamplified six-string.

The production savors the rattle of its wood surface, the waxiness of its nylon strings and the reverberations of its hollow body. You can hear Rowe breathing between the verses. Together, it creates a naturalist sound, mirrored in lyrics that pay special attention to untended environments.

There's a real sense of place in "Old Black Dodge," though you'd be hard pressed to say exactly where it is. Likewise, Rowe offers just the bones of a narrative on his songs.

In "Wet," a kid pines to grow strong enough to save his mother from an abusive lover. "Night" sketches a father and son in what's either a war setting or a metaphor for the battles they face.

There's equal evocation in the music. Most of the songs feature just a stiffly picked acoustic guitar, a yellowing cello and hint of piano. Many cuts pair acoustic and electric guitar in pings and chimes that mirror the strategy of The Edge in U2, but inverted. Instead of grand and valiant, it's internalized and intimate. The approach opens the songs to abstraction, starting with the gorgeous "Surprise," an ode to unexpected love.

Only two songs rock, yet even these keep the mood shrouded. It all finds a satisfying finale in "The Long Haul," a pantheistic paean that drifts off on a hazy synth line. As the lyrics speak of leaving the skin and becoming the spirit, the music evaporates into a mist. But no matter how remote and spare it seems, in Rowe's hands it all feels close and full.