The story of how The Weepies (www.theweepies.com) came together reads like a movie script. He (Steve Tannen) is playing a gig at Club Passim in Boston. She (Deb Talan) has played there many times before, but tonight has come to hear him perform. Smitten by his debut album, she has been obsessing over it for about a month. He gets a bit nervous when, looking out into the audience, he notices that she is there. He has been smitten by her debut album and has been obsessing over it for about a month. After the gig they get together, both a bit nervous now, sensing the electricity between them, and trade songs until the wee hours. They’ve been together as The Weepies ever since, and listening to their music is like attending a singer/songwriter master class. The melodies are so pretty that your inner cynic might be tempted to turn the other way, but don’t. Listen for a while longer and let The Weepies remind you that there is nothing wrong with pretty. The melodies are so fresh they sound brand new (which they are), yet so familiar you feel like you wrote them yourself (which, unfortunately, you didn’t), and they carry an emotional depth that makes them linger happily, long after the song is over. Their lyrics are rich narratives and a perfect complement to the music. In fact, it feels strange to talk about music and lyrics as if they were separate entities. Songs like “The World Spins Madly On,” “Gotta Have You” and, my personal favorite “Somebody Loved,” feel as if they emerged whole, completely and perfectly formed. In describing the difference between their first album, “Happiness” and their second, “Say I Am You,” Tannen states, “‘Happiness’ felt like a really good crush … that feeling you get when falling in love. ‘Say I Am You’ digs deeper … and touches on a more complex sort of joy.” So cheers to The Weepies for recognizing that joy can be just as complex as sadness and for making the joy sound so good.

Drawing comparisons to the Uncle Tupelo/Wilco/Son Volt continuum, Neil Young’s Crazy Horse era, and Bruce Springsteen’s “Nebraska” can be a dangerous thing—them’s pretty big shoes to fill. Milton Mapes (www.miltonmapes.com), however, fits them just fine. Formed in 1999 in Austin, Texas, Milton Mapes was named after singer and guitarist Greg Vanderpool’s grandfather. Since that time, Vanderpool, along with Roberto Sanchez and, eventually, Brian Beisenherz and Jim Fredley, have released three albums and an EP. Their songs move across sparse, desolate landscapes (“Palo Duro”) and through richly textured, cinematic narratives (“When The Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted”), sometimes building into a stampeding, rock and roll crescendo (“Tornado Weather”) and sometimes riding quietly off into the sunset (“The Only Sound That Matters”). It’s familiar ground for fans of any of the musicians mentioned above, but this is not a derivative band.  The songwriting and singing skills of Vanderpool are too artistic and heartfelt to be anything other than deeply genuine.

Bosque Brown (www.myspace.com/bosquebrown) is the stage persona of Mara Lee Miller. So in calling her first album “Bosque Brown Plays Mara Lee Miller,” Miller has created a rather clever, if somewhat confusing title. The fictional Bosque Brown is playing the songs of the real Mara Lee Miller, who is playing the part of Bosque Brown. I’m not sure why Miller chose to go this way, but there is something about it that works beautifully. Maybe it’s because Miller’s songs and singing seem to be from another era. When I first heard Miller, I found myself imagining her singing through some type of media other than my laptop.  The stark, haunting beauty of her music sounds like it should be coming form an old Philco radio or one of those scratchy gramophones from the RCA logo—the way you might imagine listening to the Carter Family or Hank Williams. That’s not to say that Miller’s music is some sort of collection of period pieces. Songs such as “Tell Her” and “Fine Lines” are modern and relevant and she is quite capable of injecting a contemporary perspective into traditional forms. Bosque Brown may be the persona from another era, but Mara Lee Miller’s songs could not have been written in any other time.