50 Country Albums Every Rock Fan Should Own

Perhaps inspired or pissed off by the deification of his dad’s historically haunted legacy, Hank Jr. took his enormous familial talent and rebelled against, well, being a reputable country star. Here he moves past half-assed Nashville nostalgia, roiling, simmering and integrating Southern rock’s bluesy oomph (see the fierce Allman Brothers cover) with songwriting that makes you deeply feel how his thuggishness became so entrenched. The rampaging cover of “White Lightnin'” (amped by the Muscle Shoals horns) snatches it from George Jones, and the ballads are finely wrought heart-rippers: He’s drunk, stoned, coked-up, self-pitying, bewildered and talking to ghosts. On biker jukebox standard “Outlaw Women,” Bocephus even sees himself reflected in those independent, rowdy ladies who “don’t give a damn about society.” C.A.

The revisionist western swing of Junior Brown is a mix of the academic (he’s done stints in Asleep at the Wheel and as an instructor at an Oklahoma’s Rogers State University) and the quirky. For starters, he plays a custom “guit-steel,” a bespoke instrument of his own co-creation that joins an electric guitar and a pedal steel into a double-necked mutant straight out of Cheap Trick’s Nashville road case. But, more importantly, his songs have a cheeky quality that’s as timeless and infectious as his picking, evidenced in songs off his 1990 debut like “My Baby Don’t Dance to Nothin’ But Ernest Tubb” and “Hillbilly Hula Girl” (“corn don’t grow in lava dirt”). “The lighthearted [songs] I don’t think of as comedy writing,” Brown told the Chicago Tribune in 1994. “There’s a style of lighthearted, wise-guy country music that went out of style. People just didn’t want to laugh at themselves. I think they were scared to be corny or whatever. But I don’t care. I enjoy it.” C.W.

Having enjoyed his biggest single ever earlier in 1983 with “Swingin’,” John Anderson recorded more uptempo pop-country boppers for his fifth album in three years. “Black Sheep,” the best of these, is a contentious working-class-vs.-yuppies chart-topper co-written by director Robert Altman. Bill Puett’s saxophone adds an R&B scream to Anderson’s redoubtable drawl in the title track, “Things Ain’t the Same Down on the Farm,” Fifties cover oddity “Haunted House” and future M.A.D.D. public service announcement “Let Somebody Else Drive.” For Anderson at his hangdog classic-country best, however, don’t miss the whiskey-sozzled “Blue Lights and Bubbles” and the sorrowfully regressive “Look What Followed Me Home.” R.G.

Texas troubadour Hayes Carll is the sort of self-described “drunk with a pen” who can rock out one night with his band the Poor Choices and deliver an intimate acoustic country set the next. Hence this admittedly “bipolar” album that staggers between elegant Ernest Tubbs-ian tearjerkers like “Chances Are” and the hopped-up title track. The titular acronym of Carll’s fourth album stands for “Kiss my ass, guys, you’re on your own,” and the song itself — a blistering account of a soldier racing over the desert in a Humvee and doing acid in a space vehicle — has the electricity of early Bob Dylan, his idol. Fellow country-rocking lefties Todd Snider and Corb Lund join him for “Bottle in My Hand,” but it’s Cary Ann Hearst, playing Ann Coulter to Carll’s ornery liberal, who helps create a hate-fuck duet for the ages. R.G.

The Mavericks were two albums deep into their signature Latin-tinged honky-tonk, but on 1993’s What a Crying Shame, they indulged a love for everything from Roy Orbison to Bruce Springsteen to the Skatalites. Enlisting NRBQ’s Al Anderson and original Tom Petty drummer Stan Lynch for co-writes, country music is just the core of songs like “The Things You Said to Me,” which sounds like a lost Buddy Holly Nashville boogie. And the title track has both a twangy appeal and mid-tempo peppiness that could almost play up against Nineties alt-rock like the Gin Blossoms. “If you ask 10 different people what the Mavericks mean to them,” vocalist Raul Malo told Rolling Stone about their genre- and border-spanning identity, “you’re going to get 10 different answers.” M.M.

Despite finding most of his commercial success on the country charts, Lyle Lovett has always been a far broader stylist. He was already fully formed on his elegantly assured 1986 debut, which moved seamlessly from country to jazz to pop. And the rock comes in when he seems on the verge of losing control with pissed-off poison-pen letters like “If I Were the Man You Wanted” and “God Will,” which he’s introduced as “the only song I ever wrote about true love. . .because it’s the shortest song I ever wrote.” In 1988, he told Rolling Stone that he doesn’t hate women, “I just hate it when they let me down.” Like any good Southerner, this native Texan can convey withering contempt through politeness — and chill you to the bone without raising his voice. D.M.

Jerry Reed was, as Brad Paisley said, “a true master of his instrument,” one of the greatest country guitarists of all time and a fount of blazing licks equal parts Earl Scruggs and Django Reinhardt. But during his hitmaking days — from 1967’s hard-grooving “Guitar Man” to the post-trucksploitation crash of the early Eighties — Reed was a one-of-a-kind pop star living in the nexus of country, funk, furious fingerpicking and novelty song. This collection of 20 hits features his most iconic characters: the mean-as-a-snake, one-handed alligator hunter (“Amos Moses”); the misunderstood, monkey-meat-eating swamp man (“Ko-Ko Joe”); and the paranoid poker loser with a razor in his hand (“The Uptown Poker Club”) — told with Reed’s funky lilt. “Folks these days don’t realize what a great guitar picker Jerry was nor his incredible sense of groove,” said Les Claypool, whose alt-metal band Primus covered “Amos Moses” in 1998. “To me it’s like some sultry swamp funk. Plus, how many guitar players do you know who were immortalized in a Scooby-Doo episode?” C.W.

Jerry Lee Lewis’ Sun recording contract expired in 1963, and like many of his early rock & roll peers, the success — and total domination — of the British Invasion left Lewis’ fiery brand of piano-bashing sounding dated. The controversial singer spent a number of years recording second-rate rock songs trying to re-establish some of his early prowess, but it was a foray into country that reignited the singer’s career. Released in 1969, Another Place Another Time saw both the honky-tonk-driven title track and the barroom ballad “What’s Made Milwaukee Famous (Has Made a Loser Out of Me)” hit the Top Five on the Billboard country chart. In February of 1969, Rolling Stone writer Andy Boehm wrote, “For rock aficionados Another Place Another Time is an interesting representation of an early rock & roll star’s transformation. For country music lovers, this album introduces another great and moving singer.” 

L.R.

Released in 2009, Brad Paisley’s American Saturday Night was the star’s most far-reaching album to that point, taking on such subjects as technology, fatherhood and, in the wake of President Obama’s election, hope for the future. Paisley’s sense of humor and cleverly worded handling of complicated topics gave his album solid footing beyond country — not to mention his penchant for complex, boisterous guitar solos. “Then” is a Bic-worthy power ballad, heartland rocker “Welcome to the Future” is propelled by Mellencamp-style drums and “She’s Her Own Woman” is slinky, bluesy rock with some shred-tastic guitar. L.R.

Packaged in a vintage-looking cigar box with a liner booklet made to look cracked and yellowing, this incomparable three-disc item lovingly assembles the 1925-to-1930, originally-on-78-RPM recordings of banjo picker, string-trio bandleader and incorrigibly word-slurring drunkard Charlie Poole, whose old-timey proto-bluegrass presages the four-decades-later folk-rock of the Band, Holy Modal Rounders and Grateful Dead (all of whom covered him) while shuffling verses and mannerisms from ragtime, vaudeville, Al Jolson, antebellum blackface minstrel shows and remote Appalachian hollers. In fact, several tracks here, dating back as far as Arthur Collins’s 1902 “Didn’t He Ramble,” aren’t Poole at all but his antecedents and contemporaries. Not only the proto-Elvis miscegenation of black and white styles anticipates rock & roll: After the Great Depression forced Poole to return to mill-working, he cashed it in at 39 with an alcohol-fueled bender that lasted three months. C.E.

If rock & roll is mostly attitude, biker ex-con and outlaw country pioneer David Allen Coe might be the most rock & roll artist on this list — when a Rolling Stone writer questioned the veracity of a story Coe told about killing a fellow inmate over sexual advances, Coe replied with the song “I’d Like to Kick the Shit Out of You.” This major-label debut, which reflected a time when Coe wore rhinestone duds, wigs and a mask onstage while living in his car (a white hearse), posits him as a doomed, lonely troubadour of the lost-cause South (“I Still Sing the Old Songs,” “Old Man Tell Me,” “The Old Grey Goose is Dead”). “A Sad Country Song” is a last-call classic; and “Atlanta Song” is a passive-aggressive stripper lament that Drake would feel. A disaster as a role model, Coe still possesses scary musical skills. After this album he would tour with Grand Funk Railroad, record with Pantera, live in a cave when the IRS took his money and release an offensive album of joke songs that included the worst racial slur there is. C.A.

A life-long purist whose clean-cut and lonesome Eighties neo-traditionalism exuded steadfast small-town Protestant ethics and avoided the raunch of immediate predecessors like John Anderson, North Carolina-born Randy Travis nonetheless exhibited an almost goth-like morbid streak on his blockbuster debut, which in decades since he’s never really topped — “exhuming things better left alone,” as he puts it in “Digging Up Bones.” In “Send My Body,” he’s facing the gallows, and “On The Other Hand” weighs pros and cons of philandering. Between barely avoiding a long jail stint as an adolescent delinquent and even more reckless run-ins in recent years (public intoxication and nakedness, assault in a church parking lot, that sort of thing, soon followed by heart failure and stroke), Travis has never been the goody-goody his image implies. On Storms of Life, an emotionally reserved surface barely conceals the bad conscience simmering just below.

The Clash are all over the inner sleeve of the vinyl version of this West Texas renegade’s toughest album, released a year later in the States than in the U.K., where it was recorded during shows opening for Joe Strummer and Company alongside reggae toaster Mikey Dread. London pub crowds reminded him of rowdy roadhousers back in cowboy country, he told Trouser Press at the time — except they gobbed more. Mere years removed from his stint with eight-track-only existentialist proto-alt-country cult trio the Flatlanders, he also spent early Eighties time touring with the Kinks, Stones and Tom Petty. But musically Ely was shuffling norteño, zydeco, rockabilly and the hardest honky-tonk, setting country sentiments to an R&B beat, as he explained it: lyrics about escape via boxcars, women working the midnight street, untrimmed fingernails enhancing piano skills and — inevitably — life viewed through a shot glass. C.E.

Despite mentoring/supporting Nashville wannabes across five decades and writing two Number One country hits himself, Guy Clark told Texas Monthly last year, “I wasn’t country. I was a folk singer from Texas.” Well, call him the consummately stoned bullshit artist too because his debut album Old No. 1 is country music defined, all fingerpicking and gravelly vocals and welfare winos and mourning ladies of the night. The vast romantic empathy of Clark’s vision remains stunning. “L.A. Freeway” wistfully closes the book on urban/rural restlessness; “She Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere (with Emmylou Harris) gorgeously gasps for air; the Leonard Cohen-esque death poem “That Old Time Feeling” warms you like a fire; while “Desperadoes Waiting for a Train” and “Texas 1947” are exquisitely palpable post-war dioramas of busted dreaming. There’s a reason he’s one of Bob Dylan’s favorites. C.A.

It takes a certain kind of fatalist humor to name your album posthumously when you’re still alive, and Van Zandt, on this 1972 LP produced by Cowboy Jack Clement, perfectly expressed his world of deep sadness often sweetened by a whiskey-wrung smile. Though it comprised several covers, the originals, like “Pancho and Lefty” and “If I Needed You,” became classic windows into the tormented poet’s mind, paving the way for the likes of Elliot Smith, Conor Oberst and Bill Callahan to plunge folk into its darkest corners. “His voice, his delivery, is so real,” My Morning Jacket’s Jim James has said — there are echoes of MMJ’s dramatic arrangements all over “Silver Ships of Andilar,” and the way Van Zandt’s quiver hovers above the delicate plucks of “Snow Don’t Fall” lays the blueprint for nearly every James ballad. “He doesn’t sugarcoat it at all.” M.M.

Faith Hill’s gargantuan 2002 chart-topper is so defiantly un-country it nearly scans as punk. As with Taylor Swift’s world-conquering 1989 a decade and change later, it’s a full-blown pop-star monolith with nary a cursory banjo or grudging twang in sight. Instead you get white-funk struts, surly guitar solos, gospel-choir moans, a sexy-menacing speak-singing interlude or two that almost conjures up PJ Harvey and enough monster power balladry that this thing oughta come with its own wind machine. Our young century’s masters of stadium bombast — from Kings of Leon to Imagine Dragons — can’t hold a candle to Hill’s pomp and power-chord circumstance here. Her most rock-star-worthy exploit of that year, though, was a Jane magazine cover-story fiasco that got so raw the cover line was, “‘Why Would You Ask Me That?!’ Faith Hill Snaps.” R.H.

A lot more blunt than Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Paycheck sang the workingman’s blues with a spitting fervor. “Take This Job and Shove It,” written by fellow outlaw David Allen Coe, became his signature, but it’s songs like his cover of Dizzy Gillespie’s “The 4-F Blues,” which opens with what could be a simplified Jerry Garcia riff, that prove he’s more than just a middle finger. Produced by Billy Sherrill, 1977’s Take This Job and Shove It debuted only four years after he’d filed for bankruptcy, making the success that came from the title track (his only Number One hit) line up potently with the lyric. He could take Music Row or leave it, which he did, when he was shoved out by Epic in the early Eighties. “I sing about the little guy who’s been kicked around by the big guy,” Paycheck said, making the iconic song perfect material for rappers (see Canibus and Biz Markie’s 1999 tribute) and punks (see the Dead Kennedys’ blazing 1986 cover) alike. M.M.

If Bobbie Gentry had showed up at any moment during the past six decades, she still would’ve been a peerless innovator. Her bio seems apocryphal — a Mississippi farm-girl child of divorce, studies philosophy at UCLA and composition at the Los Angeles Conservatory of Music, dances in Las Vegas, then scandalizes the pop world with a song, “Ode to Billie Joe,” that unseats the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love” at Number One (not to mention a chart-topping country hit and Number Five R&B hit). From 1967 to 1972, she also released a series of fascinating, sophisticated, if at times uneven, albums that distilled folk, soul, gospel, country, orchestral pop and rock. Her voice was swaggering, vulnerable, conversational, defiant. She wrote and produced her songs, spotlighting a brashly Southern-tinged feminist voice. This compilation comes closest to conveying her multitudinous talent. C.A.

Jimmie Dale Gilmore’s high, lonesome drawl has always been one of the purest instruments in country music. And yet Gilmore’s clearest antecedents are rock musicians — he’s a missing link between Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly, a high-plains drifter evoking a primal sense of wonder that can seem almost childlike. On Spinning Around the Sun, Gilmore covers Hank Williams, Elvis Presley and his Flatlanders mate Butch Hancock, doing right by them all thanks to stellar arrangements from producer Emory Gordy, Jr. (a man who knows a good bit about beautifully fragile voices, thanks to his time with Emmylou Harris). Like any good savant, Gilmore figured he was just doing what he does. He even told Rolling Stone in 1994 that he sang so distinctively because he wasn’t “a good enough musician” to copy anyone else. “It’s as if I’m an expressive actor,” he said, “and the songs are my lines.” D.M.

“Dolly Parton is to Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris what Chuck Berry was to the Rolling Stones and the Who,” wrote Seventies rock critic Barbara Charone. And this multiplatinum, Grammy-winning classic by the so-called “Queenston Trio” backs up that claim, with the two best country singers produced by the Sixties folk/rock scenes going deep into Parton’s Appalachian roots and starkly intimate Nashville virtuosity. Trio opens with Harris and Parton’s trembling harmonies on the latter’s “The Pain of Loving You” and Parton tenderly soaring on the mournful bluegrass standard “Making Plans.” Ronstadt sings lead on three tracks (most notably an exquisite reading of Jimmie Rodgers’ “Hobo’s Meditation”), and the three are downright hypnotic on Phil Spector’s “To Know Him Is to Love Him.” But Parton carries the day, with her subtle liberation tale “Wildflowers,” traditional poetic lament “Rosewood Casket” (arranged by her mother Avie Lee) and the immersive lonesome wail of “These Memories of You.” C.A.

These old stoner compadres teamed up with startling purpose for this consistently poignant, pleasingly loopy Number One country smash. A last call of circular barroom logic, it evenly splits primo world-weary Willie (the quivering waltz “If You Can Touch Her at All” and bewildered end-of-the-line lament “It’s Not Supposed to Be That Way”) with top-tier wobbly Waylon (his chilling cinéma vérité version of Fleetwood Mac’s “Gold Dust Woman” and the light-touch pathos of “The Wurlitzer Prize [I Don’t Want to Get Over You”]). But the duets are the payoff: “Pick Up the Tempo” is outlaw country at its most lovable; Kris Kristofferson’s “The Year 2003 Minus 25” lets the boys trade quasi-political WTFs; and on all-time jewel “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” they bare their road-ravaged souls with a high-plains-drifter conceit. It’s since been covered by Karen O, Black Lips and Alvin and the Chipmunks. C.A.

Were Jimmie Rodgers and Louis Armstrong the original Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith? In 1930, the pair (helped by Armstrong’s pianist wife Lil Hardin) combined “hillbilly” and jazz on their joint “Standing on the Corner.” And when the sounds of country and rock & roll began to crystallize, this song — as well as the other 16 included on the RCA Country Legends comp — ended up at the center of both. Decades later, many of the songs collected here reappeared on a tribute LP assembled by Bob Dylan. “The most inspiring type of entertainer for me has always been somebody like Jimmie Rodgers, somebody who could do it alone and was totally original,” Dylan said in the liner notes for his Biograph box set. “He was combining elements of blues and hillbilly sounds before anyone else had thought of it.” N.M.

Within a decade her music would go intimate to the point of introversion, but early on Johnny Cash’s daughter conceived her niche as post-pub-rock/ borderline New Wave — at least in the sense of Tom Petty and Steve Forbert, whose material she interprets, or Linda Ronstadt’s turn-of-the-Eighties Costello-covers period, which this record clearly taps into. Supposedly it was even marketed as “punktry,” and in the inner-sleeve photo Rosanne looks ready to join the Pretenders even if she told BAM that year that she’d spent her adolescence locked in her bedroom studying Joni Mitchell and Tom Rush LPs while composing journal poetry. She became a mom just before recording Seven Year Ache, but the irresistible Top-25-pop title track and the songs that she and husband-producer Rodney Crowell surround it with suggest their marriage was already rocky — a theme she’d stick with long after abandoning her most energetic album’s hooks, humor and electro-handclaps. C.E.

The phenomenal, chart-topping success of the ballads “She Believes in Me” and “The Gambler” on both the country and pop charts firmly established Kenny Rogers as a country star with enormous crossover appeal. In fact, the Grammy-winning song “The Gambler,” which Rolling Stone once referred to as, “the one song even non-country fans know by heart,” told such an earnest story that it was adapted into a made-for-television movie. On the occasion of album’s 36th anniversary, Rogers told Rolling Stone “The Gambler” was, “a career-building song,” adding, “The song’s not about gambling; it’s a metaphor for life and picking yourself up.” It’s a metaphor that has resonated to the tune of 35 million copies of its corresponding album sold worldwide. L.R.

“We played Lollapalooza and I was stunned at how pussy 90 percent of those bands were,” Eric Church told Rolling Stone back in 2012 about the current state of rock & roll. “Nobody’s loud.” Chief, his Jay Joyce-produced third LP released the year prior, absolutely is. It might be the obvious choice to point to the nostalgic, name-dropping “Springsteen” as the track that could boast the most crossover appeal, but album cuts like “Keep On,” with its Joe Perry-inspired guitar groove and the thunderous percussion of “I’m Gettin’ Stoned,” are equally capable of inspiring raised lighters (or at least iPhones) across any music festival, any genre. After all, he did make a certain proclamation on his 2006 debut single: “I like my country rockin’, how bout you?” M.M.

Though Florida-reared honky-tonker Stewart scored his share of country hits in the Seventies — including three Top 10s from this debut alone — he was just as much a rocker at heart. He’d first charted with a cover of “Ramblin’ Man” by his buddies the Allman Brothers; Jerry Lee Lewis was his most obvious role model; and his rhythms and inflections were frequently infused with mid-Sixties Dylan. However, Stewart’s rowdy juke-joint piano-pumping did not stint on pathos. His two great themes were drinking and cheating, often at the same time: In Out of Hand‘s title track, he’s the hard-loving guilty party, but in both “Drinkin’ Thing” (“to keep from thinkin’ things”) and the ingeniously titled “She’s Actin’ Single (I’m Drinkin’ Doubles)” he’s a cuckold drowning sorrows.

Son of an Arkansas sharecropper who left home after high school to join his uncle’s country band, Campbell ended up in Los Angeles as a guitarist with the legendary session group the Wrecking Crew (providing back-up on records by everyone from Elvis to Phil Spector to the Monkees). As a result, he could play or sing almost anything and give it a neighborly heartland twang, making him an ideal voice for Nashville’s countrypolitan Sixties pop move (though he recorded in Hollywood). And the title track, songwriter Jimmy Webb’s masterwork of cinematic longing, is the country-pop era’s pinnacle, with Campbell’s steady-but-weary croon and lonesome bass solo. A conversational everyman observer, Campbell almost seemed to allow listeners to eavesdrop on the stories he narrated. Here, despite cloying production from Wrecking Crew vet Al De Lory, he empathizes tenderly with dreaming housewives and gives a haunting reading of Rod McKuen and Jacques Brel’s “If You Go Away.” C.A.

“Tammy taught me how to sing,” Melissa Etheridge once said. Wynette’s 1969 LP, Stand by Your Man, is a veritable lesson on how to emote without being exact: with every somber break, breathy vowel or choked yodel, she created a lexicon of ways to speak with the mere sound of syllables, let alone words. Clocking in at less than 30 minutes, the Billy Sherill-produced Stand by Your Man owes a lot to a title track that schooled everyone from Elton John to Etheridge to Florence Welch on how to layer subtext beneath a love song — after all, the album was released the year before her ill-fated marriage to George Jones. “It’s honest music,” Wynette told NPR about her beloved genre. “[Country] tells a story. . .it’s what people live. It’s what a lot of rock artists don’t write about.” But, because of Wynette, many of them started to. M.M.

As recounted in the 2012 biography A Thousand Miles From Nowhere, Blasters main man Dave Alvin caught one of Dwight Yoakam’s early shows in Los Angeles and was so blown away that he told him, “Order the limousine now! You’re gonna be a star.” Yoakam was opening for the Blasters, X and other Angelino punks in short order, which had him looking like he’d be a classic victim of the too-rock-for-country/too-country-for-rock divide. But Alvin’s prediction ultimately came true with Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc., Etc. — his debut album and first of three consecutive Number One Country LPs. Between Yoakam’s Kentucky drawl and Brantley Kearns’ looping fiddle on the breakthrough hit “Honky Tonk Man,” the album had more than enough honest twang for Nashville. But it had rock bonafides, too, especially producer/guitarist Pete Anderson’s stinging six-string leads and Yoakam’s way with a put-down. Breezy arrangement aside, it takes a big streak of rock star to pen a love-’em-and-leave-’em anthem as cold as “I’ll Be Gone.” D.M.

As Gram Parsons’ muse and duet partner, Harris was central to country-rock’s birth — but that’s not why she is listed here. On Quarter Moon and other albums that spanned decades, she inhabited songs with a voice that concentrated tenderness, strength and worldliness into a powerfully fragile moan that left fans and artists of all genres thunderstruck. Her versions here of Delbert McClinton’s “Two More Bottles of Wine” and Rodney Crowell’s “Leaving Louisiana in the Broad Daylight” and “I Ain’t Living Long Like This” rock with a remarkably breezy ache. With exquisite backing from her Hot Band (including guitar legends James Burton and Albert Lee, bluegrass whiz Ricky Skaggs, the Band’s Garth Hudson and Rick Danko, et al.), she never settled for folkie earnestness or pretty trilling. A tough-minded wisdom always lurked, especially on Dolly Parton’s “To Daddy,” which Harris channeled like an O. Henry short story. C.A.

Steve Earle called Copperhead Road, his third album and first aimed squarely at the rock audience, “heavy-metal bluegrass.” It more than lives up to that description, hitting a just-right synthesis of acoustic strumming and electric-guitar power chords (not to mention the occasional bagpipe). He told Rolling Stone in 1989 that he saw little difference between the attitudes of rock and country: “It’s about your life and the way you live — which isn’t about living up to the stereotypes and having to be fucked up.” With politically charged songs about guns and Reagan-era “Snake Oil” to go with Earle’s sympathetic narratives about war veterans, “Copperhead Road” established Earle as country’s left-wing conscience. D.M.

The Dixie Chicks’ Taking the Long Way was the trio’s first studio album since the “shot heard ’round the world,” when singer Natalie Maines told an English audience that she was, “ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas.” By this time, the trio was ostracized from country music, and deliberately turned their attention to a wider, pop-oriented audience. Produced by Rick Rubin, Taking the Long Way sees a softening of the trio’s sound, both in instrumentation (more violins, less fiddles) and in Maines’ thick Texas twang. In a post break-up interview with Rolling Stone, the singer confessed, “I can’t listen to our second album,” referring to the Chicks’ 1999 breakthrough, Fly, “because I was really, like, embracing country and really waving that country flag. My accent is so out of control on that album.” L.R.

Married in 1969, George Jones and Tammy Wynette toured together in a bus that had “Mr. & Mrs. Country Music” emblazoned on the side. When their chaotic marriage reached its inevitable D-I-V-O-R-C-E in 1975, their popularity was still so huge they were forced to keep publicly performing the fantasy by touring as a couple. Released in 1976, a year after their split, Golden Ring is an incredible example of heartbreaking music reflecting heartbreaking reality. The title track follows the life cycle of a wedding ring and the doomed couple who buy it in a Chicago pawnshop. The album proceeds to explore intimacy’s cold reality on songs like “Crying Time,” the fast-paced warning shot “If You Don’t, Somebody Else Will” and the hilariously honest innuendo-fest “Did You Ever.” Wynette sings with incredible emotional force, and Jones’ imperious vocal polish gives off the sense of someone trying to power through rocky times (or pretend they don’t exist), adding another layer of drama to an album that remains a breakup apocalypse masterpiece. J.D.

The title says it all. Wanda Jackson’s years on Capitol Records in the late Fifties and early Sixties produced undiluted rockabilly singles marrying her Oklahoma roots with a lyrical appetite for partying. (There’s “Let’s Have a Party,” “There’s a Party Goin’ On” and “Man, We Had a Party.”) Emboldened during years touring with Elvis Presley, Jackson’s barnstorming rock & roll singles got hotter than the center of a tiki torch due to her raspy voice. Largely ignored by U.S. radio, but beloved in Europe, Jackson took songs like Elvis-popularized “Hard Headed Woman” and R&B classic “Riot in Cell Block #9” and dominated them. This 2000 compilation by British label Ace Records collects 30 classics that predated everyone from Nancy Sinatra to the Runaways to eventual studio-mate Jack White. “I never realized that what we were creating then would have such a big impact and go on to be listened to decades later,” Jackson told the Guardian. “Elvis, Buddy [Holly] and I — we were just kids having a good time. Now I have the Cramps and Paul McCartney singing my songs. Finally I can say, ‘I was right!'” R.F.

According to country patriarch Bobby Bare, Kris Kristofferson made “the hippies and the long-haired funky people acceptable” to Nashville. Kristofferson definitely meant to send a counterculture message with “Blame It on the Stones,” the ironic opener of his recording debut. But country had little trouble accepting a bearded weirdo who could deliver crossover hits like “For the Good Times,” Janis Joplin’s posthumous hit “Me and Bobby McGee,” the Johnny Cash chart topper “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” and “Help Me Make it Through the Night” (written as Kristofferson sat in a helicopter atop an oil platform while on his day job). Recorded in a hurry, Kristofferson emphasizes songwriting over performance. R.G.

Born in 1905, fiddling bandleader Bob Wills picked up country music from his family and the blues from the African-Americans who picked cotton alongside him in Texas. He formed the Texas Playboys — a deeply swinging blend of country, jazz, blues, hillbilly, Hawaiian and much more — in 1934, and they took off after moving to Tulsa, Oklahoma the following year. “America’s most versatile dance band” bridged the “race music” era and the rockabilly Fifties. “Rock & roll?” Wills said of the subject, “Why, man, that’s the same kind of music we’ve been playing since 1928! . . .The rhythm’s what’s important.” Wills mythologized his musicians onstage, encouraging master players like Junior Barnard (electric guitar), Leon McCauliffe (steel guitar) and Al Stricklin (piano) with jiving commentary and falsetto ah-has. Chuck Berry would refashion Wills’s 1938 version of “Ida Red” into “Maybellene.” Wills was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame as an Early Influence in 1999. R.G.

Early Nineties Garth Brooks is best known for the hard-rock attitude and pop production that turned country music into arena spectacle. However, Ropin’ the Wind, the first country album in history to debut at Number One on the Billboard Top 200, had Brooks evoking Seventies singer-songwriter influences like James Taylor and Dan Fogelberg, especially in ballads like “What She’s Doing Now” and a cover of Billy Joel’s “Shameless.” The move truly set Brooks apart and helped transform country music itself. And from the frisky “Papa Loved Mama” to the urgent, southern noir of “Rodeo” to prayerful closer “The River” (all three Top Five hits), Brooks moves from the barstool to the bedroom to the church pew with the ease of George Jones. S.R.

When they boot-scooted onto the vast Carnegie Hall stage, Buck Owens and the Buckaroos were bursting with next-level rock & roll rumble (thumping backbeat, crackling Telecasters) and cornball cowboy shtick (“You talk about people that don’t know nothin’, here’s an ol’ boy don’t even suspect nothin’!” cracked Buck when introducing steel guitarist Tom Brumley). They were also effortlessly road-tight, with Buck and his “right arm,” lead guitarist Don Rich, chiming and twanging through indelible barroom dust-ups “Act Naturally,” “Love’s Gonna Live Here,” “Waitin’ in Your Welfare Line,” “I’ve Got a Tiger by the Tail,” as well as a couple of hit-and-run medleys. A coronation for the Bakersfield honky-tonk sound, which rattled Nashville’s cozy pop cage in the early Sixties, the Carnegie Hall gig enshrined Owens as its avatar, a singularly ebullient and savvy bandleader whose music shook up artists ranging from Ray Charles to the Beatles. C.A.

Loretta Lynn released the women’s lib anthem “The Pill” in 1975, the same year that White Stripes frontman Jack White was born. Nearly three decades later they teamed up on Van Lear Rose, a collaboration where the coal miner’s daughter’s gritty country storytelling fit perfectly with his unpolished garage-rock production. “I’d play tambourine on this record, if that’s it,” White told CMT. “I don’t care. I just want to be in the same room with her and to be able to work on this.” From the title track detailing how her parents met, to the aching “Miss Being Mrs.,” these are some of the sharpest lyrics of Lynn’s career. Recorded in just 12 days, Van Lear Rose rightly won the Grammy for Best Country Album, and notched Best Country Collaboration with Vocals for “Portland, Oregon,” Lynn and White’s riotous, dobro-enhanced duet extolling sloe gin fizz. R.F.

Johnny Cash had been lost in the commercial wilderness for a decade before Rick Rubin relaunched his career with this stark, bare-bones set of train songs, murder ballads and late-night confessionals. American Recordings is just acoustic guitar and that epic voice on the songs you’d expect — traditional numbers, tunes by Kris Kristofferson and Cash himself — plus some radically recast covers of Tom Waits, Nick Lowe and even Glenn Danzig. Rubin was less producer than tour guide, catching Cash up while reminding everyone of just how cool the Man In Black still was. “I discovered my own self and what makes me tick musically and what I really like,” Cash told Rolling Stone in 1994. “It was really a great inward journey, doing all these sessions over a period of nine months and Rick sitting there not so much as a producer but as a friend who shared the songs with me.” D.M.