Somewhere between Paul Simon's cranky "Kodachrome," the country twang of Elton John's Tumbleweed Connection and the plush pathos of Robyn Hitchcock (phew) is where you'll find the gruff, tonsily-tenor and achy-breaky paragraphing of Ryan Adams. Heralded as alt-songwriting's next melodic thing, he made heady, hurtful waves with his first post-Whiskeytown CD, Heartbreaker, in 2000. The next year on Gold, he revealed himself as a good, gravelly songwriter getting better and graver. With Demolition (Lost Highway) Adams proves he writes lots of songs really fast; five LPs worth -- solo and with his Blasters-like buds, the Pinkhearts. None of the songs on the rock tip are good. What Adams is best at is the mirthful, mournful mid-'60s prairie-Manhattan stuff: slow sardonic pretty country-pop ballads and mid-tempo page-turners that yearn as hard as would a Wichita lineman or a midnight cowboy crawling through the streets of Greenwich Village. Loosey-goosey true-gritty tunes like "Jesus (Don't Touch My Baby)" and "Starting to Hurt" radiate a blazing hot sun in the midnight hour; a sexy lonely vibe complete with beachy recollections and hurt hearts, that are wired and cinematic.

Sat., Oct. 5, 8 p.m., $29.50, Tower Theater, 69th and Ludlow sts., Upper Darby, 215-336-2000.

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The Next Movement

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