It's well known that in the two years before Rosanne Cash's latest album was written and recorded, the singer-songwriter experienced the deaths of three loved ones: her stepmother, June Carter Cash, her father, Johnny, and finally her mother, Vivian Liberto Cash Distin. Such an ordeal would be profound for anyone, let alone someone with a family saga as troubled and as public (seen Walk the Line) as Cash's; and as an emotional document of her loss, Black Cadillac is nothing short of spellbinding. Equal parts ancestral history, triple elegy, and personal diary of mourning, Cash's voice and lyrics smoulder with passionate intensity even when her music is at its most benign. The trouble with Black Cadillac as an album, however, is just that: more often than not, the music is benign, with a generic adult-alternative production style these bristling, raw-nerve songs simply don't deserve.

For an example, look no further than the title track: after a brief snippet of that larger-than-life rumble that was Johnny Cash's voice, an ominous bass falls into the mix with a thud, followed by trickles of guitar, Fender Rhodes and Rosanne's smoky vocals. So far, so good. But Bill Botrell, who produced half of this disc, is a veteran of Sheryl Crow's Tuesday Night Music Club (album and collective), and it shows. By the time Cash hits the chorus, the song has exploded into VH1-worthy lite-rock bombast - an affectation which might get the song airplay, but will also alienate those who share my belief that stripped-down passion deserves equally stripped-down music. Not that a listener of such tastes will be left completely out in the cold; Black Cadillac's other producer (and Cash's husband), John Leventhal, tends toward a more unadorned rootsiness on tracks like "House on the Lake" and "Good Intent", and the approach is a perfect fit. More often than not, however, the starkly poetic beauty of Cash's lyrics struggle with the radio-friendly homogeneity of her musical backing, and not even Leventhal can be counted on to save the day every time: his "Like Fugitives" sounds uncomfortably like Paula Cole material, even though the bile directed toward lawyers and the church in its chorus are Rosanne Cash at her most visceral.