Eric Bibb's roots spring from an influential moment in American musical history, the Greenwich Village scene in the 1960s. As a folk singer Leon Bibb, his father, was a minor figure next to the more towering acts, but his talented son has persisted for several decades with constant touring and regular album releases. I have never seen him perform, though I have heard most of his recordings.

I was turned on to the Village folk moment well after it was over. (I'm always late to the party.) But after hearing the electric Dylan and becoming instantly entranced, I grew curious about where this sound came from, which led me to Woody Guthrie, Lead Belly, a whole lot of others, and a lifelong fascination with traditional music. Not to mention to music which, if not necessarily old in itself, nods to the influences of homemade sounds from other times.

Bibb's is of that last school, smooth, modern in its way, but championing the values that endure. The revival, which grew out of the left end of the political spectrum (while shedding its Stalinist roots early on), often addressed civil rights, peace, environmental and social-justice issues in stirring fashion. Still, the problem with many topical protest songs is that, if not skillfully executed, it can be unlistenable even when the sentiments are ones that the listener embraces. For all that we owe Pete Seeger, that describes some of his lesser songs. They weren't all "Bells of Rhymney" and "Turn, Turn, Turn."

It would be hard, listening to Bibb, not to get the impression of a kind man carrying a big social conscience. Because so many of his compositions speak to this flawed world, one reasonably anticipates the usual detours into sloganeering and self-righteousness, the occupational hazard of anyone who swims in these waters. One rarely finds the like here, however unfashionable this kind of sincerity may be in our cynical, acerbic times.

One reason, perhaps, is that Bibb is a mature artist, an exceptional guitar and banjo player, and an affecting vocalist. One could even call his singing "silky," an unexpected quality when the subject may be sickening racist violence ("Neshoba County," about an infamous triple murder of civil-rights workers in Mississippi, at the time inspiring ballads by folksingers Phil Ochs and Tom Paxton, among others). Bibb writes in celebration of Jackie Robinson ("Stealin' Home") and the Staples Family ("Dear Mavis"). There is also a smart reading, one of In the Real World's true highlights, of the oldtime "Roll On, Buddy," enlivened with blues and gospel in a creative arrangement one would never find elsewhere. Well, maybe on a Taj Mahal recording.

I don't recall hearing an Eric Bibb album that didn't appeal to me in one way or another. But this one counts among his most accomplished. If you haven't heard him before, it's a good place to start.