I read that Malcolm Holcombe has issued more than 20 records since the mid-1990s. That's remarkable. Just as remarkable, at least to me, is the circumstance that this, his latest, is the first I've heard. I'd certainly encountered his name, however, and knew of his reputation as a distinctive singer-songwriter whose work and outlook reflect his native North Carolina hill-country roots. In my occasional reading on the subject, I don't recall that anybody ever claimed that Holcombe is a barrel of laughs.

It turns out, at least if Tricks of the Trade is any indication, that his moods range from bummed-out to pissed-off. Some of us are naturally skeptical of happy songs that lack the virtue of being also funny or sexy, so that's not a criticism, maybe just a warning that you should know what you're getting into when you give this one (and presumably the others) a spin on the playing machine.

As "Money Train" opens the disc, you'll be afforded some hint. Holcombe sounds sufficiently furious to be choking out the words. Then again, the subject -- greed and exploitation -- is likely to set off any non-rich person who dares to devote focused attention to it. It is also the theme of a whole lot of hard-hitting songs over decades and centuries, and Holcombe's stands honorably among them.

On the other hand, not to be pedantic about it but in fact to be pedantic about it, Holcombe and countless others notwithstanding, P.T. Barnum never said (and certainly would not have said, according to biographers who insist Barnum held a less coarsely cynical view of his customers), "There's a sucker born every minute." Over time the phrase, known to gamblers and confidence artists of the American 19th century, was placed in Mark Twain's mouth, then Barnum's.

Stylistically, Holcombe most resembles an Appalachian answer to a 1960s political folk-revival singer. While his melodies are influenced by traditional models only in the broadest sense, something of the stern plainspokenness of his vocals calls up the hardscrabble lives of mountain people so indelibly that nearly everyone who writes about Holcombe mentions as much. That voice gives his stories a chilling authenticity, perhaps nowhere more keenly than in "Your Kin," about the fate of poor families beaten down by heartless power, toxic water and stolen dreams. The chorus repeats this disturbing couplet: And the cops take away your children/ The cops take away your kin.

Fittingly, the cheeriest song is the one excursion into pure country, "Misery Loves Company," its title a nod to Porter Wagoner's 1961 honkytonk hit (from the pen of Jerry Reed). When drinking away your heartaches comprises the most uplifting moment you can aspire to, you're living in Holcombe's town. He takes on a larger target in "Crazy Man Blues," concerning ... well, here's the chorus:

Ain't it nice being white
In a president suit
You never think twice
With the crazy man blues.

Technically speaking, the skin is orange, I believe. I'm surprised at how few songs seem to address the entity in question. All that comes to mind is Lucinda Williams' "Man Without a Soul," though surely there are more. Maybe the issue is too depressing even for protest songs.

Holcombe performs with a small, usually unplugged band, occasionally augmented by bluesy electric guitar as well as some oddly Bert Jansch-like acoustic. The singing and the arrangements powerfully underscore the downbeat mood the lyrics convey, in which rain features prominently as if to turn a bleak situation darker than it is already. No question about it, this is superior song-making and story-telling, but you'll want to keep in mind that it is not music for every occasion.

[ visit Malcolm Holcombe's website ]