Alasdair Roberts delivers the goods in what might be characterized (via shameless oxymoron) as a growly tenor. In another way, too, he is a rarity in our time: at once a traditional artist and a singer-songwriter. The products of the latter tend to be defined by dense blocks of words that transcend mere lyrics and apply them elegantly. They're more like what one would associate with actual poetry. Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde and its many imitations seem crude, almost childish, in comparison. Roberts's writing is not for the casual listener, but rewarding for those willing to put in the effort.

If Roberts reminds the listener of anybody, it is of another poetic Scot with links to the native music, namely Robin Williamson (albeit with none of Williamson's reedy vocal style). The two possess unusual gifts and use them well. Roberts generously acknowledges Williamson on the new disc.

On Grief in the Kitchen & Mirth in the Hall Roberts tackles old ballads all by himself with guitar or piano. Befitting his scholarly nature he digs deep for his selections. Even the familiar ones come in unexpected packages. "Mary Mild," ordinarily known as "Mary Hamilton" or "The Four Marys," was introduced to most Americans from the early Joan Baez recording. The even bloodier "Bob Norris" is, I infer from what I can reconstruct of the narrative, at least a distant cousin to the ballad called on this side of the pond "Matty Groves," famously cut in the Appalachian variant by Doc Watson.

A few of the dozen cuts seem new to me, or so imperfect memory informs me, while nearly every tune is recognizable. I grew up having been taught, thanks to the dopey but widespread stereotype, that the Scots are, shall we say, thrifty. I'm sure that's no more true of them than it is of any other people, but it's certainly the case that they're sparing with their ballad melodies, known more for their quality than their quantity. Fortunately, these are uniformly strong, and one does not mind hearing them in assorted narrative contexts. It helps, too, that they're set to engaging, sometimes wildly melodramatic stories.

In its own ironic -- one could also throw in iconic -- way, the Scottish tradition gives the impression of being inexhaustible. It and its equivalents in England and Ireland sometimes overlap; yet at their core they remain distinct, and one is unlikely to be mistaken for the other. I also have the impression that the invariably remarkable Roberts may be the finest male Scottish folk singer of his generation. I confess that I haven't heard all of the competition. But if there's anyone better, my ears await the introduction.