Here are two albums anchored in the folk tradition, though most of the music in them is self-composed. Yet each sets forth its own definition of authenticity, though they don't sound much alike.

Cheryl Cawood (pronounced Cay-wood) of Santa Fe, Texas, is a product of rural Kentucky and clearly steeped in its traditional song. In her writing one discerns the influence of another figure from the Appalachian diaspora, the late Jean Ritchie, whose "The L&N Don't Stop Here Anymore" (perhaps Ritchie's most-covered composition) is nicely revived here in a band version that incorporates, besides the expected acoustic string instruments, piano (Michael Bobbitt) and percussion (Rick Richards).

Cawood's countryish voice is more hard-edged than Ritchie's gentle-toned one, but this is not what any knowledgeable listener would think of as country in the Nashville context. You are more likely to be reminded to a certain degree of the late Hazel Dickens, albeit without the latter's fierce political leanings. The one actual traditional number is the always endearing "Shady Grove," which manages to lighten some of the darkness Bullet in the Cabin Wall evokes.

The title should warn you that grim materials await you inside some of the tracks. The title ballad, the album's opener, plunges the listener into violence and chaos in a grippingly recalled family legend of bloody conflict among moonshiners in the early years of the republic. Nothing is quite so scary, however, as the more modern "Ballad of Spade Cooley," concerning the fate of a star of mid-century Western swing. Cooley, a gifted fiddler and band leader on stage and a mean drunk elsewhere, wrapped the style in glitz and performed it with what was in those days the largest band in the history of country music. Whatever may be said of the result, not much good is spoken of Cooley himself. A country encyclopedia in my library observes that Cooley's "often sordid private life tended to overshadow his career as an entertainer."

Cawood's inspired idea to have the devil narrate the story plunges the song into something like medieval atmospherics. In her handling Cooley is the false knight on the road, a charmer, a scoundrel, an evil presence in the world. His life as country celebrity ended in 1961 when he brutally murdered his estranged wife in front of their adolescent daughter. In 1969, as a reward for good behavior, prison authorities allowed him to put on a concert outside the walls. Immediately after the show, he retired to the dressing room where he expired of a heart attack. Cawood's sympathies lie with the devil who here, ironically, speaks for the moral order. As finely crafted as the other nine originals are, this is the one most likely to stick -- uneasily -- in memory.

Mama's Broke is a duo based in Halifax, Nova Scotia, eight years into its existence as an outfit touring North America and Europe, mostly -- I surmise -- folk clubs and festivals where its eccentric take on the tradition, about as far from pop, rock and country as is legal in the 21st century, finds an audience. Amy Lou Keeler and Lisa Maria arrange their songs sparely, sometimes even without accompaniment, otherwise supported by arcane-sounding guitar, banjo, fiddle or mandolin or combinations thereof. If they don't exactly replicate field recordings, they manage to conjure up an approximation of their spirit, perhaps as might be encountered in a parallel universe.

Appalachian sounds are one influence, but generally not in the ordinary way the i-word is dropped into these kinds of discussions. One hears echoes of ballads from a distant time as well as fragments of contemporary-seeming reflections and experiences, occasional rueful humor and quotes from folk songs, and once in a while actual coherent narratives. The gorgeous close-harmony singing carries the listener into a spooky realm of often elusively defined images and emotions.

You could call this folk-noir or art-folk, I suppose. From time to time I've heard other performers attempt broadly the same approach, but most such efforts tend to be poorly conceived, pretentious and annoying, sort of like what once happened when other musicians tried to imitate the Incredible String Band. Sometimes the players lack the chops or the knowledge or the poetic inspiration. Here, however, knowledge, talent and intelligence abound, and few would dispute that the two creator/performers indeed pull it off.

But what is "it"? On my third or fourth listening I decided to write down words that floated into my brain as the music swirled around me. The list consisted of a series of largely linked ideas: memories, dreams, darkness, liminal space and -- unexpectedly -- the occasional goofy joke. If you should hear Narrow Line, you may elect to compile your own list. You may also take some time to sort out what you think. Me, I'm still working on it.