Well- versed in Dylanesque darkness, Paul K. is a patron saint of the drunken and the broken, his hoarse, guttural voice fusing a torch ballad's lasciviousness with the power and conviction of a hymn. His sixth album and first outing with the Prayers, Saratoga, is a canvas bearing bold swaths of velvety tones as humid and black as a late summer night.

Saratoga is a far livelier album than last year's insanity opus, A Wilderness of Mirrors, yet rootsier and more pared- down compared to his rockin' 1997 effort with the Weathermen, Love is a Gas. Its dozen cuts creep up and chokehold you from behind, beginning with such hushed subtlety that you barely breathe for fear of drowning out that first nuance or note. They're bluesy, twangy and all around alt- country without sounding like they'd blare through the window of some illiterate wife beater- wearing, Lucky Lager- swilling, cousin- banging, shotgun shack- dwelling, paint- sniffing chicken- choke who managed to put the deer rifle down long enough to sire a swarm of unruly inbred mutants straight out of a Christian Children's Fund commercial.

In addition to being a fairly righteous vocalist and producer, Paul K. has a knack for amplifying the simplest passages into operatic masterpieces without working pretension into the mix as well. "They Just Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To" swells from a mild acoustic flow into a glorious mass punctuated by funky organs and driving piano, and "The Truth Ain't On the Sign" jaunts along a series of strummy chord progressions and easy beats. Saratoga is replete with arresting arrangements and chilling imagery ("She got a great big blue Cadillac in the driveway out front, a big black hearse right beside it"), and, true to form, pungent with moodiness and angst. But on more than a few occasions the mournful balladeer sounds almost... happy. Hey, that's diversity.

-Susan Moll