Gretchen Wilson

The reigning tomboy of commercial country music, Gretchen Wilson has made a name for herself with a parade of ballsy bar hits, but her third studio album finds her uncharacteristically subdued. Instead of jagged rabble-rousers like "Here for the Party" and "All Jacked Up," she offers mid-tempo fare that fails to reach the high standards set by current scene sweethearts Taylor Swift and Miranda Lambert.

Part of the problem lies with Wilson's voice; she may have belted her old hits with sass and style, but with quieter material, her limitations show. She lacks a truly distinct or moving vocal quality, rendering ballads like "Pain Killer" and "Heaven Help Me" nothing but ordinary. Even the upbeat numbers seem strangely lackluster: "If You Want a Mother" promises sarcasm but delivers closer to sincerity, while "There Goes the Neighborhood" plays the white-trash card yet again but with less panache than her debut "Redneck Woman." Only the album closer "To Tell You the Truth" manages a sense of real emotion, carefully arranged to swell with a soft regret that serves to remind us what Wilson can achieve with subtlety and the right songwriting.

—Abby McDonald
05.25.07

Gretchen Wilson set the country music charts on fire with her smash single "Redneck Woman" and her debut album, Here for the Party (2004). The track -- though composed by colleague John Rich (of Big & Rich) -- became an anthem for women all over America. Written especially for Wilson, it is from-the-gut, working-class feminism for the post-feminist age, straightforwardly sung with a celebratory vengeance. As a slice-of-life singer who embodied and brought to life each cut on the album, she became an "overnight sensation." Her follow-up, All Jacked Up (2005), was recorded and rushed out by Sony a year later. Certainly the marketing department wanted to capture Wilsonmania, since her debut sold five-million copies. During the process, Wilson fought for the songs she wanted and got her way, and she co-produced with Rich and Mark Wright. Once more, she didn't write a single track on the set, but made her own song choices. The problem was (and remains true for virtually any artist) that following a debut phenomenon like Here for the Party is not only difficult, it's all but impossible. It went platinum, and concert tours sold out everywhere she played, but didn't hit the same mark despite being a better album song for song.

Since 2005, Wilson has written a book -- named for her first single -- and absorbed the whirlwind of her life in the studio and as an internationally renowned celebrity. Rather than follow formulas, Wilson decided to do everything her way on One of the Boys, and that meant change. Once again producing with aid from Rich and Wright, Wilson shines this time out as a songwriter as well as a singer. She co-wrote nine of the album's 11 songs with Rich, longtime collaborator Vicky McGehee, and Rivers Rutherford. She says in the small note in the booklet that this is the most important recording she's ever made; it's her diary set to music. She's telling the truth. While there are excellent rockers on this set, there are also poignant ballads. One of the Boys (the title track is a great song with an intentionally misleading title) is a true country album. It has steel guitars, fiddles, and mandolins everywhere. It touches the heart of the tradition deeply from the opening cut, particularly in the ballads. Wilson is following her own muse, the one that comes from the lineage of Haggard, Parton, Lynn, and Strait as much as it does Hank Jr., Daniels, Skynyrd, and Kid Rock. The former side of her inspiration comes through loud and clear without sacrificing the persona her fans have come to know and love. This means one thing: that Wilson is the real deal: 100 percent authentic. She has become an artist without compromise, and it's obvious from the first note of "The Girl I Am," the set's opening cut. Fiddles and electric guitars announce her lyrics and it's in the final verse that she lays it out bare: "Sometimes I know there's somethin' missing/Sometimes I want to start again/Sometimes I scream and no one listens/Sometimes I feel like givin' in." There's confession and self-doubt here, but in the refrain she states: "And I never make apologies, 'cause I don't give a damn/I guess I'll always be the girl I am." The end result: she expresses the complexities of being human and claims radical self-acceptance. The artist who revealed herself early on is speaking from the other side, from her femininity and vulnerability, but there's great strength here, too, as the Don Rich-style guitars spit and roll, with a whining pedal steel, and the fiddle accents every line.

This track is followed by the gorgeous "Come to Bed" (the album's first single written by Rich and McGehee). Wilson owns it in her delivery. It's a ballad that lays out the truth in any genuine romantic relationship: that some disagreements, problems, and knock-down drag-out battles can only be equaled by the communication of physical intimacy, the kind expressed by the equality of the lovers' bed. It's quietly dynamic and poignant, yet it's only a sm