Love, Shelby

Success is a two-faced bitch. On her last album of heartbreaking country soul, I Am Shelby Lynne, the Nashville outcast sounded like she was one paycheck away from a job at the Waffle House. Now, with a Grammy on her mantel, Shelby sounds happier—and less captivating. Love, Shelby is a fine album, but it lacks the last-chance ache of its predecessor. We’re more than willing to blame the goopy overproduction of schlock-pop maestro Glen Ballard, which makes this feel less like a postcard from the edge and more like a professional (though occasionally effective) mass mailing.