From Minnesota's St. Paul Pioneer Press:
  http://www.pioneerplanet.com  

  POP MUSIC

  Loud and Clear

  Whiskeytown bad boy Ryan Adams is putting his
  reputation as a substance-abusing time bomb behind him
  and striking out on his own, backed by a powerful talent
  and a new, healthy outlook.



  AMY CARLSON STAFF WRITER 

  Imagine being in your early 20s and being hailed as the voice of the
  insurgent country movement. You tour the country, write a ton of
  insightful songs, lead your band to the leagues of the semi-famous.

  You also get to throw tantrums onstage, break instruments, tick off
  fellow musicians and succeed in going through countless band
  members. Somehow, there is always someone there picking up your
  pieces, and you're still in charge -- at least that's what you think.



   WHO: Ryan Adams

   WHEN and WHERE: 10 p.m. Wednesday, 7th St. Entry, 29 N.
  Seventh St., Mpls., (612) 338-8388; 10 p.m. Thursday, Turf Club,
  1601 University Ave., St. Paul, (651) 647-0486



  They say you're the next Gram Parsons, the Kurt Cobain of the "No
  Depression" scene, an alt-country god. Is this the American Dream?
  Seems like it, until one day you wake up and realize that you don't
  even know who you are anymore.

  "I was so uncomfortable in my own skin for so long. I felt really
  uncomfortable in my own life for a very long time," says former
  Whiskeytown frontman Ryan Adams on the phone from his home in
  Nashville. "I'm starting to feel a lot better about myself and the
  world."

  At 25 -- six days shy of 26 -- the gravelly voiced singer/songwriter
  has weathered the storm and is back with a solo record,
  "Heartbreaker" (Bloodshot), minus a rock band. After Whiskeytown
  wound up its tour to promote 1997's critically acclaimed album,
  "Strangers Almanac," Adams finished some recordings with the band (a
  double album "Pneumonia" that was never released).

  Then he moved to New York to have what he calls a "normal" life with
  his girlfriend that consisted of writing songs, feeding the cat and
  making dinner for his sweetheart. The relationship ended -- this is
  where much of the overall sad, hopeless feeling of "Heartbreaker" was
  born -- Adams moved to Nashville, and he was forced to remodel his
  life.

  But the one thing he can't escape from is the bad-boy image he
  perfected during the Whiskeytown days, which leads some to wonder
  when he'll blow up next or whether he'll be drunk or sober when he
  plays live or, most importantly, if he will play the part of genius or
  fool.

  Says Adams, "I'm always shocked when I read stuff, especially when
  people say, `the volatile Mr. Adams' or when they say, `It may be a
  crapshoot -- he may be drunk or totally great.' It's, like, I totally
  wouldn't get drunk onstage again -- I've already done that.

  "It sounds weird, but I don't even feel a shadow of what I used to
  feel. That was such a busy, insane, wild time in my life to look back
  on. It's very vague. I don't think I did people wrong or that sort of
  thing, I was just a rock 'n' roll kid, and that's what I wanted to do. All
  is fair in rock 'n' roll, you know.

  "I always felt like Whiskeytown was like Johnny Thunders and Skynyrd
  and Husker Du and the 'Mats," Adams says of his former band. "We
  just wanted to rock . . . we were called Whiskeytown, and we were
  from Raleigh. That's part of the problem right there. The hole was dug
  long before I got my shovel."

  Throughout the hourlong conversation, Adams doesn't censor himself
  -- he reveals his admiration for Iggy Pop, Patti Smith, Chuck Berry,
  the Beat writers. And then in the next breath, he affectionately refers
  to his bandmates in his Nashville rock band the Pink Hearts as
  "knuckleheads," drops the names of his new friends Lucinda (Williams)
  and Gillian (Welch), talks to his roommate's dog in a charming manner
  and isn't afraid of saying that he can write one hell of a song.

  He's right. Most of "Heartbreaker," a stripped-down, tragically
  beautiful collection of 14 original songs, is proof.

  "Come Pick Me Up," the record's shining star, is a story of a
  dysfunctional relationship in which both parties thrive on each other's
  abuse. Adams sings it with pure, raw intensity. For "Oh, My Sweet
  Carolina," he brings in Emmylou Harris to temper his angst. And even
  sparse ballads such as "To Be the One" are heartbreakers.

  "At the moment I made `Heartbreaker,' I was really distraught,"
  Adams recalls about the album he recorded with producer Ethan Johns
  in a mere two weeks. "If people end up thinking that `Heartbreaker' is
  the stock of what's in my soup, they are going to be really shocked
  when I throw peanut butter in. I can get really goofy."

  He's right again: Adams is a bit goofy and his musical tastes a bit
  questionable (Slayer and Mariah Carey?). Perhaps it is a testament to
  the beauty of the aging process, which allows a once two-dimensional
  boy rocker to now wax nostalgic about the weather and his
  grandmother.

  "My grandmother and I talked about a lot of stuff when I was young,"
  Adams says. "She'd play me Willie Nelson records, and I would play her
  Black Flag records, and she'd say, `They love to hit those cymbals,
  don't they?' It was really cool, and my rapport with her was that we
  just sort of were open with everything."

  With a posthumous double Whiskeytown record, "Pneumonia," still to
  be released (Adams claims it should be out some time next year) and
  the beginnings of a successful solo career, Adams seems to be
  exchanging useful nihilism for healthy optimism.

  "I think that being happier with my life is a symptom of growing up,"
  Adams says, "just because I can make a little bit more sense of the
  world. I have more to base stuff on, and I can compare things better.
  My palette has gained 18 more colors, and I've taken the time to
  check them out."
  Amy Carlson can be reached at acarlson@pioneerpress.com