As you might expect from such a cross-pollination, the album luxuriates in the sound of the '60s, a standard fixation among Nashville's most adventurous Baby Boomers (Jim Lauderdale, the Mavericks, Rodney Crowell, Stacy Dean Campbell). One song has a riff that recalls the Yardbirds, another boasts a chorus that sounds like prime Stax/Volt, a third trips along like a Bert Berns bubble-gum classic, and all of them twang with echoes of Buck Owens and Merle Haggard. The overall effect is as expert and exuberant as Marshall Crenshaw's debut, or the dBs' Stands for Decibels, or maybe Nick Lowe's Labour of Lust -- willful pop albums in the thrall of a complex tradition once removed.

Of course, Gone was made not for the cozy new-wave circuit circa 1980 but for the messy fringes of today's country market. At Great Woods, 4500 fans showed up to hear him support the album in a one-night stop on an ambitious four-month tour. It was easy to rationalize why the attendance was well below the venue's 20,000 capacity: New England is still country music's weak spot. Still, the small, older-looking audience appeared to represent a wide range of ages, income brackets, and attitudes. Among those I spoke with, some were diehard country fans; others, like Scott and Andrea Nedley of Plymouth, were recent converts who have gotten "bored with pop and rock." At the younger end of the audience, Boston Harbor Commuter Service "gallery girl" Sheila Santry and her postal-worker friend Jeanne Nhele like Yoakam simply because he has a good beat and crossover appeal. As Sheila put it, "You wouldn't catch me at a Charlie Daniels concert."

A Charlie Daniels concert it wasn't. On stage, Yoakam's formalism translated as raw sex. With his cowboy hat pulled low on his brow and his leather pants wrapped tight around his legs and groin, he signaled pure male virility as he bumped and ground, slid and shimmied to the music. ("Finally!" cried my date when, after 15 or 17 songs, Dwight shifted his guitar so she could briefly see everyone's source of inspiration.) Yoakam was cool, professional, and unknowable as he strung the songs together with barely any pause or comment. But with the help of some funky videos projected on back screens and the bold, unusual leads of his longtime guitarist/producer, Pete Anderson, the music took off anyway. By the end, the crowd were out of their seats and dancing, a couple of girls had rushed the stage, and Dwight, for a brief second, flashed a smile. He earned the evening's two Elvis covers, no sweat.

-- Franklin Soults