For his fourth studio album, Ray LaMontagne ditched Ethan Johns – who produced his first three albums – and decided to take the controls of God Willin’& The Creek Don’t Rise into his own hands. He enlisted the help what he calls The Pariah Dogs – a crew of top class session players who appear on albums by Ryan Adams and Son Volt, to name a few – and crafted a cozy ten-song album within the friendly confines of his own cabin in the sticks of Massachusetts.

Upon first listen, it sounds as if the reclusive singer songwriter may have actually broken out of his shell. The album’s leadoff track – “Repo Man” – is a six minute, bluesy cut that ditches all of the sappiness of “Trouble” or “Let It Be Me” and trades it in for a foot-stomping riff and lyrics about basically kicking somebody to the curb. It closes out with a nearly two-minute back porch jam session and is the perfect reason to take this album hook, line, and sinker.

Unfortunately, LaMontagne does revert back to his coma-inducing mellowness on songs like “For The Summer” and “This Love is Over”, and while cuts like “Are We Really Through” and “Old Before Your Time” most definitely take their cues from the LaMontagne Book of Melancholy, it actually sounds like he really means it this time. The 37-year-old has always had a gift for great storytelling, but it seems like the tales of romantic uncertainty and a man regretfully looking back on his life are coming from his own heart when he sings about losing good friends and wanting to know if his lover is really leaving. His signature rasp only adds to the songs’ believability and is certainly the quality that buoys a release that would surely sink if another man were behind the microphone. His vocal tone is simultaneously warm, soulful, subdued, and distinctly unique.

In fact, his voice is probably the sole reason listeners either love and hate his releases. Depending on your taste, it's either heartbreakingly earnest folk music or pure emo crap for the retired NPR set. God Willin’ is the kind of record that makes people abandon or latch onto an artist, and even though the whole thing could easily brushed off as another soft-rock, AAA, foray into the same old’ territory, fans stuck on the fence about LaMontagne should take note of the promise he displays on “New York City’s Killing Me”. On it, he shows that when he’s left to his own, he can really make traditional song structure shine. The song is pure country and the addition Greg Leisz’s pedal steel is proof that LaMontagne is ready to travel a new, albeit smooth, path.