f all the things Ryan Adams has been accused of, laziness sure isn't one of them. Two solo albums in as many years (one of them a highly ambitious double-album, no less), and now this - the oft-delayed final album from the group he fronted, Whiskeytown.


Along with similar-minded groups such as Uncle Tupelo, Wilco and the Jayhawks, Whiskeytown spearheaded the alt-country movement in the early-to-mid 90s. Aside from producing one of the genre's finest albums (Strangers Almanac), Whiskeytown provided the movement with its most recognizable persona, the charismatic Adams.


But as often happens with a group blessed (or burdened) with such a star, the spotlighted member in question becomes too big for their bandmates. Adams struck out on his own to deliver his staggering statement of purpose, the haunting and stunning Heartbreaker. Then, just this past summer, Adams unleashed his two-disc opus, Gold, which was the yin to Heartbreaker's yang. While Heartbreaker showed Adams cowering in the corner of the bar, Gold showed him parading down the avenue, toting a brass band along with him.


Before he left Whiskeytown behind him, he did cut one final album with the group, Pneumonia, which remained unreleased until after Heartbreaker took off.


Pneumonia is a curious album. Usually, final albums cut during a group's demise are messy, unfocused and uninspired affairs (see the Clash's Cut The Crap for proof). And while Pneumonia is a far cry from a concentrated blast of musical ecstasy, it is an admirably written and executed album that not only stands on its own, but shows the direction Adams was heading towards with his solo work.


Most of Adams' considerable strengths are showcased here. Pneumonia is a tightly written batch of mid-tempo ballads and easy-going rockers which are endlessly warm and inviting; never cold or off-putting. It is the sound that conjures hazy images of sitting on a porch on a rainy summer's night; of creaky floorboards and threadbare jeans; the sound of clinking beer bottles, melancholy sighs and weepy jukeboxes.


Pneumonia is a compromise of Adams' conflicting values. It doesn't have the boozy recklessness of the harder Stranger's Almanac, nor does it have the delicate emotional fragility of Heartbreaker. It's a confident album; you can hear it in the punchy refrain of "Mirror Mirror" and the devil-may-care attitude of "Crazy About You," yet tracks such as "The Ballad Of Carol Lynn" undermine that current with lines like "Lovin' you has gotten weird...Trusting you has gotten strange."


The mood of Pneumonia never strays too far from the middle; even on what would seem to be the album's emotional low, "Bar Lights," the track is buoyed by both the offbeat nature of the instrumentation and Adams' vocal outro. Elsewhere, he both laments and celebrates life in towns both large and small, in "Jacksonville Skyline" and "My Hometown," respectively.


Though the mood may not change much, sonically, it's Whiskeytown's most varied effort, featuring the blues-rock and alt-country we've come to expect, but also throwing in a few nods to traditional, Beatles-esque pop ("Don't Wanna Know Why," "Mirror Mirror"). Hell, subtract the schmaltz and melodrama of Don Henley's "End Of The Innocence," and you've got "Sit & Listen To The Rain" here. Even more surprising are the back-to-back tracks, "Paper Moon" and "What The Devil Wanted."


"Paper Moon" glimmers with a Hawaiian vibe, as Adams plays the role of lounge crooner for the song. The sunny, tropical orchestrated song juxtaposes perfectly with the sparse, atmospheric "What The Devil Wanted," which sports faked vinyl cracks and pops, and distant, chiming percussion.


While Adams' songwriting isn't as sharp as it has been on other albums, he's still got an unshakable knack for crafting songs that sound like they've nested in your heart for years. As I said before, the album is a compromise, and that means that it's never exceptionally good, but also means that it's never exceptionally bad, either.


It may not pack as visceral a punch as Stranger's Almanac or Heartbreaker, and it won't crack the pop charts the way the sometimes garishly overproduced Gold did, but Pneumonia is a fitting swan song, capping off their career with dignity, and providing an insightful glimpse into Adams' transition.