January dropped some amazing music on us.  For one thing, Tinie Tempah and Eric Turner’s electro hip-hop anthem “Written in the Stars,” which you may remember was my #17 song of 2010, was  finally released in America. Go. Download. You won’t be sorry.

Meanwhile, both The Decemberists and Lori McKenna released spectacular Americana albums, infusing roots music with their inimitable voices.

For The Decemberists, this is a surprising swerve. The alt-folk band has always looked in Americana’s direction, but they were generally committed to archly intellectual rock experiments like “The Mariner’s Revenge Song,” which is set inside the belly of a whale.

And really… I’m okay with that. Even though I find some of their music twee and exhaustingly self-conscious, I generally pick up what The Decemberists are putting down. I mean, it may contain the phrase “gutshot running gin,” but how can you deny the bouncy thrill of this song? Or the majestic energy of this one, despite its nerdy focus on fictional Spanish royalty?

Still, I’m thrilled that the band’s new album The King Is Dead, which debuts this week at number one, drops the fussy poetry in favor of straight-ahead rock. It just makes the band—and frontman Colin Meloy—seem like artists who are trying to communicate with other people, as opposed to artists who are only interested in working out their own arcane impulses.

As has been widely reported, the album was partially inspired by R.E.M.’s work from the 80s and early 90s, and even beyond the guest appearance by Peter Buck, you can feel Out of Time all over this record. To paraphrase Jonathon Keefe  in his Slate review, by playing music that demands discipline and acoustic austerity, the band jettisons its most self-indulgent tendencies without destroying its personality.

Here’s “Don’t Carry It All,” a feel-good jam that opens the album:

And here’s “This Is Why We Fight,” a “fight for truth” anthem that could’ve come after “Disturbance at the Heron House” on Document. I mean… right? The music is beautiful, the playing is focused, and the lyrics are just vague enough to feel mysterious:

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Now let’s turn to Lori McKenna, whose new album Lorraine continues her tradition of writing devastating songs about ordinary women living ordinary lives.

Much like Patty Griffin, McKenna’s heartache-y voice, simple-yet-evocative lyrics, and intensely passionate delivery make her songs feel like glimpses of bruised hearts beneath faded aprons. I feel like I know the women in her music, that I’ve passed them in my hometown without realizing how much they were carrying in their hands.

A few years ago, McKenna caught the attention of Faith Hill, who covered several of her tunes on her album Fireflies. That gave McKenna exposure and industry respect, which she richly deserves. It’s hard to find her songs online, but if you like Griffin and the Dixie Chicks and the like, then track down older albums like Unglamorous and Bittertown.

And don’t forget Lorraine, which features two of my favorite McKenna songs of all time.

First, there’s “The Luxury of Knowing,” which was recently covered by Keith Urban and has one of those title that makes me like a song before I’ve even heard it. It’s about the frustration of being in a relationship where you’re totally open and your partner is totally closed. They know everything about you—or at least it feels that way—and you don’t have the luxury of knowing much of anything about them. Or at least, the things you think you know might change tomorrow. The person before you tonight might be totally different in the morning.

Then there’s “The Most,” where melody and vocal combine to make a line like “my life is a two-dollar beer” sound exactly right. Though she writes a lot of songs about heartbreak, McKenna also has a collection of tracks about enjoying the simple life… and this is one of the best. Plenty of songwriters write silly odes to drinking out of a Dixie Cup, but McKenna injects that trope with authenticity. In the bridge, for instance, she stops to wonder if she’s doing enough with her life. Suddenly, there’s a shiver of dread in all those happy nights with beer and friends. But by the final verse, she has realized that, no, she can trust herself. “My life is green grass in the snow,” she sings. “A sweet reckless hope. And baby I know what matters the most.” To me, that image suggests the slow progress of experience… the small steps out of the snow that make life valuable. And damn if I don’t believe that McKenna is making progress as she sorts through the details of her daily routine.