Trapped in that between-rock-and-a-country place that hobbled Lucinda Williams for so long, Todd Snider is the best American songwriter you've maybe never heard of. The Williams comparison is an imperfect one: Snider doesn't seem driven to strive for a career culmination/breakthrough à la Car Wheels on a Gravel Road (he makes great records, not masterworks), plus he's 10,000 times funnier than Williams could ever be, even if she were wearing a rainbow wig and chasing a dog with a ham in its mouth. Along with his killer wit, Snider's signature is a miraculous lack of sentimentality. As a weathered, perceptive, fortysomething working artist, Snider's subjects often come from the hard-luck American underbelly. But Snider's heroes aren't beautiful losers—they're day-labor construction workers who pay by the week at roadside motels. by Dave Segal