Nick Cave. Bob Dylan. Leonard Cohen. Tom Waits. These men were never singers. These men are vocalists, and there's a colossal difference. Their ability to pen poignant lyrical dramas of the human-cosmic joke only doubles their genius. These sorts of artisans have nearly vanished in the age of the plastic pop icon, the laptop recording studio, and whatever constitutes college radio these days. To unearth a man who is following in the footsteps of the greats in a massively competent way is most certainly a kick. Now playing on a loop: Richard McGraw.

His voice is strained, warbling, genuine, and filled with desperation. I've never heard such angst-laden vocals in all my years. He says he's only ever received one negative review, and that writer said McGraw whines and complains. Bring it on! Here is a man who lies in bed at night wondering how he's going to die. He sings of misery, memorial, mortality, and loss. He evokes religious imagery, erecting church houses to pray in and supreme beings to beseech. Women have put his heart through a meat grinder and he needs to tell you all about it. Sound familiar?

If any unknown recording artist is worthy of recognition, it's this guy. The maturity and professionalism that is evident on his second release, Song and Void, Volume One, is staggering. You'd never guess that McGraw is a month short of 30 and living in a basement in Newburgh, trying to scrape together enough money to send to his pals at Visa. The packaging of the CD alone is enough to make you want to rip the plastic off, and in half a shake. Looks like it might even be negro spirituals, who knows? McGraw, a graphic designer who creates cosmetics packaging in Manhattan, has used raised etching on the cover of his ivory cardboard jewel case. On either side of the illustration of his 1900s-style portrait is the number 76 (year of his birth) and a blank space, a hint to the CD's often-morbid contents. Inside the cover is an invitation to write your name on your newest acquisition and also to place a picture of yourself, a clever tactic that may resurrect memories of having done this already, way back at age eight.

The album was recorded in one or two takes during the winter of 2004. It begins with the melancholy "Butter Hill," introducing McGraw's mournful croak —"Glory to God and all of His children"—soon followed by piano and percussion in a hymn-like death march. "Death is Not Peace" is a disturbingly brilliant track, beginning with McGraw's tin can vocals embedded in lone piano notes, only to fall victim to a surprise avalanche of furious electric guitars à la The Bad Seeds, and return once again to a very weepy piano. Feels like being murdered, then placed on a bed of violets. "Find Me Then" is another plodding prayer which earns McGraw his "explicit lyrics" label with one four-letter word. "Natasha in High School," the tale of a high school lay, sticks out on the CD like a sore thumb, its pop drive sounding more like something Elvis Costello would churn out on a really good day. A favorite hilarious lyric: "She's dating a boy named Beret / and I hear he wears one on his head / filled with all the stupid things he says." "St. Anthony" tells of the death of an old school chum over strumming acoustic guitar, tinged with a bit of envy: "Making out in the 6th grade / you were so ahead of your time / I didn't make out, brother / till I was fucking 99." One must wonder if "The Many" is intentionally tongue in cheek or not; there's just something gruesomely funny about the punctuated tuba notes and the Gay Men's Choir of Newburgh singing "aye yie yie yie" while McGraw muses on his various death options. In addition to his destined-to-be-famous throat instrument, McGraw plays electric and acoustic guitars, and piano on this recording, joined by producer Zoe B. Zak on keys, accordion, and vocals; Robert Kopec and Daniel Goodwin on bass; Dean Sharp on drums; John Platania on electric guitar and dobro; Bob Leive on trumpet; "OT" Munkh O Turbold and Richard Leisler on electric guitar; Richard Carr on viola and violin; Deric Gorman on acoustic and electric guitars; the "Sisters of Mercy" on vocals; and David Winograd on tuba.

I don't know if McGraw is speaking to me from his subterranean chamber or not, but on the phone he seems like quite the normal, nice enough chap who is just trying to work out his trip around the sun like everybody else. He tells me he's had no formal music training and he's recently picked up the harmonium like one of his musical favorites, Krishna Das. When I ask what inspires his existential musical angst, he laughs and tells me it's a loaded question. "I hit rock bottom on some of these songs. What inspires miserable songs? I guess it's misery. When you're happy and things are joyful, what is there to write about? Maybe I'm complaining, or Nick Cave can be considered complaining, but we're doing it for a reason. We're finding some sort of dignity in it, not just shooting off at the mouth." He mentions his first release, Her Sacred Status, My Militant Needs, which also contains a great deal of doom and gloom. Zen training, a major in philosophy, and a minor in psychology (Albany State) may or may not have affected his songwriting, McGraw isn't sure, but "they trickle down to the art somehow." His being a finalist and winning $1,000 in the 2003 John Lennon Songwriting Contest didn't hurt much, although he thinks there's something about it that's "kinda cheesy."