Ryan Rocks

In case you haven’t read, Ryan Adams is prolific. You’ve probably also read about his hair, his clothes, his girlfriends, his feuds (with journalists, fans, musicians, labels), his temper—all of which I will also examine, simply because it’s what I’m being paid $6 and a can of corn to do.

So let’s begin. David Ryan Adams, now 32, was raised in Jacksonville, N.C. He dropped out of high school and dabbled in punk before forming Whiskeytow, which—along with Wilco, Son Volt and Uncle Tupelo—initiated that no-depression movement of the mid-’90s that never really took off. Whiskeytown (think Graham Parsons meets the Stones) released three surprisingly accomplished albums (Faithless Street, Stranger’s Almanac, Pneumonia) to critical reverence and disappointing sales, drank and fought entirely too much and disbanded in 1999.

This is taking too long. All right, let’s skip a bit: The man’s forever busy. Adams has cut eight records, played with heroes, influences and contemporaries, guest-written a number of songs, produced two albums (including Willie Nelson’s Songbird released in late October, to mixed reviews), yet often is considered a disappointment.

Fusing country, bluegrass, rock, pop and jam, and being a fixture in A&E headlines despite never selling half a million albums, the trouble-prone troubadour is a perfect target. The reactions he stirs, despite the utter digestibility of his music, are pungent. Just check the “Phil Zone”: After playing with Phil Lesh and Friends on multiple tours, many deadheads consider him little more than a stage prop, despite Phil’s endorsing him as one of the boldest and most exciting people with whom to share Grateful Dead songs since Jerry Garcia.

Even if Adams, who has lived in Manhattan since 1999, takes chances onstage—where takes and set-lists are as unpredictable as his mood swings—his albums are daring only in how traditional and accessible the songs are. The only similarity between each record to the next is the undeniable listenability. 2001’s Gold was his most successful album to-date, fetching two Grammy nods and cracking MTV’s rotation with the misinterpreted 9/11 anthem, “New York, New York.” Most diehards prefer his solo debut, Heartbreaker, a soulful venture into one man’s desolation, or 2005’s Cold Roses, an airy double album slick with heartbreakers (“Now That You’re Gone,” “Blossom”) and Dead-inspired danger boogie (“Let It Ride,” “If I Am A Stranger”), which lacks the consistency of follow-up Jacksonville City Nights. Me, I’ll take Love Is Hell, his darkest record (in a brit-poppier way, not in his usual drunk-old-man approach to sadness), which contains his most wistful and most beautiful songs (“The Shadowlands,” “Anybody Wanna Take Me Home”).

Between onstage spills, tour cancellations, online ravings, bitter voicemails, Hollywood girlfriends, label wars and completely credible indifference to his image, Ryan Adams sure knows how to play a tune. And when he takes the stage this week with the groovy honky-tonk outfit The Cardinals—there’ll be no denying it.

Dec. 4-6. Town Hall, 123 W. 43rd St. (betw. 6th Ave. & B’way), 212-997-1003; 8, $35.