Linda Ronstadt never got hung up on writing her own material. When she found a song she liked, she sang it, and nobody complained that her biggest hits were covers. Jenny Lewis, armed with a lovely voice and too little material, should have taken the same route. On her solo debut and her most soul/country record to date, Lewis' vocals sparkle and the intimate performances make a great first impression, but ultimately, the material grounds her.

The production is arresting: The engineers-- primarily Bright Eyes guy Mike Mogis-- are always ready for Jenny Lewis' close-ups, from the soaring a cappella opening track to the acoustic ballads, where they adoringly catch the strengths and nuances of her crisp, clear alto. The Watson Twins also earn their album co-credit with big gospel harmonies. (And the twin thing doesn't hurt: dig their Shining-esque pose on the front cover.) The twins are a winning addition to every song on which they appear, although they sound so good that you start to take them for granted. It's not that they sound good here, so much as they would sound good anywhere; they could back up Khanate and still turn heads.

But on repeated listens, the songwriting makes the album lukewarm. The melodies feel textbook, and the lyrics disappoint; they're often unwieldy (like the flurries of multisyllabic words on "You Are What You Love") or vaguely nonsensical (the title song seems heartbreaking, but just try to parse it). This material lacks the grace or the wit that could make the songs sizzle: a line like, "When you're sleeping with someone who doesn't get you/ You're gonna hate yourself in the morning," lacks the clean punch of, say, "I may hate myself in the morning/ But I'm gonna love you tonight." (It's not even a "This One's for the Girls".)

While the spare acoustic arrangements suit Lewis' voice, they don't lend themselves to the hooks and idiosyncracies that made Rilo Kiley. Lewis put far more on the line in her band's "I Never", and although that song has a bit of kitsch, its ruby red cowboy boots stomp on the toes of most of this album. In fact, more than any indie country album in months, Rabbit Fur Coat makes me question why indie singers put on their cowboy hats in the first place. The classy folk and Americana that Lewis invokes here never goes deeper than an aesthetic decision, and she's better at talking about bad times than bringing them to life-- or making them go away.

That's also why the lone cover on the record, of the Traveling Wilburys' "Handle With Care", doesn't bug me. Some Fork staffers hate this cut with a burning bile, especially when Lewis invites Conor Oberst, Ben Gibbard, and M. Ward to sit by her campfire and share the vocals. I just think it's cute that the quartet set themselves up as aged Bob Dylans or Roy Orbisons-- even if it's an easier sell to aim a few years younger and call them our generation's Jackson Browne, James Taylor, Stephen Stills, and, of course, Linda Ronstadt.