She plays the acoustic guitar. She's young. She's plucky. She runs her own record label. And she's not Ani DiFranco. True, there's a similar penchant for using the guitar as both a melodic and percussive instrument. But while DiFranco's urgent and gaping fusion of quasi-punk/folk and blatant lyrics are often assaulting, McKeown's blend of folk, funk and jazz (particularly of the Tin Pan Alley variety) is sleepy-eyed and understated. Her first album proper, Distillation, is testament to the advantages of subtlety for singer/songwriters.

In lieu of the kind of confessional approach to lyric-writing that almost always leads to histrionic ranting, McKeown often chooses to distance herself from her words, and ends up sounding refined. In the-breezy-as-a-Sunday-ride-in-a-convertible jazz number "Didn't They?," McKeown sings of a secret that's been revealed about her, gossip-style, without ever explicitly telling the listener what she's talking about. She's not being abstract, but intriguing and coy. Similarly, "La Petit Mort" is a halfstep-away-from-bluegrass country song in which McKeown takes the role of widower whose wife died amidst orgasm. McKeown proves herself armed with an intelligent sense of humor, instead of strident, oversimplified political convictions, when she explains the death: "We both found heaven right then/ You just chose not to come back."

McKeown's charming elusiveness, however, only goes so far. The flimsy funk of "Blackbirds" is only further bogged down by a beguiling extended metaphor that explains new love in terms of the old "Sing a Song of Sixpence" nursery rhyme. It's confusing, honestly, and any insight is usurped by the overly "clever" wordplay.

It's when McKeown lets down her guard and allows her lyrics to venture into visceral territory that she's at her most successful. "Fast as I Can" is a self-aware examination of her career thus far, and McKeown is revealed as an uncertain, perhaps ambivalent, young performer. The catchy melody sung over muted acoustic guitar strings is augmented by more wordplay. In this case, the cleverness is done right. McKeown personifies the construct of success and sings about encountering it one night while she's asleep: "Slept I have in the beds of middle America/ Life off the fat of the man/ I'm gonna go out tonight/ I'm gonna try, try to make it/ Live as fast as I can." We've heard folksingers' own tributes to their lives of travel and uncertainty before, but rarely in such levelheaded terms.

McKeown's mastery of subtlety is evident in the fact that Distillation's quietest moment is its loveliest. "Love in 2 Parts" starts out funky, full, and upbeat before abruptly shifting into a soft, solo-acoustic ballad. Her songwriting is strongest here, with its undeniably beautiful melody and delivery. Her words shift from being merely lyrics, to fully realized poetry with lines like: "I waved my hope around like a cheap flag/ Whose colors had faded/ Whose emblem was laughable/ What is whiskey in the morning/ But a clear path to the door?"

With Distillation, McKeown self-assuredly makes her mark in the already overcrowded crew of American singer/songwriters, becoming part of a clique of like-minded folkies that includes Rose Polenzani and Beth Amsel. They call themselves Voices on the Verge and sometimes tour the country together. For McKeown, though, the name of the group is a misnomer. Distillation proves she's not verging on anything; she's not "almost there." She has already arrived.