I ain't lookin' for you to feel like me, see like me, or be like me," Bob Dylan sang in 1964. Given the richness of his writing, it's easy to forget that the man who set the prototype for the folk-influenced singer-songwriter has been as elusive as he's been prolific. That's not true, of course, for many of the artists Dylan inspired. Some, like Joni Mitchell, adopted a confessional style. Others, like Bruce Springsteen, have formed intense emotional bonds with the characters they created. Still others, like Elvis Costello, have taken on personas by virtue of their wry detachment, tempering even their most passionate assertions with irony. But what the best have in common is that they are great narrators – animated, perceptive and capable of maintaining a balance between sense and sentiment that allows for profound expression.

The new year sees a crop of releases from singer-songwriters seeking to uphold this tradition. One of these offerings is actually from a band – the Cowboy Junkies, a Canadian group that has flaunted its infatuation with rock's indelibly American roots. The Junkies emerged as pop contenders in 1988 with their major-label debut, The Trinity Session, a collection of adapted traditional songs, astute covers of tunes by the likes of Hank Williams and Lou Reed and impressionistic originals written by the brother-sister team of Michael and Margo Timmins – the band's guitarist and vocalist, respectively – all set to glowingly atmospheric arrangements. The band's less successful follow-up, The Caution Horses (1990), saw Michael taking the reins as primary writer and, perhaps consequently, marked a shift from the dreamy feel of Session's songs to more detailed accounts.

For the Junkies' new album, Black Eyed Man, Michael has written all but two of the tracks – both Townes Van Zandt contributions: "Cowboy Junkies Lament" and "To Live Is to Fly" – and once again a narrative style prevails. But while his songs on Horses felt unsure, often falling back on romantic platitudes and vignettes that intrigued but ultimately didn't go anywhere, Timmins emerges on Man as a storyteller to be reckoned with. Songs like "Murder, Tonight, in the Trailer Park" and "The Last Spike" recall Springsteen's landscapes, where the desire to belong to something or someone mingles uneasily with the instinct to escape. "I've got a horse in the country," Margo sings on one track, her tremulous soprano rife with yearning. "One day I'll saddle up/And the two of us will ride away."

The songs on Black Eyed Man are also more finely structured than those on Horses, freeing the Junkies to swing a bit. "A Horse in the Country" sparkles with a folk-pop sensibility that recalls 10,000 Maniacs, while "Southern Rain" offers a bluesier kick. "If You Were the Woman and I Was the Man," a duet with John Prine, sounds like a tender Fifties ballad, complete with a doo-wop rhythm. And "Townes' Blues," a companion piece to "Cowboy Junkies Lament," doesn't evoke the existential isolation of its subject; instead, Margo pays tribute to Van Zandt's wit, delivering her most coquettish vocal over a swaggering arrangement.

There's little humor to be found, in contrast, on Steve Forbert's new album, The American in Me. As was apparent on Streets of This Town (1988), which was his first release in six years, Forbert is intent on letting us know he's no longer the starry-eyed innocent, one of a long line of singer-songwriters tagged as the "new Dylan" in the Seventies. "You and I know fully well that we're not kids," Forbert sings on "If You're Waiting on Me," and titles like "Responsibility" and "You Cannot Win 'Em All" pretty much speak for themselves. Forbert's mostly acoustic arrangements, dominated by guitar and laced with harmonica, sound as lean and unpretentious as ever, and there are some fetching tunes, like the romantic "When the Sun Shines" and a brisk blues romp called "Rock While I Can Rock." But American's accounts of hard-won experience too often seem pedantic or self-pitying, and Forbert's relentless earnestness wears thin after a while.

Jules Shear has no such problems on his new release, The Great Puzzle. Though not an iconic figure like Elvis Costello, Shear has built a loyal cult following working in the same songwriting tradition – an inherently British adaptation of folk rock that arose alongside punk, distinguished by equal parts angst and witty wordplay. Shear is most appreciated, deservedly, as a writer of smart, poignant pop songs, and Puzzle, which focuses primarily on the games lovers play, should only enhance this reputation.

Typically, Shear mitigates his skepticism with tenderness. On "We Were Only Making Love" he sounds more wistful than sardonic, singing, "I thought we were really doing something/But ... What feels so good at bedtime/Doesn't always make it through the day." Nonetheless, "Something Else to Me," a winding ballad featuring Shear's most trenchant vocal on the album, finds him being sly about "somebody's ex-wife"; and on "Jewel in a Cobweb" he begrudges a beautiful woman her suitor: "He's quite an ugly spider.... He's a genius at getting paid for bad advice." For all his cleverness, though, Shear sheds genuine insight on the way lovers elude each other. "I'm not close enough," he sings on "Make Believe," "And you're enjoying the distance."

Luka Bloom proves more successful at evoking moods than making incisive observations on his second album, The Acoustic Motorbike. Bloom made his album debut in 1990 with Riverside, which was a beautifully produced showcase for his lusty, brogue-inflected vocals and vigorous "electroacoustic" guitar playing. On Motorbike, Bloom reveals himself as a promising melodist as well. Songs like "Mary Watches Everything" and "I Believe in You" display a lovely, bittersweet lyricism, and Bloom makes effective use throughout of Celtic-flavored orchestration, drawing on fiddles, flutes and bouzoukis. His way with words is generally not as impressive as his musical intuition; at best, his lyrics summon images that are lent substance by the music and by his vibrant delivery.

One of Bloom's most affecting performances on Acoustic Motorbike, however, is an impassioned reading of L.L. Cool J's "I Need Love." The prospect of a folky Irish rocker covering a rap ballad may seem strange, but experimenting with different forms is precisely what keeps established traditions vital. That's not to imply, of course, that the folk-rock minstrel is in danger of extinction. The times may be a-changin', but as long as people play guitars, write songs and sing – and move others by doing so – this custom will evolve and endure. (RS 623)

ELYSA GARDNER