Doc Watson has been around for so long and has made so many albums—this is his thirteenth by my count—that we tend to take him for granted, which, of course, is an injustice to a man who may be the single finest flat picker in the country.

The problem (if it can be described as a problem) is that his musicianship is of such uniform excellence that he no longer amazes. In an odd way, benign acceptance has become the price of quality.

I can't imagine Watson topping himself, which is another way of saying that he hasn't grown. Any of his albums would adequately serve as an introduction. But artistic growth is an almost meaningless term when applied to Watson. By the time he was "discovered" in 1960, Watson was already a consummate craftsman, and he's had no place to go but down, which is something he steadfastly refuses to do.

A lot of this has to do with traditional country music. It has always been dominated by a conservative strain, stylistically ruled by a strict code of etiquette that emphasizes technical expertise rather than innovation. With few exceptions (Jimmie Rodgers is one), its greatest figures are people such as Bill Monroe and Earl Scruggs who expanded the technical range of their instruments. The rigidity of style is part and parcel to the strict fundamentalism that much of traditional country music expresses—the solace of religion, fear of the city and so on.

Watson's newest album, Memories, does not break from convention but offers more of the same—much more. It too can easily serve as an introduction to his work—or as a retrospective, for that matter. A double set, it attempts to document the full breadth of his repertoire, beginning with a banjo tune from the Twenties and closing with country swing material from the Fifties. It reaffirms, if reaffirmation is necessary, Watson's remarkable versatility.

He moves from a haunting acapella ("Wake Up, Little Maggie") to an ebullient square dance tune ("Peartree"), from a charged rendition of "Wabash Cannonball" to a gentle Mississippi John Hurt blues ("Make Me a Pallet"). Interestingly, Watson does not play lead on most of the songs but gives most of the solo space to his sidemen, most notably to his son Merle, whose slide and finger-picking work is superb. But in showcasing his band, Watson simply reveals the depth of his own virtuosity. In effect, if not in fact, he becomes his own sideman, anchoring the band and serving up brilliant arpeggio fills on rhythm guitar.

In the end, though, this album suffers from its similarity to its predecessors. It's a bit like a cake made entirely of icing. Four sides at one sitting are too rich. However, any one side is a lesson in American music from a master. (RS 197)

KIT RACHLIS