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By Jeff Meade

If you could sort through the big blue Ikea box of CDs in my car, you’d find more than your fair share of Irish traditional music, of course. But along with the Celtic influences, there are plenty of bluegrass CDs.

Bluegrass has its roots in Celtic tradition, so it's no great coincidence that both Celtic and bluegrass happen to be my favorite genres.

Along comes Pauline Scanlon’s new CD on the Compass label, “Hush.” This one neatly bridges the gap and—at the same time—defies easy categorization.

In her debut CD, “Red Colour Sun,” the Dingle, County Kerry-born singer clearly showed that she isn't confined by labels. (“Sally, Free and Easy,” “And I Love You So” and “The Springhill Mining Disaster”—all together on one surprising recording.) Her independent streak, already demonstrably wide, is even broader on “Hush.”

On the new CD, Scanlon is not so much surrounded, as lovingly cradled, by some of the most talented Nashville session musicians. Fiddler Stuart Duncan’s influence is strongest on this recording, but Scanlon also is ably supported by this stellar cast: bass player Danny Thompson, session drummer Kenny Malone, jazz-folk pianist John R. Burr, singer and banjo picker Darrell Scott, bass player and Compass Records co-founder Garry West, and former Lúnasa guitarist and producer Donogh Hennessy.

The recording opens with the traditional “The Wearin’ o’ the Britches,” with Thompson’s droning double bass and Hennessy’s bell-like arpeggio chords. They’re shortly joined by Scanlon’s delicately evocative voice, and then everybody gets in on the act—primarily Duncan, whose assertively rhythmic fiddle licks quickly establish the tune’s bluegrass credentials.

On most of the tracks, this superb band provides a strong, but not too strong, counterpoint to Scanlon’s breathy, mesmerizing vocals. There’s really only one false note on the whole recording. I didn’t much care for Scanlon’s version of the traditional tune, “The Demon Lover,” performed as a duet with Darrell Scott. Scott comes across well—his voice is perfect for this tune, and his banjo playing is flawless. The problem lies with Scanlon’s decision (or perhaps it was her producer’s) to take her whispery style to extremes—almost to the point where I couldn’t hear her. (I am 55, and I do play drums, but even accounting for that …) In any event, I just don’t think the duet works. The recent pairing of Mark Knopfler and Emmy Lou Harris on “All the Roadrunning” could have posed similar issues, but Emmy Lou—who could teach graduate-level courses in “breathy”—easily holds her own against Knopfler.

But that’s a minor misstep on what is otherwise a solidly engaging recording that showcases the young singer’s growing musical maturity—and her willingness to cross traditional boundaries.

I particularly liked “Farewell My Love, Remember Me,” with both fiddle and mandolin provided by Duncan. Probably because of the mandolin backing, I found myself making comparisons to the young "newgrass" band Nickel Creek, whose singer Sara Watkins Scanlon superficially resembles.

You’ll remember Scanlon is from Dingle when you hear her version of “Dearthairin O Mo Chroi” (“little brother of my heart”). It’s a lovely tune, for which Scanlon’s crystalline voice is uniquely well suited.

I also liked Scanlon’s rendition of the old-timey “Rain and Snow,” previously recorded by Solas’ Mick McAuley. Scanlon’s version, with all of those Nashville session musicians backing her up and assertively returning the tune to its roots, is better.

I wasn’t as fond of “The Flower of Magherally.” Everybody’s done it, from the Chieftains’ Kevin Conneff to Boys of the Lough. Altan’s arrangement is still my favorite. Again, Scanlon's interpretation tests traditional boundaries—perhaps a bit too much.

Scanlon redeems herself on the closing track, “The Boys of Barr na Straide,” an exquisite reading that breathes new life into the classic tune about the mass exodus of Ireland’s young people as they sought to escape Eire's stifling poverty and build new lives on foreign shores. Once again, Scanlon's voice—which the Irish Times described as "a superb mix of china cup fragility and steely resilience"—is on the light and airy side. But that approach seems entirely appropriate on this sad, meditative and thoroughly lovely song.

In some ways, Scanlon’s delicate voice works against her. She’s no belter. (She’d be an early washout on “American Idol,” which is about the highest praise I can think of.) An appreciation of her artistry comes gradually. The more you listen to Pauline Scanlon, the more you hear. (Since listening and hearing aren't always the same thing.) Before long, though, “Hush” will occupy an honored place in your own car CD box.