Every note that Johnny Cash sings seems to have fought through rocky soil and decades of trouble. Producer Rick Rubin knows that the best way to capture this quality is to get out of its way and let it stand on its own, rough edges and all. That's what he did on their previous collaborations, American Recordings and Unchained, and on American III: Solitary Man he rides that train again.

This approach works because of the monumental presence that Cash projects. It does lay a lot of responsibility on the artist's shoulders, and he bears it with a stoic eloquence. Exposed, his voice sounds like Rushmore looks: Cracked and weather-worn, battered yet massive, it can reduce its witnesses to breathless awe.

Even Rushmore benefits from its surroundings, though -- shrink it down and drop it into the Mall of America, and it loses a certain je ne sais quoi. Cash is the ultimate high-credibility interpreter, so the less majestic the material, the more awkward the match. When he sings "That Lucky Old Sun," with its references to paradise, baptism, weariness, and eternity, he's on familiar ground. But the whininess of the title track, its facile rhymes and self-pitying chorus, are foreign to Cash; even so, he nearly redeems the tune, with a rugged reading and stark accompaniment.

Luckily, these moments are few. The marriage of man and material is stronger on Nick Cave's death fantasy "The Mercy Seat," in the metaphorical sensuality of "Would You Lay With Me (In a Field of Stone)," and of course in the five titles written by Cash himself. On each track the arrangements are minimal; aside from Benmont Tench's spare keyboards and the occasional fiddle scrape, it's all acoustic guitar. Everyone plays reverently, circling Cash in a warm halo of sound.

In a way, these Rubin-Cash collaborations parallel the piano-and-voice work that Tony Bennett has been exploring in recent years. The idea is the same: intimate sessions in which even the singer's flaws grow beautiful. If only Sam Cooke had lived to be next in line.