Earlier this year, while Emmylou Harris was hosting a British television program, Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?, she was struck by the music videos the producers had included. Nashville stars Pam Tillis and Mary Chapin Carpenter were sandwiched among country outcasts Kieran Kane and Kelly Willis and legendary individualists Bob Dylan and Neil Young. All of them were presented on a show dedicated to country music and the legacy of Hank Williams Sr.

“I was in heaven,” she says. “I was just in heaven. I thought, ‘This makes so much artistic and creative sense. Why can’t I turn on the radio in America and hear music like this?’ Maybe you can on these new Americana stations. I’m assuming that’s what they’re headed for—the Lucinda Williamses, the Joe Elys, the Dead Reckoning crowd, but also bringing in Bruce Springsteen and the other artists I mentioned.” She stops, smiles delicately and shakes her head slightly, as she often does when she catches herself veering off into criticism, which she tries to avoid. She sighs, then adds, “My vision of country music has always been much broader.”

She doesn’t complete her sentence. Much broader than what? Country radio, of course. Nashville’s Music Row, perhaps. Harris makes it clear that the narrow focus of mainstream country these days excludes much of what she holds dearest. It also now excludes her, although the music she’s created in recent years ranks with the most powerful of her career. “I think country radio has made it known that they’re pretty much not interested in my music,” she says.

She says this as she discusses Wrecking Ball, a remarkable new album of which she’s justifiably proud—and which she figures won’t get heard on the airwaves, except perhaps from such renegade outposts as progressive-country Americana stations or Adult Alternative signals like Nashville’s WRLT-FM. That’s a shame, for Wrecking Ball will likely be viewed in the future as the record that pointed country in the direction it needed to head.

Enlisting the help of producer Daniel Lanois—best known for his work with U2, Peter Gabriel and Bob Dylan—Harris puts her coolly stirring vocals on top of an ambient, atmospheric sound that’s both rawly visceral and eerily elegant. The arrangements heighten the spiritual longing and melancholy despair of her work and tap deeply into the same sense of doom and perseverance that can be heard in the Southeastern white-man blues of Bill Monroe, Roy Acuff and Hank Williams. Harris and Lanois update that tradition without reverting to nostalgic sounds or overly reverent remakes. Instead, they carry the tradition into the 21st century, but without losing the chilling strength that makes this music so timeless.

“The main difference is a sonic one, and that came from Daniel’s presence and the unique sound that comes from everything he does,” Harris explains, speaking in a soft, sure voice and sipping tea as the warm morning sun streams into a conference room at Asylum Records. “But I do feel it’s not out of character for me. I think I’ve gone into that territory before. I’ve gone for that kind of haunting sound before, and I’ve drawn from different wells and not just limited myself to one type of song. I think I’ve exhibited that kind of eclecticism throughout my career. But I think obviously this step has a very distinct sound.”

The songs indeed are eclectic, and each has a steel-belted emotional core that doesn’t swerve or rupture. It’s a serious, somber collection anchored by two songs—Lucinda Williams’ “Sweet Old World” and Steve Earle’s “Goodbye”—that confront devastating occurrences with tender, heartbreaking resolve. Harris’ instincts for unearthing powerful material shine throughout. She digs up obscure gems by legendary figures: Bob Dylan’s “Every Grain of Sand,” Neil Young’s “Wrecking Ball,” Jimi Hendrix’s “Waterfall (May This Be Love)”; and she combines these with exemplary work by off-the-path Nashville writers who deserve more recognition: Dave Olney’s “Deeper Well,” Julie Miller’s “All My Tears,” Gillian Welch’s “Orphan Girl.”

Lanois contributed two songs and suggested the Hendrix cover. Bassist Malcolm Burn brought up the Young song, which comes from the album Freedom. “He has a theory that on every Neil Young album there is one great, overlooked song,” Harris says with a laugh. “It’s very much a country song, but I almost don’t want to say that, because it categorizes it. It takes someone like Neil Young, who transcends all categories, to manage to blend so many different musical forms into a unique sound that is his own.”

Wrecking Ball, Harris conjures a transcendent, genre-crossing work of her own. She also continues a recent trend: Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson both created their most powerful work of recent years by collaborating with a rock producer from outside of Nashville. Cash’s American Recordings, recorded with metal and hip-hop producer Rick Rubin, and Nelson’s Across the Borderline, done with rocker Don Was, will be ranked among the most memorable and lasting albums of the ’90s; they’ll also be considered among the best works of their landmark careers. The same goes for Harris, Lanois and Wrecking Ball.

“I think it’s good to broaden the scope and connect with soul mates outside of your particular field,” Harris says. “I suppose categories serve a purpose for trying to give an overall definition of a certain kind of music you do. But the boundaries are definitely bleeding, and that’s good. There’s much more eclecticism happening, and that’s good. It may mean that musical genres are disappearing. Country and the blues are going to always appear somewhere. These are pure forms that will influence the younger generation, and they will take it a step forward. But I think it’s a mistake to try to recreate older music. I think you have to bring something new to it. Face it, we’re of a different generation. We have to make different poetry.”

Harris is celebrating her 20th year as a recording artist, and she can look back over a career of risk-taking moves, from the hip country of to the rural feminist slant of Blue Kentucky Girl to bluegrass foundation of Roses in the Snow to the conceptual theme of The Ballad of Sally Rose to the mountain gospel of . Through it all, she sees one reoccurring theme: “Yearning is a theme that’s run through a lot of my albums. Searching and yearning. Ultimately, all good songs are about that, even the happy ones,” she laughs. “They’re about going through the process from the dark to the light. I think everything on this album raises questions. I’m not comfortable with songs that provide answers. I like songs that just deal with the questions. I don’t think there are any answers. There are only questions. But it’s important to ask them.”