by Steve Leggett Make no mistake about it, Marc Broussard can sing. With a husky baritone that sounds like some Louisiana version of David Ruffin and an upward range that suggests Al Green or Eddie Kendricks, Broussard's soulful phrasing carries a kind of joyous and yet world-weary wisdom that belies his age. The lead track here, "Home" (the album is named after Broussard's hometown of Carencro, LA), is immediately stunning. A huge and atmospheric swampy Motown stomp, "Home" sounds like Otis Redding from some alternate universe -- one in which he doesn't die in a plane crash -- singing swamp pop with all the funk of a Memphis Stax groove and all the ghostly alligator voodoo of Dr. John. An explosively effective track, "Home" is a hard act to follow, and the rest of this album seems to trail in its wake.