Memphis, in case you didn’t know, is one of America’s richest musical locales. The lengthy roll call of artists that got to see their names in lights by way of the city’s music biz is staggering. But what’s really given the city its rock and soul pulse over the years is a steady stream of under-the-radar iconoclasts, artists weaned on the musical traditions of the South, but committed to creating their own versions. Guys like Charlie Feathers, Furry Lewis, and Packy Axton, to name but a few, helped raise the freak flag and proffered that pop success needn’t be the endgame (not that it would be such a bad thing, mind you), and subsequent generations have kept it aloft since.

A fixture of the 1960s and ’70s Memphis coffeehouse scene, Sid Selvidge wasn’t a freak exactly (though he was certainly friends with all the weirdoes). An academic, he was probably one of the more refined gentlemen among his circle. A singer-songwriter and guitar-picker in the mold of Fred Neil, Selvidge boasted a bone-deep sense of Southern musicality, and while his nuanced blending of folk, pop, and roots styles never hoisted him into the spotlight for any substantial length of time, it insured him a place in Memphis musical lore.

Consisting of originals and covers (including songs by the aforementioned Fred Neil and Furry Lewis), The Cold of the Morning is Selvidge’s greatest triumph. With an almost conceptual sweep, it reminds one of a more sincere, emotionally deeper, less tongue-in-cheek version of Randy Newman’s Good Old Boys. Like opposite sides of a coin, both are concerned with historical representations of the South, but where Newman wants to turn the listener’s perception of the region on its ear by using musical bombast to confront a whole other sort of Dixie stereotype, Selvidge quietly strolls the backroads and meditates on where he’s ended up.

Recorded in 1975, but never released in its time, The Cold of the Morning is a simple yet decidedly intense album. And it’s aided in no small part by the production of the bona fide ringleader of Memphis’s gang of misfit outsiders, Jim Dickson. Dickson’s production makes for stark listening, generally leaving the listener all alone with Selvidge and his guitar. But there are also hints of the cosmic touches that made records like Big Star’s Third such haunting listening. What could have been a dubious run-through of the traditional  “Danny Boy,” for example, becomes a moving country-tinged ballad in the hands of Dickson and Selvidge. And though most of the songs are solo-acoustic, Dickson’s infamous band of merry pranksters, Mud Boy and the Neutrons, lend a hand on “Wished I’d Had a Dime,” one of the albums few rollicking moments.

This definitely is Selvidge’s show, though. Equipped with a soulful, achingly plaintive voice and deceptively adept guitar skills, Selvidge chose to make a folk album in a town that built its reputation on hard-driving soul, wild rockabilly, and the most fundamental sort of rock & roll. Although he picked up some heat from New York rock critics around the time of the album’s genesis, Selvidge suffered from the same music industry woes that sabotaged so many an earnest troubadour or starry-eyed rocker. That he existed in relative anonymity outside of a small circle isn’t surprising, but it certainly isn’t justified given his talent. Selvidge, who passed away in 2012, has a voice, both literally and figuratively, that must be heard. The Cold of the Morning is unquestionably the place to hear it, making this recent Omnivore release one of the essential reissues of 2014.