VERY, VERY GREASY Just the way we like it…

There’s a case to be made for almost any style of music. (Hey, even Peter Cetera has his advocates – see the very cynical and funny Heineken commercial.) I’ve talked to the uninitiated about jazz, Latin, zydeco and bluegrass, making arguments about the need for open ears, familiarity and moods, time and place. But I put it to you that all one needs to do for soul music is drop the needle.

Ah-h-h.

Bring on the grease, turn up the heat.

JJ GREY AND MOFRO emerged from south central Florida reeking of and dripping with swamp detritus. They are a part of the jam band scene, but they never meander or get lost in self-indulgence. They are rooted in the timeless verities of honesty, home and sweat-drenched lust.

Mofro record in warm analog; they make any system sound like my old Craig eight-track Powerplay pumping through the 6-by-9’s in the rear deck. (Pardon my very dated reference.)

Mr. Grey began his headlining a couple of albums ago, and his front-man status is fully warranted. He writes or co-writes all their songs, plays serviceable lead guitar and sings in the tradition of Otis and Toots Hibbert (of the Maytals, more of whom later).

Their fifth effort, “GEORGIA WARHORSE,” is more of the welcome same, with some stretching. “Diyo Dayo” gets things going with a stuttering guitar line leading into a percolating drum thud. Grey’s voice is processed on alternating lines, creating a pseudo-dialogue effect. Squalling harp supplies the instrumental focus.

The message is menacing as he warns of mythical bad characters who are not to be trifled with. “King Hummingbird” comes as a surprise, with its acoustic strumming and languid pace. But it slowly builds momentum over its seven minutes until Grey fairly wails with yearning for his missing lover.

The already-mentioned Toots shows up next in the Memphis-styled “The Sweetest Thing.” He and Grey trade verses, with Toots clearly reveling in this non-reggae straight soul context. They quite predictably wind up trading lines to thrilling effect. “All” is driving Southern rock, delivered with all-in conviction. Featuring the never-gets-old muted-string strum (chanka-chank!) and a heart-pounding B-3, this song will kill in concert.

The title cut is a slow-burning snarl, told first-person in the voice of a particularly tenacious grasshopper. Metaphors abound, and the stand-your-ground message in the face of environmental spoilers is inspiring. “Gotta Know” is another take-your-time soul stirrer, with generous doses of gospel ladled in.

“Hide and Seek” is a morality play set to a chugging beat with a full-out synthesizer solo. “Beautiful World” evokes just that – an uplifting message in the face of a troubled affair with an irresistibly sweet swaying setting.

“Slow, Hot and Sweaty” is as advertised, and you’ll find it hard not to tell it to get its own room. “The Hottest Spot in Hell” lets Grey unleash his most burning venom at the truly bad guys in the album’s most flat-out rocker. “Lullaby” starts out as an example of its kind, but then jungle drums and Derek Trucks’ slide build to a crescendo and “Let Me Rock You to Sleep” gets its emphasis changed to accent the “rock” – and a wholly different sleep enhancement is invoked.

You are forgiven if you give in to the urge to shower after this one.

PAUL THORN is the son of a Mississippi preacher and the nephew of a pimp. The boy got some conflicting influences, obviously. He sings about them (and much more) with complete authenticity on his sixth record, “PIMPS AND PREACHERS.”

Thorn is impossible not to like, even if you like your music a tad more polite or less straightforward. His life story alone is reason to take a shine, for after his yin-yang childhood he worked on the docks and professionally boxed, fighting Roberto Duran (Hands of Stone!) on TV. While his messages are often delivered in a stone direct manner, the effect is bracing rather than the gratingly obvious clichés so often found in modern country.

He gets things off with a heartfelt comfort to those in or in the midst of trouble, “You’re Not the Only One.” That simple sentiment is so often forgotten by those vexed by their particular problems. The music accompaniment is appropriately inspiring, a simple ascending/descending three-chord vamp.

The title cut follows with his thankful paean to the influences that prepared him for the darkness and light, the righteous and the damned. The music itself hews closer to the bad-ass side, maybe tipping his hand.

“Love Scar” comes on with a sweet and sour Beast of Burden swing, making the aftermath of love gone bad seem not so awful. “Weeds in My Roses” is a cuckold’s lament set to a strutting and pounding beat, the subject finally getting ready for action. (“Don’t need no fertilizer or garden hoses/Bring me a hoe – there’s weeds in my roses!”)

“Better Days Ahead” is Thorn’s stiff upper lip message to New Orleans, set to an appropriate shuffle with accordion washes and stabbing slide guitar. “Ray Ann’s Shoes” is the kind of etched glass portrait that Thorn and Lucinda Williams excel at drawing, sort of like a Larry Brown short story. Thorn forces us to look at the less fortunate and feel empathy – heartbreaking.

“You Might Be Wrong” is a direct shot at the smug or unthinking certitude of those who lack all doubt. Come on, he says, everybody thinks God’s on their side, nobody’s got a direct line to The Truth – knock off the sanctimonious act. “I Hope I’m Doing This Right” is the corollary; his doubt’s a badge of honor, his humble acknowledgment of his ultimate uncertainty is embraced.

“I Don’t Like Half the Folks I Love” is a romping ode to those (family, “alcoholic friends”) whose company is best taken in small or at least moderate doses. “Nona Lisa” is a shout-out to a one-of-a-kind free spirit that we’ve all known (or should have). “That’s Life” takes things home with a sweet bromide that walks up to the line of schmaltz, then smiles and then disarms, melting cynicism into a pool of warm humanity.

ELI “PAPERBOY” REED has the cockiness of youth, and he’s damn near irresistible. Born and raised in Massachusetts, Reed was exposed to all kinds of genres by his music critic(!) father, but the boy absolutely fell for the soul of Muscle Shoals and Memphis. He’s out with his third record and first for a major label, “COME AND GET IT.”

He charges out of the gate with “Young Girl” and never looks back. Stacks of horns, a muscular and lithe rhythm section, ripping guitar and his unabashed blue-eyed soul voice combine to steamroll all hesitation.

Standout tracks include “Just Like Me” where he dials things down to a moderate clip, and “Tell Me What I Want to Hear,” a swinging Sam Cooke-influenced submission to young love. He will no doubt learn the value of a greater dynamic range, for now his go-to yowl and unrelenting redlining leave one a bit weary by midpoint. “Pick Your Battles” comes as close to a breather as the record gets. But you have to admire his fervor and real chops.

He wants to convert today’s youth to the joys of this music. He’s got a shot. Brash, ballsy and evangelical, he rolls with utter conviction.

You can’t fry without grease. And though we know too much is bad for you, we all know you can’t beat it.