I've always enjoyed James Jackson Toth's stripped-down, dusky music most: It gives us the space to sink our teeth into his songwriting; his voice sounds best when it's foreboding, bummed, soul-sick, burnt. Previously, he nailed this in the hissing, raw Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg, a collection I reviewed, ecstatically, five years ago ("At the local record ...