Other contributors have the opposite problem: they're too deferential to the master. From its opening bars, which quote, note for note, the acoustic chord progression and lead-guitar motif from "Cold, Cold Heart," Alan Jackson's "You've Been Lonesome Too" sounds exactly like something Williams might have written, and Jackson's fellow country singers—Vince Gill, Rodney Crowell Merle Haggard—also ape Hank's recordings, relying on simple Southern folk melodies and ringlets of pedal-steel to provide the appropriate mise en scene. The trouble is that as pleasant as this Hank-by-numbers stuff can be, it's too rote to resonate. Any cover band could be performing it.

The more successful artists are responsive to Williams, but not slavish; they choose to bend his words to their music, rather than the other way around. The melody of Norah Jones's "How Many Times Have You Broken My Heart" has a Southern accent, but it isn't a genre ercise or an imitation, and it fits Williams's sad syllables like a custom Nudie suit. When Jones holds the high notes in the chorus—"Night after night, I cry over you"—her voice actually aches. Jack White taps a similar vein, singing "You Know That I Know"—an anti-Valentine to Audrey that Williams penned on Nov. 24, 1947, right after he lost a big Nashville radio gig—with a wobble in his throat that's almost feral. It's the same untamed tone that frightened Nashville ecutives in the 1940s and 1950s, and that keeps Williams sounding modern even today.

But as skillful as the Jones and White tracks are, for some reason, they never really approach the lofty level of a Williams original. In fact, of the 12 songs on Notebooks, which also includes fine contributions from Levon Helm, Sheryl Crow, and Patty Loveless, only two come anywhere close. The first is a ballad called "Blue Is My Heart," which was written in February 1947, just as Williams was gaining a foothold in Nashville—and succumbing, yet again, to the demons that drove him to drink. It is easily the most beautiful song on Notebooks. Holly Williams's cascading melody, which is rooted in her grandfather's honky-tonk idiom but not limited by it, has the logic of a well-crafted paragraph; it peaks on the "longing" in "longing for you," goes minor on the "by" in the "the joys of this life are passing me by," and lingers on the "away" in "Lord, come take me away" for most of a measure. I wasn't surprised when Holly told me that the song seemed to write itself. "That first night, I spent two or three hours reading through Hank's lyrics like a fascinated fan," she said. "But when I finally sat down with my guitar, I didn't even really pick one. 'Blue Is My Heart' was right on top of the stack. The music just sort of fell out of me."

The album's other contender isn't quite as gorgeous, but it's even harder to get out of your head. In late 1952, Lucinda Williams's father, the poet Miller Williams, traded shots with Hank in Lake Charles, Louisiana, then spent the next 18 years weaning his daughter, who was born a few months later, on a steady diet of "Hey, Good Lookin'" and "Your Cheatin' Heart." (The families are not related.) Her offering, "I'm So Happy I Found You," is the Notebooks sparsest recording: just an acoustic guitar, a modest tune, and that torn-up, trembling voice. It is also the most affecting. When Lucinda sings "I fail at everything I do," I can't help but believe her, just as I would've believed Hank.

What distinguishes Lucinda and Holly's contributions from the rest of the record? Why are the final versions of "Blue Is My Heart" and "I'm So Happy I Found You" more on par with the sort of songs Hank might've written if he'd managed to finish the lyrics off himself, six decades ago? It's hard to say. If popular songwriting could be reduced to a simple recipe, everything would sound as sturdy as "I Saw the Light." The only conclusion I've come to is that a good lyric, a good tune, and a good performance aren't really enough. In the end, a Hank Williams record is all of that, but it's also something greater: the sound of one particular life, condensed and calibrated for mass resonance. Like Williams's best work—and like the best of the rock, punk, and hip-hop that followed in his wake—the finest Notebooks recordings feel like experiences that you and the artist have, together, every time you hit play. Great pop music has a way of making the universal intimate and the intimate universal. That's why it's pop: you recognize the singer in the song, but you also recognize yourself.