He could be a freak or a fluke: a 12-year-old with a hit CD. But the kid is no country-music aberration, no preteen Billy Ray Cyrus. As he shows on this set of puppy-love tunes and hound-dog rave-ups, Gilman is a real singer--sort of Charlotte Church gone Nashville--with impressive breath control and a fine sense of drama. On the title ballad, for instance, he'll hold a long note without hoking it up, without forsaking its texture or personality. This is a voice of choirboy purity, before it gets weathered and leathered by whiskey and cigarettes. Listen to it before it changes;...
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