Viktor Krauss's "Far From Enough" is an album by a bassist in love with the sound of guitars. And if this evocative recording doesn't tell us all that much about its maker, it certainly expresses his admiration for two of the most individual six-string stylists of our time: Bill Frisell and Jerry Douglas.

Ubiquitous yet almost unknown to anyone who doesn't read the fine print of a CD, Krauss has been an in-demand Nashville session musician for the past decade, gracing dozens of albums by both traditionalists and forward-thinkers, among them Lyle Lovett, Dolly Parton, Frisell and Douglas, as well as those of his sister, the acclaimed bluegrass crossover artist Alison Krauss. His behind-the-scenes success is understandable: As adaptable, tasteful and selfless a player as a recording artist could dream of hiring, Krauss coaxes a luscious tone from his acoustic instrument. He's an indispensable foot soldier, his musical mission to bolster a performance without elbowing his way into the spotlight. Notice his work too much and he has screwed up the job.

Krauss's hear-me-but-don't-see-me attitude carries over to his debut as a leader. Bass solos are absent; two brief bass introductions, practically over before they begin, are the full extent of his grandstanding. But in turning the album over to Frisell and Douglas, Krauss displays the smarts of a born conceptualist. "Far From Enough" falls squarely into an unclassifiable genre of contemporary instrumental music, of which Ry Cooder (in his film composer guise) seems to be the founding father and Frisell the reigning auteur.

Not beholden to the improvisatory mandate of jazz, too rock-influenced (and exciting) to be New Age, tinged by folk and bluegrass elements yet more hard-edged and exploratory, this new musical species grabs whatever it needs for sustenance while wiggling free of classification. "Far From Enough" wears its postmodern borrowings proudly -- shades of classic surf music and the sounds of Chris Isaak, Jeff Beck, Wayne Horvitz and Led Zeppelin waft by, along with hints of everything from country to minimalism. The album also comes off as a fitting addendum to such Frisell projects as "Gone Like a Train" and "Nashville," both of which utilized Krauss. (The prescient "Nashville" also featured Douglas.)

On performances marked by spare lyricism, moody atmospherics and surprising textures, Frisell (wielding electric and acoustic guitars) and Douglas (on slide guitars) whirl about the easy, flowing structures of the songs, their unmistakable signature sounds lending distinction and character. Krauss, who even pitches in with occasional guitar parts, finds a form-fitting groove with drummer Steve Jordan, another unsung studio giant.

Yet the highlight of the album may be its most uncharacteristic track. The sole performance with sung words, a cover of Robert Plant's 1983 hit "Big Log," brings together the muted, undulating tones of Alison Krauss in pensive union with Frisell's dreamy guitar work. It's gorgeous and unanticipated, much like the majority of the album.