JIM JAMES LOVES TO DO VOICES. He peppers his conversation with crisp impersonations of the jokers who populate his world. Like the suits who go platinum-gaga at the arrival of each new album by his band, My Morning Jacket. “It’s time to go to the next level, ravity-ravity-ravity!” James says, bending his faint Southern drawl into biz-speak yammer. “This album’s gonna crack things wiiiide open, like an ice-cold can!” Or the promoters— journalists, even—who can’t see past his group’s image as bearded yahoos from Kentucky. “It’s the longhair band!” James sputters like a huckster. “Come see these fuckin’ crazy hillbilly rockers, with their weed-smokin’, whiskey-drinkin’ jams!”