John Hiatt
is an ersatz curmudgeon, a faux eccentric, a dilapidated Everyman with
an undeniably big heart and an equally undeniable knack for songwriting.
He can jangle a slant-back country blues song or ambush you emotionally
by confessing for redemption. He’s got elements of a Nashville pro
and a guy who’s listened to a lot of Dylan. He’s a painstaking lyricist
who doesn’t try to make it all add up. His latest album, Same Old Man — between his 15th and 25th
release, depending on how you count best-ofs, live recordings, and groups
like Little Village — may be his most enjoyable
outing since the sweet spot two-fer of Bring The Family
and Slow Turning in 1987 and ’88, but it isn’t that much
better than the ones in-between.
Some Hiatt fans will probably
wince at the preponderance of unabashed romance here, while others wonder
if his voice has officially crossed over into Tom Waits/Bob Dylan "acquired
taste" territory. In either case, I don’t think Hiatt has much of
a choice in the matter. I’m partial to the new stuff and look forward
to seeing how the fresh material gets conveyed and folded into the
massive Hiatt catalogue when he and a new band he’s dubbing the Ageless
Beauties come to the Pantages on June 28.