Untitled Document
At 67, perennial cult
hero Ian Hunter isn’t likely to snag the mainstream fame that has
eluded him for 40 years. The former Mott the Hoople frontman has always
been something of a late bloomer — he was already in his thirties
when he sang his first and biggest hit, a cover of David Bowie’s
“All the Young Dudes” — and his post-Mott output has been
sporadic, to say the least. After a relatively steady stream of solo
albums, more than a decade elapsed before the appearance of 2001’s Rant; he let another six years
slip by before relinquishing Shrunken Heads, his 12th studio recording. In light of Hunter’s
advanced years and somewhat desultory work habits, his latest might well be
his last. But who are we to be so greedy? The man who graced Western
culture with two of the most gorgeous, generous, heartbreaking rock ballads
of all time, “I Wish I Was Your Mother” and “Laugh at
Me” (a Sonny Bono cover, of all things), doesn’t owe us squat.
Nothing on Shrunken
Heads is as sublime as the aforementioned
songs, but it’s still a fine album, one that fully exploits
Hunter’s considerable gifts. His signature baritone, a scratchy,
Dylanesque drawl that resides midway between Delta juke joint and London
pub, is sturdy and sure, his lyrics sharply observed and bitingly
delivered. Although his British accent hasn’t diminished during his
lengthy residence in the States, Shrunken
Heads has a pronounced 1980s-Americana cast, a
boomerish heartland vibe that’s underscored by the contributions of
producer Andy York, a longtime John Mellencamp sideman, and E-Street Band
violinist Soozie Tyrell. The subject matter is also distinctly American:
“How’s Your House,” a primitive bar-blooze rave-up, rips
on FEMA’s lame response to Hurricane Katrina, and “Soul of
America,” which sounds like an outtake from Born in the U.S.A., takes up
the war in Iraq. Shrunken Heads is
more than a bunch of broadsides, however. “Words (Big Mouth),”
one of three tracks featuring Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy on backing vocals,
is a loose-limbed and lazy plea for forgiveness, and “Guiding
Light,” an organ-laced valentine, proves that Hunter is still the
reigning champion of big romantic rock ballads. The CD closes with
“Read ’Em ’n’ Weep,” a spectral piano epic
that conflates lost love, lost youth, and lost chances in couplets such as
“The paper’s full of January sales/ I guess I won’t be
buying fairytales.” The old dude might be carrying some different
news these days, but he’s as relevant as ever.
Although lazy critics
lump her in with labelmate Norah Jones on account of her sex and her small,
smoky warble, Keren Ann Zeidel has more in common with Leonard Cohen, the
Jewish/Buddhist saint of wry romanticism. Since her first English-language
release, 2003’s exquisite Not Going
Anywhere, the polyglot expat has solidified
her standing as the Lady Cohen with songs whose lapidary lyrics and
deceptively simple melodies reveal the mystery at the core of everyday
life. Keren Ann,
Zeidel’s third domestic release, is no exception. Although the
CD’s surface is placid, the undercurrent will suck you under before
you realize what’s happening. The agnostic lullaby “It’s
All a Lie” pits Zeidel’s drowsy murmur against a queasy
electric guitar and a lackadaisical cymbal. The sprightly,
handclap-peppered first single, “Lay Your Head Down,” whips
silken strings, honking harmonica, a twanging guitar, and intricately
spliced vocal samples into a delectable concoction of Velvet
Underground-inspired dirge-pop. All the songs, from the
uncharacteristically grungy blues-rock burlesque of “It Ain’t
No Crime” to the Philip Glass-meets-Burt Bacharach chorale of
“Liberty,” linger like summertime shadows, elusive, slight, and
surpassingly strange.
Contact René Spencer Saller at rssaller@core.com.
This article appears in May 31 – Jun 6, 2007.
