Label: New West Records
Having just turned 70, it's no surprise Ian Hunter should sound as craggy as his lifetime inspiration Bob Dylan, or that he'd spend much of his 13th solo album imparting the wisdom and aches of age. He's still got his wit, though. He opens with a reserved boogie-woogie about running away from big guys, gets lecherous about office gals, pulls off a tough blues number and a jaunty sea chantey, and closes with a shaggy-dog Indian-lore lament not far from Neil Young's "Pocahontas." Now and then, his piano-pumped Tin Pan Alley bemusement could nearly pass for Randy Newman.