“My baby puts her hairspray on/With a lit cigarette in her mouth,” he declares on the circular blues “My Baby.” “Takes her fingernail polish off/Speedin’ down some rural route.” Boy, imagine this lusty beauty matching wits with Guy Clark’s Arizona Star. Hiatt unfastens sunsets like complex, Faulknerian shadows. Its platinum key: Spilling four-color detail across already vibrant landscapes. Ultimately, this road’s righteous ribbon uncurls unto its sweetest reward (“Carry You Back Home”). At crests, Hiatt’s own wisdom gained (“Movin’ On”) tempers youthful bravado lost (“Like a Freight Train”). They blindly chase hearts (“Wonder of Love”), but willfully repent (“What Kind of Man”). Hiatt’s earthy protagonists at once weave wistful dreams (“Haulin’”) and lively pastiches (“My Baby”). His truths shake free as the speedometer quivers and quakes. “Don’t care if they’re caught now, dead or alive.” At 57, Hiatt’s highways clearly aren’t lost. “Got her doors locked, doin’ 75,” he continues. “Shrunken head and Mardi Gras beads,” the celebrated songwriter sings as howling, hooky guitars unhinge The Open Road’s title track, “hanging on the rearview mirror that bleeds/Keeping her eyes on the open road/No telling where that son-a-bitch goes.” Either way, journey outweighs destination. John Hiatt immediately sets ablaze asphalt underfoot.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |