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.