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He's not the same here, John Hiatt. On Same Old Man he's not like anything he's recorded in years, going all the way back to his 1987 "breakthrough" album Bring the Family. That was when Hiatt the imposter—trying for punk or angry young man or Costello clone— finally gave it up and decided to be his own artist, be his own man, and not some record company's vision of him and what it wanted (needed?) him to be.
On Bring the Family, a whole new John Hiatt was born: part country, some folk, country rock and just plain rock—all anchored by his distinctive medium-sandpaper voice and extraordinary songwriting. He was singing about his life, his friends and, yes, his family.
What struck almost all critics about Bring the Family was how accomplished a songwriter Hiatt was. To this day, some 11 albums hence, that's what places him apart from the hundreds of similar artists working in his shadow, and that is to remain in that country rock (for lack of a better term) groove and stay relevant. And he's doing this on the strength of some of the best songwriting outside of Dylan and Joe Henry. Hiatt is that good, and for the first time—an exception or two here and there—he's equaled Bring the Family
Same Old Man is about an old man, and one growing older with an acute awareness of it. (Hiatt is 56.) He begins the disc with the extraordinary "Old Days,'' an entertaining, almost plot-like look back at earlier gigs with blues legends. It is absolutely compelling, and entertaining, and once I heard it, I had to hit repeat several times before I could even make it to song number two, "Love You Again."
Who else but Hiatt would or even could reference Kenneth Patchen, a poet who died in the early 70's and is sometimes associated with the Beats, sometimes with the surreal school of collage poetry. From "Old Days:" "I was on some gigs with Mose Allison somewhere out in the Midwest/Said some of my lyrics reminded him of the poet Kenneth Patchen/I took it as a compliment/Said he was a fan about the line wearin' neon signs on your wounds/Later on I knew what he meant." Then the chorus: "Old days are coming back to me/Don't know what was so great about 'em I played practically free/But I had nothing to live up to/And everywhere to be/Old days are coming back to me."
From there the album turns, almost entirely, to one long tender lament for love lost and, through luck and grace, found again. It's a series of love songs, and songs of regret. Particularly powerful is "Hurt My Baby."
Some nostalgia prevails—"Cherry Red" and "Our Time"—but mostly Same Old Man is, after that opening track, about the here and now. The love, or its loss, that's at stake everyday of our lives.
Even John Hiatt albums that have been criticized—Little Head, for example, which was actually underrated—have been good, even excellent by the standards we associate with many artists working this terrain.
It may be blasphemy, of sorts, to rank Same Old Man with Bring the Family. Blasphemy or not, it's true.
This is John Hiatt at his best, writing songs that will, simply, last—because they are worthy of lasting.
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