Ian Hunter
Shrunken Heads

I can understand that the idea of an Englishman who - musically speaking - tries to do the American thing (not that he's the only one, mind you) might make many turn up their noses. However, when someone does it with a personal and unmistakable style, I would say they have at least a minimum right to be allowed to do so.

And this is what Ian Hunter has been doing for a while, one of the great survivors of British rock from the legendary '70s, founder of Mott the Hoople, who left in '75, packed his bags, and started creating - often together with another successful loser, the former guitarist from Bowie's Spiders from Mars, Mick Ronson - a series of beautiful albums (some stunning) with calm and patience, which of course no one here ever noticed. Well, now he's trying again, obviously strong and convinced that he has nothing to prove and no residual successes to chase, and is releasing his umpteenth solo album this May 2007 titled “Shrunken Heads” (produced by Hunter himself and the Mellencampian Andy York) dedicated - presumably - to all those who love him, as the others didn't care even before. I love him and thus review the album.

Many years after a couple of not-so-great efforts like “The Artful Dodger” (1996) and especially “Rant” (2001), which made me think the curtain had definitively fallen, and after a couple of very well-done but somewhat “commercial” releases (two live shows - one special, with an orchestra - also released on DVD), here are another 11 tracks (14 in the version with the single CD with three tracks) that revisit much of the spirit that had been somewhat lost: all that ballsy drive - very American for an Englishman, but understandable for an Englishman to whom America has entered the blood and who lives in Connecticut - that has always distinguished him and brought him endless accusations of Dylanism, but has allowed him to write absolute masterpieces like “Angeline,” “Irene Wilde,” “I Wish I Was Your Mother,” etc., etc..

That sweet, delicate music, with serene melodies without moaning and full of delightful and simple poetry, reappears brilliantly in songs like "Words," "Shrunken Heads," and also in "When the World Was Round," as well as in the beautiful ballad "Guiding Light," which may not reach past heights but certainly again provide an emotion, something that these days should not be dismissed. Meanwhile, that ironically critical verve and deliberately conventional manner which - when not autobiographical - has always marked Ian Hunter's compositional style (he has never been a societal critic but more of a bar philosopher) reappears in the energetic "Brainwashed," in "How's Your House" (about Hurricane Katrina), and in "Soul of America" (about 9/11). All this played with solid rock, sometimes raw, with effective and never pompous arrangements, with a lot of harmonica and right guitar strumming, and above all a recharged voice that regains the ability to screech and attack. This is the body of the album, along with the nice guitar-heavy rock of "Stretch," the usual “silly ones” (his definition), unassuming songs that are listenable while whistling and stay in your head all day and beyond, and that are fairly typical for him like "Fuss About Nothing," the delightful bluegrass episode of "I Am What I Hated When I Was Young," and the song that closes the album, "Read 'Em and Weep," a beautiful ballad but forced into a somewhat weak intimate interpretation to be truly convincing.

The three bonus tracks ("Real or Imaginary," "Wasted," and "Your Eyes") are two beautiful ballads and a rock piece, appropriately Hunter-like enjoyable. And that's it... is it superfluous? Will it be useless? I don’t know, honestly, I don’t think so, because the album, taken as a whole, is beautiful and well constructed, without jumps and without falls, while there are a couple of truly remarkable spikes (I'd point out "Words" above all).