Ian Hunter
Rant

The instinct and talent of a first-rate songwriter have always flowed copiously in the mind of Ian Hunter, and even this work of his from 2001, the tenth and penultimate (for now) under his name, only confirms it. When a few chords and a concise melody immediately create atmosphere, when the usual topics that inspire the lyrics (regret for a lost love, gratitude for a precious and dear relationship, anger over poor politics and social aspects of one's country...) are expressed in new, poignant, unexpected, and strong words, and when the voice that whispers, shouts, articulates, or slurs them is emotional, imperfect but alive and penetrating, then one realizes that people like him are nothing less than precious in the musical world.

Hunter achieved major success when he was almost thirty-four years old ("All The Young Dudes" with Mott The Hoople, year 1972, and for another two albums, until the band dissolved in 1974) becoming an indispensable reference point for a certain way of making rock, amidst glam, rock'n'roll, and Bob Dylan. This was especially the case among insiders (many, many of them) plus a group of loyal fans (not many, less than he deserves). His solo production has never managed to approach the mass acclaim he received in those last years with Mott; however, this does not detract from the fact that the man has managed to keep his production always flavorful and intense, as well as occasionally crafting epochal verses and choruses, as the first-rate melodist and lyricist that he is.

As an interpreter, Hunter cannot go unnoticed. His voice, so indebted to Dylan's style (even in its poor tuning), but with a power and physicality unknown to the American master, presents itself here, at the age of sixty-two, rather deteriorated and worn out. It doesn't matter; indeed, one could say that Ian manages splendidly to take advantage of the roughness and additional frailties brought by time and excesses to his throat, emerging with new shades of intensity and drama, undeniably enriching his interpretations.

The man with the black sunglasses perpetually slipped down his nose (a whim inaugurated in the early seventies and never abandoned) offers on this album a dozen songs all his own, almost always pessimistic if not downright polemic ("Rant" means to thunder, to shout against) and therefore, from a commercial perspective, limiting in advance, but what matters is that for the most part, they are nothing less than excellent. As often happens, the best pieces are almost entirely found in the first part of the disc; I am referring in particular to "Good Samaritan", in which a typical very bitter and difficult emotional situation, surely a common experience to many of us, is described in the first person with unprecedented force, thanks to an obsessive and muted vocal tone, perfectly immersed in the alienating and unreal context in which one finds oneself sinking when experiencing such dark days.

"Death Of A Nation" is the best of the two or three purely Dylanian outings contained in the album. The acoustic guitar riff and the harmonica prelude are indeed old Bob's trademark, as well as the imaginative fantasy of the lyrics (Hunter tells of a dream in which, while drinking something with the Queen and Prince Charles, Winston Churchill arrives and starts railing about how they have wrecked England...). The Dylan portrayed by our artist is much more rock-influenced, with the drums pumping rhythm, without any indulgences toward folk or country.

Authentic glam rock, performed by one of the great figures of reference for this genre, turns out to be "Morons" ("Idiots"...), with its typical beating piano leading the game, as well as the characteristic falsetto choruses "Aah" and "Ooh" omnipresent on the right and left, and finally, the voice more than ever mocking and insistent, often sing-song, since it is busy calling many of us fools, sprawled every evening on our sofas, after being daily caught inside our boxes (cars, offices), falsely happy living "in a war zone"(!), dumbed down and mocked by the media.

My favorite is probably "Dead Man Walking": on a magnificent vaguely Bachian piano progression Hunter reflects, with his harsh singing, old memories never faded of an old story that resurfaces when returning to a certain place linked to it. Nothing particularly original but evocative and intense music, at the peak of this yet another hard but underrated album by this resilient and anything but sluggish author and performer, now seventy years old but still and always capable of thinking and executing tense and incisive music. Maximum respect.