I Stand Alone
They don't call him Ramblin' Jack because he travels around a lot, and they don't call him the Last Brooklyn Cowboy because he croons like his hero Gene Autry. You can't really acquire a taste for Elliott's briny, staggering voice--you just have to surrender to the persona. In his 75th year, that persona is in fine, witty, playful form. He laughs out loud at the lines "Now when I die, don't bury me at all / Just place me away in alcohol / My .44 put by my feet / Tell everyone I'm just asleep" and jokes with his physician on "Arthritis Blues" ("Doctor, doctor, get your X-ray machine / Feels so good, just about like morphine"). Turns out his guitar chops are tougher than his rheumatism: he bangs away at his acoustic like the last one-man band standing at the all-night hootenanny, though when a rare accompanist shares the spotlight--as do David Hidalgo on accordion, Nels Cline on Dobro, Flea on bass, DJ Bonebrake on drums, and Lucinda Williams and Corin Tucker on harmony vocals--the effect is like a cool chaser to his rotgut whiskey drawl. These dog songs, train songs, love songs, fleetingly remembered songs, and one original (the brief monologue "Woody's Last Ride") have been with him forever; they're funny even when tragic, soulful even when they turn tunefulness upside down.--Roy Kasten