It's been three decades now since John Hiatt launched a career defined by his sure-handed mixing of styles -- rock, folk, pop, R&B, country and gospel influences are all apparent -- and his skewed vision of human relationships. A songwriters’ songwriter, Hiatt has built a career composing wryly observant tunes that have often met their biggest commercial successes via voices more radio-friendly than his reedy, attractively road-worn instrument. His work has been covered by The Neville Brothers, Dave Edmunds and Bob Dylan, and his "Thing Called Love," a typically off-center romp, played a major role in resurrecting Bonnie Raitt's career in the late ‘80s.

Critics tend to view Hiatt’s 1987 outing Bring The Family as his career high point -- but for this listener at least, that honor goes to Walk On, Hiatt’s equally understated and underappreciated 1995 disc. Song for song, arrangement for arrangement, it’s a picture of consistency with a ton of heart and a notable team of players behind it.

The core group is made up of frequent Hiatt collaborator Davey Faragher on bass, the excellent Michael Urbano on drums, and the stupendous David Immergluck (Camper Van Beethoven, Counting Crows) on guitar, slide, mandolin, pedal steel and just about any other stringed object within reach. And then there are the guest stars…

Thematically, Walk On finds Hiatt continuing to build his encyclopedia of relationships that don't quite work. Opener “Cry Love" is a propulsive, mandolin-driven anthem to love's greatest paradox -- no matter how many times it hurts us, we always want more. “Cry” segues beautifully into “You Must Go,” a thoroughly lovable mid-tempo bust-up-and-hit-the-road tune whose choruses invite you to sing along with background vocalists Gary Louris and Mark Olson of the Jayhawks.

As the rather somber title track fades in, we find the shell-shocked protagonist wandering the streets of New Orleans, terrified to return to the arms of the woman with whom he thinks he may be falling in love. The tune has an aura of combustibility that lurks just beneath the surface, stoked by Hiatt’s heavy acoustic strums.

 

From there, you get Hiatt’s usual complement of bouncy, whip-smart rockers ("Good As She Could Be," "Ethylene"), beautifully executed contemplations ("The River Knows Your Name, "Friend Of Mine") and even a chilling, Stephen King-like tale of obsessive love gone wrong ("She Wrote It Down And Burned It"). The best track for showing off the man’s biting wit, though, is clearly “Shredding The Document," a brilliant five-minute bludgeoning of talk show exhibitionism which Hiatt closes with a kicker that left me laughing out loud.

 

Another highlight is the knockout r&b number "I Can't Wait," on which Bonnie Raitt returns the favor with absolutely gorgeous harmony vocals. It’s the perfect straight-faced intermission between the sassy “Ethylene” and the biting “Document.”

Walk On finds Hiatt covering a wide range of tonal ground on a set of songs that nonetheless offer a unifying theme – the distance we put between ourselves and our loved ones, physical or otherwise. Everyone in these songs is leaving or returning, yearning or frustrated or sad. They’re all searching for connection, and there is no one on earth who hasn’t felt that way before.

 

Marry such a universal theme to some of Hiatt’s best lyrics and an all-star cast of players, and you have an album that deserves to be ranked among Hiatt’s very best. Walk on, John.