In which Hillman entirely stops trying, and thereby saves himself. Having made two of the most lackluster solo singer-songwriter albums in recorded history and then been outshined on the McGuinn/Hillman project by Roger McGuinn singing about going on roller-skate dates, the guy was in some serious career doldrums. It would be another few years before the Desert Rose Band gave him a commercial reboot, but this one restored his pulse, even if a bunch of MOR covers is the lowest-octane form of resuscitation known to man. Dan Fogelberg, J.D. Souther, country-ambling Grateful Dead, a Dylan deep cut, low-key Kristofferson, and that’s just the name-brand tunes—it’s a future dollar bin condensed onto two sides of vinyl. The whole thing is mellow, amiable, and more enjoyable than you’d ever expect from the stiff, dour cover art or its location at a onetime Byrd’s lowest ebb. Closing with Gram Parsons’ “Hickory Wind” was a bad idea because it’s the only time Hillman needs to try and it sounds like he’s not trying enough and straining at the same time, but if you’ve ever thought Loggins & Messina were good but would be even better if they’d just take it down a notch and replace some session-guy licks with mandolins and dobros, this is that record, born to be background music but crafted well for the cause.
Bonus points for crediting his fine dog Heather on the back cover, and additional ones because I picked this up the last time I was at the Hollywood Amoeba, RIP to that great location.
