![]() But this being a Warren record, there’s also plenty of teeth-gnashing. ![]() The conversation stopper is of course a choked up take on Bob’s ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door’, with Zevon crying out “Open up, open up, open up” against Randy Mitchell’s slide in a way that’d raise gooseflesh on a stone. That’s the template for the rest of this blunt, ragged and unflinching record, a record in which his son Jordan and old friends like Jorge Calderon, Bruce Springsteen, Don Henley, Joe Walsh, Jackson Browne, Emmylou Harris, Billy Bob Thornton, Dwight Yoakam, David Lindley, Ry Cooder, Jim Keltner, T-Bone Burnett, Tom Petty, plus non-musical consultants such as Carl Hiaasen and Hunter S., show up to pay respects and do some work around the place. Is that Shelley’s west wind? Or the lonesome old wind invoked by everyone from Hank Williams to William Shakespeare? Or the death wind Ezra Pound evoked in Canto CXX as his own life hastened towards its end: “I have tried to write Paradise/Do not move/Let the wind speak/That is paradise.”Įither way, Warren gets right down to the knuckle in his opening statement of, “Some days I feel like my shadow’s casting me/Some days the sun don’t shine” (‘My Dirty Life And Times’). Certain of us might’ve expected the old pugilist to weigh in with one last sardonic comment on life and how to live it out: something along the lines of Life’ll Kill Ya, the brilliant album from three years ago that chillingly predicted the body’s decay on songs like the title tune and ‘My Shit’s Fucked Up’.īut no, he’s opted for a simple image as old as the world. Warren Zevon is dead, and The Wind is his last will and testament.
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