Like Warren Zevon, Lee Hazlewood has opted to deliver one final testament to the world before his incurable illness takes its inevitable toll. Strangely, the results are both less moving and more drolly cynical than Zevon's swansong, although the ravages of his affliction are rather less evident, which might account for this. Hazlewood's smoke-stained baritone purrs darkly as he surveys the tattered debris of Western culture in songs such as "Fred Freud", a wry waltz around psychotherapy that acknowledges "no kisses or posies can kill your neuroses"; "White People Thing", a withering portrait of the small mercies and racial paranoia of the suburban bourgeoisie, ironically built on the "Smokestack Lightning" riff; and "Baghdad Knights", in which a GI explains, "sometimes we fight, sometimes we run - it's just like playing football, with a gun." A version of "Some Velvet Morning" by Lee's eight-year-old granddaughter is of personal interest, while "These Boots Were Made For Walking" features a haunting new melody that replaces its old assertiveness with a more melancholy tone.
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