Produced by Jerry DeCicca of the Black Swans and Jeb Loy Nichols, who helped talk Wilson into recording again, the album was basically captured live in a Florida hotel room, where DeCicca and Nichols set Wilson up in front of a microphone and turned him loose to sing and play whatever came to his mind. The result is a mix of covers (alt-country O.G.'s like Mickey Newbury and Paul Siebel are among those whose tunes turn up) and originals, all delivered with a soulful, off-the-cuff feel.

What with the ad hoc nature of the session, this is an all-acoustic set -- the only thing added to Wilson's guitar and voice is a touch of fiddle -- so the churning, gutbucket feel of bygone days is pretty much replaced by a softer, more reflective stance. But every moment of Larry Jon Wilson overflows with more soul than the entire discographies of the Joss Stones of the world.

The obvious comparisons here are to Johnny Cash's American Recordings and Neil Diamond's 12 Songs; Larry Jon Wilson shares an austerity and gravity with those albums, as if to suggest that, once a singer reaches a certain age, all he needs is a guitar and vox to put a song across. Where Rick Rubin infused Cash and Diamond's songs with a kind of performative formality, Wilson sounds much more casual here: This setting isn't a production decision, but his songs' natural state. Wilson's gravely voice and delicate fretwork lend opener "Shoulders" and "Long About Now" their stark intimacy, while his cover of Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson's "Heartland" evokes a quiet, even wistful outrage in its farmland lament.

Part of the enjoyment of this album comes from hearing how Wilson's mind works-- not only how he resettles tunes into this setting, but more interestingly how he catches snippets of songs and sutures them into a medley. The 10-minute "Whore Trilogy" weaves together story-songs about hard-luck prostitutes and mistresses, each commenting on the others so that Wilson's tender empathy undercuts the harshness of the world he's evoking. But it's "Losers Trilogy" that stands out here, blending compositions by Stuart Wright and Mickey Newbury (best known for "Just Dropped In [To See What Condition My Condition Was In]") with one of Wilson's own. It's a long trek across hard land, culminating in a truly bleak finale: "Things ain't what they used to be," he sings wearily, "and probably never was." Larry Jon Wilson carries the weight of experience, but this haunted album is no nostalgia trip, if only because Wilson knows nostalgia will get you absolutely nowhere