Jakob Dylan

Following his two-decadejourney from The Wallflowers to record-store discount bins everywhere, JakobDylan has quietly reinvented himself over two solo albums in the vain of Nebraska-era Bruce Springsteen. 2008’s Seeing Things painted theheir-of-a-voice-of-a-generation in surprisingly competent, assured strokes ofpastoral and subdued Americana.Here, Dylan rides red-hot producer T-Bone Burnett and wallows in the backingvocals of Neko Case and Kelly Hogan to another thoroughly OK outing.

Sepia-toned and sleepy,the entire soundscape might have been lifted directly from the cutting-roomfloor of Robert Plant/Alison Krauss’ RaisingSand. The occasional weepy fiddle, dobro, border-café horns and uprightbass turned to 11 bear the obvious vintage-washed rock/country/folk mark ofBurnett. Mostly it’s the perfect dusk lighting for Dylan to explore his worldof buzzards overhead, sheets blowing on clotheslines in wide-open America and,definitely, blood on the tracks. What with the spooky Peckinpah-ish “We Don’tLive Here Anymore,” ready-to-give-up “Down On Our Own Shield” and wounded“Standing Eight Count,” strife and discord hang thick.

In fact, though he holdsan unquestionably unremarkable voice, and the songs generally feel of a piece,much of his two solo albums offer the image of Dylan as a fighterignorant tocriticism and what has to be the worst artistic shadow in popular musichistory. Or, maybe, it’s the sound of defiant reticence from a man acceptinghis limitations and making the most of them. Either way, he’s miles from “OneHeadlight,” and that alone is something to get behind.