On first listen, Lucinda Williams’ new record inspires one overriding thought: This chick is crazy. Here she is, 50 years old, America’s most respected songwriter—and she puts out a disc full of snarls, mumbles and groans that fixate on one failed, possibly sleazy romance, songs veering from spiritual lunacy to gutter-level misery. The rock numbers are nasty and the ballads bloody, and she makes two attempts at, yes, rap. This is not how elders are supposed to behave.
