From the first twang of electric guitars on the opening track, “Jefferson Jericho Blues,” the essence of Petty’s early records—and more importantly of his roots, the American South—come through.

After setting his backing band, the Heartbreakers, aside for his 2006 solo release, Highway Companion, Petty, a Florida native, has rejoined them for his latest release, Mojo. The return to the comfort and mesh with his longtime playing partners does not disappoint.

Petty, who’ll be turning 60 this fall, has yet to lose grip on what is quintessential heartland rock: guitar-laden music that plays to its environment. Astoundingly, he hasn’t lost a bit of the charm of that desperate vocal tone we have come to love; he sounds just as fresh as he did belting out the chorus on “American Girl” circa ’77.

And while those quintessential Petty traits stick around, his music continues to evolve. Where Highway Companion took on a persona of the classic American road trip, Mojo, implementing a loose and effortless blues style, examines the nooks and crannies of the South, The album is not as polished as some of Petty’s other records, but perhaps this was a purposeful decision, because the lack of polish works. It’s as if the band has let loose, playing no-frills rock ’n’ roll music.

After a stellar opening track, the album moves back and forth from electric blues to softer ballads, evoking a certain sentiment of prospect and reflection. The middle of the album, tracks seven and eight, comprise some of the best tonal Petty ever recorded. “I Should Have Known It” and “U.S. 41” form a sort of collaborative medley, as “U.S. 41” picks up immediately where the former leaves off. Here, we get some badass and bluesy Petty after a brief hiatus from the sound of the opening track.

The blues in “I Should Have Known It” are simple and straightforward, but have a real kick to them; enunciated by Petty in the go-to line of the song, “It’s the last time you’re gonna hurt me,” ensuring his survival of yet another relationship that went awry. When the acoustics pick up at the beginning of track eight, Petty fades into the tune, crooning like Son House or some delta blues singer of the seemingly ancient past. Shortly after his vocals arrive, an ultra twangy set of blues guitars manifests and the vocals continue a lo-fi triumph through the track. Noting the delta style of the song, the lyrics fit perfectly: a story of the old U.S. highway system, its association to crime and people running from it.

The other standout track of the album is “Don’t Pull Me Over.” Ringing with guitar sounds that resemble Bob Marley dub, the boys cook their own recipe for reggae and fold it seamlessly into their traditional rock sound. The motif of the law and aversion to it is resurrected here again, but instead of telling a story, the lyrics take on a direct communication to law enforcement. Petty sings, “Don’t pull me over, mister policeman” rebelliously, pairing it with a perfect choice of the Jamaican guitar. As a rock ’n’ roll front man, Petty is no stranger to marijuana; and though songs like “You Don’t Know How It Feels” address the ritual of smoking pot, he gets more political about the drug in this song, sneaking in the line, “Don’t pull me over / Should be legalized”—a perfect disposition for the sound of the song.

So, what can be said of this album? What does it do for the legacy of Tom Petty? As usual, the grace of his lyrics lies in their simplicity. Regardless of musical tone, each song serves a purpose with their words: colloquial but provocative. With songs ranging from varying takes on blues to the softer, sweeter, sadder ones, Petty dances between themes of salvation, survival and the proletariat, all carried by an underlying faith in nostalgia. Despite some slow spots, Mojo reaffirms Petty as one of the era’s preeminent artists and certainly one of its most prolific. His range and his perseverance in experimenting with new styles is a testament to his art, even at the ripe age of 59.