[For] all Young's Californian convolutions, "Comes A Time" has the romantic innocence of those Sixties folk clubs where I used to sigh over the cool young men who, like Bob Dylan, rooted their personal anguish in the Human Condition, and suggested a life in which, instead of having to go back to school the next day, you could just travel on forever—breaking a heart here, having a heart broken there. Hitching down the highway, lonely city streets, distant mountains, rough seas—all Young's images merging in smoke.