They called his dad Muddy Waters, though his birth name was McKinley Morganfield. He died in 1983, but in his lifetime he carved out a reputation (along with his contemporary Chester "Howlin' Wolf" Burnett) as the most revered and influential figure on the mid-century Chicago blues scene. His son Larry, known as Mud Morganfield, carries on the family tradition, though on They Call Me Mud he has started to stray from his father's strictly Delta-by-way-of-Chicago approach. This is his fourth CD, his third on the worthy, Maryland-based blues label Severn. I reviewed his previous release, For Pops, a tribute to his father (with veteran harmonica player Kim Wilson), in this space on 18 October 2014.

Make no mistake: there's still a lot of hard-core Chicago here, including a couple of songs with Muddy composer credits, including the terrific "Howling Wolf." His name is also attached to "Can't Get No Grindin'," in fact an African-American folk song most famously connected to Memphis Minnie. Muddy added a floating verse or two, including the well-traveled one about the preachers hiding in the cornfield. Mud gives the song a raucous, good-time turn, relishing the hilarious sexual metaphor that drives the story.

The original "24 Hours" uses another sexual metaphor, of the fireman putting out, er, flames. Country star George Strait used the same image in his 1985 hit "The Fireman" (written by Music City veterans Mack Vickery and Wayne Kemp), but even that was hardly the first time fire and sexual adventure have been linked for comic effect. I think I first heard the association in a Lead Belly song, and I'm sure the verse in question was in circulation well before Lead Belly recorded it.

The younger Morganfield is a richly expressive singer. In the country blues-inflected "Oh Yeah" he inhabits the conflicted persona of a man entranced by a woman who is equal parts sexually irresistible and utterly untrustworthy, a venerable blues theme that any fan is pleased to hear whenever it's visited convincingly. Blues these days doesn't come any harder-core than this. Elsewhere, however, horns sweeten the sound as if to give voice to the r&b Morganfield grew up with in the 1970s and 1980s, after purer blues had passed out of fashion with his generation. His duet with daughter Lashunda Williams, "Who Loves You," features a languid saxophone (Michael Jackson, not that Michael Jackson) and even an understated string section. It's a lot like a Motown ballad, and if you like that sort of thing, it's pretty good.

Unlike the sons of some other legendary musicians, Mud does not want for talent, presumably the consequence of both nature and nurture. He is also an able songwriter. His producing skills (with Rick Kreher here) are exceptional. Aside from everything else, They Call Me Mud has an ingratiating aural presence, whether it's evoking ragged times or silky romance. If my own tastes run firmly toward the former, I can yet attest that nothing on this disc is less than satisfying.