by James McMurtry

We went and saw McMurtry with his current touring band, the Heartless Bastards, live at Iota in Arlington a few months ago, and I was disappointed. Not with McMurtry, but with the venue. I doubt he was disappointed with it, as he seems to favor the more rough and ready sorts of places in his live shows than the sit-down and contemplate the ironies of life that I had imagined from his studio albums. Listening to the same songs afterwards (I bought this CD after the show and had McMurtry sign the infold), I have to admit that I like his rawer sound better than the produced, but I still recall wishing that I had had a chair during those three hours of the show.

You can't mention James McMurtry without also mentioning that he is the son of the slightly more famous novelist, Larry McMurtry. You probably knew that. What you may not have known is that Larry used to run a used bookstore in Georgetown and that James actually grew up in Virginia, before Larry took the money he made from his successful novel career and bought a bookstore that he now runs on the side in a small town in Texas. It is this strange connection between the rural and the urban that provides the fuel for James's sarcasm, which is thicker than his Texan drawl, and it also makes his music wonderfully complex. Unlike those big hat country artists who idealize life outside the cities, McMurtry loves it and hates it at the same time. Like his father, he writes stories and character portraits that are realistic and yet indicative of larger meanings.

For example, back-to-back on this album are the songs "Out Here in the Middle" (as in middle America or the Heartland) and "Choctaw Bingo." The first song underscores the negatives of city life, where you have to have reservations and lock your doors, as opposed to a life next to the diner where there's always a spot at the counter and (supposedly) no one steals. The second song is a polysyllabic ramble about a family reunion in Oklahoma where they are "having us a time" by shooting off second-hand purchased flare ammunition with a "big ol' pistol." The first impression of both songs might be a celebration of country life, but it doesn't take long before you catch the glimpse of the severed ear in the abandoned field. Even if you don't agree with McMurtry's sentiments, it's hard not to enjoy the music, both the slow side of the former and the rocker of the latter. (And how can you not like a song that is introduced as a song about "the North Texas-Southern Oklahoma crystal methamphetamine industry"?)

After six studio albums, McMurtry has plenty of material to choose from, and the selections here adequately showcase a song or two from each album. He avoids the minor radio hits (well, at least the ones I remember that they used to play on Austin's KLBJ) in favor of songs that benefit from the ragged electric guitar and two piece backing. In addition, the album contains a couple of wonderful bits of stage banter, including a wry commentary about George W. Bush's affected pronounciation of "nuclear" ("Jeb doesn't say 'nuk-yler'") and a bitter comment about "I used to think I was an artist...come to find out I'm a beer salesman."

This is a good spot to start from if you've never heard McMurtry before, because if you don't care for his deep-nasal, near-spoken singing style in this setting, you're not going to like it when you can hear it even better. I'm tempted to compare him to Dylan. Maybe it's because I share some of McMurtry's background (not to mention that I'm closer to him than Dylan in age) and none of Dylan's, because I enjoy his sarcastic style and electro-country-rock sound much more. In particular, McMurtry's lament for the loss of the buffalo (as a metaphor for a number of vanished environments) in "No More Buffalo" speaks more to me than any number of similarly themed Dylan tunes.

Other highlights include: "Levelland," a song about a communist friend of McMurtry's who lived in Floydada, Texas (which didn't fit the meter, so he changed the name of the town to Levelland); "60 Acres," about a character that inherits some land from his grandmother but isn't grateful at all about it; "I'm Not From Here" is the theme song for all of us who move away from the ol' hometown; and "Rachel's Song," a wonderful character portrait of a woman with a drinking problem. Unlike his studio albums, there's really not one clunker in this collection and I feel positive about something in each one of them.

UPDATE 28 June 2005: Corrected town name of Floydada