Perhaps partly because of his bloodline, James McMurtry enjoys (or endures) a reputation as the most writerly of Texas singer-songwriters, one whose material highlights literary qualities such as an eye for detail, a strong sense of place, a shifting narrative perspective and a keenly calibrated irony. Along the way, he has also developed (encouraged?) a reputation as a dour personality, almost pathologically private, someone who might equate performing in public with penance.
McMurtry, then, wouldn't seem a likely candidate to release a live album as lively as this one. There's little trace of the folk troubadour on these tracks, as the underrated guitarist lets his inner riff-rocker rule. The jagged edginess of the electric interplay with his crack rhythm section of drummer Daren Hess and bassist Ronnie Johnson has all the delicacy of a knife fight.
With a song selection that surveys more than a decade's worth of material, he de-Mellencamps "Too Long In The Wasteland" with a piledriver arrangement, reclaims "Levelland" from the popular Robert Earl Keen cover version, remembers Townes Van Zandt with "Rex's Blues", introduces the wistful "Lights Of Cheyenne", and demonstrates the distinction between monotone and deadpan on "Fraulein O." (pronounced "f'r all I know") and the lethal "Red Dress".
At the set's center, "Choctaw Boogie" sounds like a crystal-meth rewrite of Bob Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues" (itself a speed-driven rewrite of Chuck Berry's "Too Much Monkey Business"). Sustaining its delirious momentum for almost nine minutes, it could have kept going for an hour or two more.
No one comes to McMurtry for his vocal warmth or sprightly melodicism. It's his artistry as a wordsmith that will draw listeners to this album -- yet it's the bar-band groove that should keep them coming back for more.
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