Concert Review: James McMurtry

James McMurtry scowls out at the crowd like he can’t stand the sight of us, and he sings not like some fool stooping so low as to entertain or some goddamn thing.

​No, he croaks out his hard-truth lyrics like he’s muttering to himself after losing an argument, like he’s bitching about the boss in an empty breakroom, like he’s reading poems he’s sure you’re too stupid to appreciate.

“Poems” is the word, of course. Those words are worth overhearing. A McMurtry show is part state-of-the-heartland address, part collection of narrative verse, part boogie gee-tar extravaganza. It’s part party, part eulogy, and – for those who value words and feeling over virtuosity – part godsend.

McMurtry specializes in tough-minded songs charting the decline of the great American middle, now strip-malled and condo-ed, a once-proud breadbasket where all regular folks have the chance to grow today is fast-food bellies and tea-party resentments.