Texas singer-songwriter James McMurtry inevitably is identified in the press as the son of novelist and screenwriter Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove, Terms of Endearment, The Last Picture Show). To some extent, these references are merely the consequence of having a famous parent, and McMurtry can probably give thanks that he labors in a far less prominent vineyard and with greater ability than poor Julian Lennon. On the other hand, McMurtry’s songs have distinctively literary characteristics that justify the attention to his lineage. His songs tell stories, depicting unassuming, unremarkable people either taking action at a (sometimes literal) crossroads or contending with the consequences of such an action. He’s particularly adept at delineating characters, conveying their personalities, values, situations, and concerns in a few brief strokes.
Says you ought to come visit
It’s just like the good old days
Enlightened, the protagonist returns to the more compatible environment of the city, with McMurtry’s droll assurance that “they’ll be praying for your poor lost soul.”
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McMurtry’s songs are often inconclusive, their intentions obscure. Unlike the middle-aged married man shaken by news of an old flame’s marriage in Paul Kelly’s “I Had Forgotten You,” or the anguished narrator waiting with his girlfriend for her abortion appointment in Dave Alvin’s “Plastic Rose,” McMurtry’s characters rarely get beneath the surface of an experience to illuminate the emotions involved. Nor do his songs convey much insight, however small or quiet, about that experience. On Too Long in the Wasteland and his recent second release, Candyland, McMurtry mainly acts as a dispassionate observer, content to sketch the outlines of a situation and leave its meaning, or his opinion of it, largely up to the listener to infer. This lack of involvement is compounded by his detached, laconic drawl. As a result, though he traffics in the country-folk-blues-derived rock for which I’m often reflexively enthusiastic, I’ve found his records insubstantial and unsatisfying.
McMurtry also displayed an unanticipated level of musicianship: his tasteful, sharply punctuated guitar playing and bright, liquid tone created rich textures and stamped out insistent rhythms. Nothing on his records hints at the musical skill McMurtry showed here, as he recast songs in different musical genres and delivered on those arrangements with skillful finger picking. He took “Vague Directions” at a slow, halting swing, creating a seductive anticipation between the song’s delayed beats, and gave “Safe Side” a credible flamenco styling, including a brief instrumental flourish. “Talking at the Texaco” was briskly rolling boogie-woogie, McMurtry biting off his vocals at a breakneck pace.
Since the Stone Age, chasing the great herds
