James McMurtry
Saint Mary of the Woods
Sugar Hill Records
by William Michael Smith

If they've already seen your best
They can do without the rest

If any artist untypifies the alt.Texas image, it is James McMurtry. The polar opposite of the yeehaw chauvinism in vogue with the Texas Ball Cap Nation, one can no more imagine McMurtry's caustic songs being delivered at a fraternity party than one can imagine proof of virginity being a requirement for admission to a sorority. Somehow, either by chance or by plan, McMurtry, who has never cozied up to the cowboy image or faux-Jerry-Jeff trappings, has avoided attracting the yeehaw crowd and has instead coalesced an audience that consists of hippies (both old and neo-), bikers, intellectuals, artists, musicians, and elements of the educated Yuppie middle class that work their corporate jobs or their sole proprietorships during the week but turn up at local clubs or festivals to see and support McMurtry.

Were it not for his penchant for accompanying his songs with huge, intense guitar work, McMurtry's dark, somber, smirking visions would seem more appropriate for the coffee house set than for barrooms and concert venues. There are certainly songs on Saint Mary of the Woods that would be coffeehouse friendly if delivered acoustically. But that ain't James McMurtry, and we can all thank our lucky stars for that. Of all the people plying their wares in the "Texas music" market today, McMurtry is one of only a few who truly know what to do with an electric guitar. In fact, Saint Mary of the Woods, which finds Mr. McMurtry producing himself for the first time, is a monster of a guitar record. While guitar giants David Grissom and Steve Bruton are featured on a few tracks, McMurtry handles the lion's share of guitar duties and he brings the full load with his crunchy style that can be described as an amalgamation of the styles of Grissom and Marc Knopfler. Yes, McMurtry is that good. He's worked hard at his instrument. This guy can flat play. And more importantly, he doesn't play like everyone else.

The songs on Saint Mary of the Woods, McMurtry's sixth album since his 1989 debut Too Long in the Wasteland, are a mixture of the edgy tales of emotional dissatisfaction and family malfunction that marked the darkest side of Too Long in the Wasteland and of hard rocking Telecaster-through-a-cement-mixer guitar demonstrations coupled with McMurtry's wry, salty lyrics from the fringes of impolite society. While in total the album may not be McMurtry's greatest lyrical work, he delivers his usual interesting, engrossing stories and manages to get off more memorable, telling lines in a single song than a whole handful of our yeehaw performers can in a career. As an example, his description of a biker-guitarist in "Valley Road" is a pillar of pithy imagination and hipster descriptive genius.

He had the stance, major attitude
Vibrato you coulda thrown a cat through
A little much, a little heavy
I guess the world just wasn't ready

But in a song that is actually a critique of living on the edge ('nothing ventured, nothing saved/you poured it out like bourbon on a fresh grave"), McMurtry is far from done with the outlaw biker picker.

He missed a curve on his hardtail sled
Nothin' broken 'cept for his head
You know it's kinda fittin' somehow
It's hard to picture what he'd look like now

One of the endearing traits about McMurtry's work is that he is never rote or banal. Despite being described ad nauseum by critics as "literate," it would be a mistake to assume McMurtry's work is built upon highbrow poetics and urbane intellectual snobbery. In reality, McMurtry's use of words is just as deadpan as his vocal delivery. Take his wonderfully simple language used to illustrate the thought processes of a son of a prominent rural family who is battling the demons of his ancestry and his own failure to "live up" to the family image.

I'll take the house
And the land
I'm gonna list it
Get what I can
Sell the horses
Sell the cows
Sell 'em all
Sell 'em now

There's redneck bravado aplenty, but there is also pathos and a quiet humanistic acceptance of the limitations and frailties, of common everyday weaknesses. In "Gone to the Y," McMurtry takes up a theme he's examined many times, the imperfect family that manages to hang together. In this endearing vignette, an older brother tries to reassure a younger brother after the parents' most recent argument, which has resulted in the father leaving the house.

It's happened before, it'll happen again
He won't be back 'til mornin'
She's mad as a wet hen but she's alright
Better get some sleep while it's nice and quiet
I know it looks bad now but I got no doubt
He'll be back home when church lets out

The epic "Choctaw Bingo" may well become McMurtry's signature -- if he can remember all 80 lines in this uproarious tale of several families traveling to a family reunion. I recently read a review by a California critic that said "Choctaw Bingo" was the one glitch in the album because it was like a long involved redneck tale told by a drunk uncle, the kind of tale that just goes on and on as the uncle is too drunk to make any sense. Yeah, right. Like Lyle Lovett said, Mr. California critic: "That's right, you're not from Texas." From the opening lines, "Choctaw Bingo" will grab Texans (and Oklahomans and anyone else with their ears open for an unusual song) by the throat. McMurtry's achingly hilarious descriptions are part H.L. Mencken, part Thomas Pynchon. Like Bob Dylan's early psychedelic dream songs, "Choctaw Bingo" just rolls on and on and on from one pungent description to another for 8+ minutes. And it rocks hard, as McMurtry and Austin session pianist Earl Poole Ball play off each other. McMurtry never seems to come up for air as the lyrics just keep a-comin'.

Uncle Slayton's got his Texan pride
Back in the thickets with his Asian bride
He's got a Airstream trailer and a Holstein cow
He still makes whiskey 'cause he knows how
He plays that Choctaw Bingo every Friday night
You know he had to leave Texas but he won't say why
He owns a quarter section up by Lake Eufala
Caught a great big ol' blue cat on driftin' jug line
Sells his hard wood timber to the chippin' mill
Cooks that crystal meth 'cause his shine don't sell

Before it's over, we've seen a semi-truck wreck, a football coach cousin who brings a bunch of weapons and ammo to the reunion ('a Desert Eagle, that's one great big ol' pistol/I mean fifty caliber made by badass Hebrews") so they can have some fun, wild scantily clad second cousins from Kansas, and a recipe for child care during long trips ("strap them kids in/give 'em a little bit of vodka in a cherry coke"). It's only after the dust has settled and the speakers have gone quiet that a listener realizes what a subtle commentary on the state of today's social landscape has just occurred.

Saint Mary of the Woods (a college near Terre Haute, Indiana) may not get Mr. McMurtry invited to the next Ima Gonna Puke pledge mixer, but it will certainly add another piece to his already considerable reputation as an artist of the highest quality Texas has to offer.

* If you ain't a-scared, www.sugarhillrecords.com can provide a copy of Saint Mary of the Woods in time to fill those boot-stockings hung from the chimney with care. Info on James McMurtry is at www.jamesmcmurtry.com

Contact William Michael Smith at wms-at-rockzilla.net

 
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