James McMurtry's most recent album is the best thing he's ever done, by a stretch so wide as to seem impossible to anyone with an ounce of damn sense and any passing familiarity with his existing catalog.
I mean, anybody like that would be like, "how much better can you get than awesome?"
And they'd be right. But as it turns out: you can get quite a little bit better. Good Lorrrrrrrrd, sir. Hit us with those bitter, clipped lyrics and those fat, juicy, bluesy grooves you boogie so woogie with! Tell us those tall tales - tales standing tall, but so low in the ditch of despair that they have to aim straight up to be in spitting distance of sea level.
And you know what happens when you spit straight up.
Mr. McMurtry, no offense to your kith and kin, but you sir are the novelist in the family. God bless and keep you, just as you are.
Can't wait for your next one.
Lawsy, lawsy.
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