James McMurtry – Childish Things

Childish Things was perhaps the most least accessible album for me from McMurtry’s catalog. It’s not so much an album as it is a rant against those who are turning Americans into desperate characters living out their lives on a desperate landscape, where James finds a sort of righteous dignity in his poetic passion, standing against the wind.

While his other albums were laced with stories we all share, yet often go unnoticed, this material is a very pointed exercise in uncomfortableness, filled with choppy rhythms and infectious hooks, yet by the time the record hits the runout groove, those hooks have floated from my memory, and I’m left wondering what I’d just listened to. Sure, his songs are filled with oddball characters who possess a sense of nobility, vision and at times wayward dreams, yet still, the songs on this album don’t come off with an easy offhanded sense of tall tales and gentle foolishness.

On other outings McMurtry’s characters are frequently seen at some pivotal moment in time, where there are but two choices, though the essence or ramifications of those choices are often not clear. Childish Things offers up none of that, this is a defining clearcut album that does not sound false or pretentious, it’s an in your face record, though the fingers of James are pointed outward toward the establishment and those who would attempt to pray their way out of a situation rather than effect change; not inwardly at himself and those who’ve crossed his path with interactions of explorative emotions.

All of that being said, Childish Things was award the 2006 Americana Music Association Album of the Year, with the song “We Can’t Make It Here” being named as one of the best songs of the first decade in the 2000’s … but those awards are given by critics on the basis of things that do not often resonate well with my ears. The record is entirely literarily detailed, supported by strong guitars and inventive arrangements, both of which support the limited vocal range of James, making his sound larger than life.

So, that being said again, though this time on a more positive note, the problem with most singer-songwriters is that no matter how personal, universal, fantastic, or romantically intoxicating the yarns they weave are, sooner or later the credibility gap comes into play, where something they say or do reminds you it’s just a story being told by a teller. The few really good ones separate themselves from the pack by telling a story so convincingly listeners believe that the singer has lived that story, whether or not they actually did. James McMurtry is one of the really good ones, and it’s not just his droll road-weary half-spoken crooning, it’s a distinctive delivery snatched from a passing reality that may belong to someone else entirely. Though for me, the reality found here is perhaps too real, leaving no room for inferences or dreaming, Childish Things is an album that moves from beginning to end with a single minded purposefulness.

Review by Jenell Kesler