James McMurtry: The Texas-Country Singer-Songwriter Redefining Storytelling in Folk and Americana Music

James McMurtry, the Texas country singer-songwriter, has carved a singular path through the folk and Americana landscape. Known for his lyrical prowess and unflinching narratives, McMurtry has captivated audiences with songs that feel less like compositions and more like confessions. His music doesn’t beg to be heard; it waits, quietly, until you’re ready to listen.

Born on March 18, 1962, in Fort Worth, Texas, McMurtry was raised in a family of storytellers. His father, Larry McMurtry, author of Lonesome Dove and The Last Picture Show, and his mother, an English professor, taught him his first chords. “My mother taught me three chords,” he once said, “…and the rest I just stole as I went along.” That blend of literary lineage and musical instinct shaped his voice.

McMurtry’s debut album, Too Long in the Wasteland (1989), co-produced by John Mellencamp, introduced him as a songwriter with a novelist’s eye. Tracks like “Painting by Numbers” and the title song offered portraits of small-town decay and quiet desperation. It was a strong start, and his subsequent albums only deepened his reputation. My personal favorite is Just Us Kids (2008), with songs like “Hurricane Party” and the title track stirring something elemental in me. A kind of longing only wordsmiths understand. McMurtry’s lyrics don’t just describe, they inhabit and linger.

Over the years, he’s released a string of acclaimed albums: It Had to Happen (1997), Saint Mary of the Woods (2002), Childish Things (2005), Complicated Game (2015), and The Horses and the Hounds (2021). Songs like “No More Buffalo,” “Choctaw Bingo,” “Out Here in the Middle,” “We Can’t Make It Here,” and “Copper Canteen” have become touchstones—gritty, unsentimental, and deeply human.

McMurtry’s music is defined by its storytelling; McMurtry paints vivid scenes: a family reunion gone sideways, a veteran drifting through economic collapse, a man watching the world from his porch. His voice—gravelly, restrained—carries the weight of those stories. His guitar work is lean and sinewy, never showy, always in service of the song. But McMurtry’s influence goes beyond craft. He’s a political voice, too—though never preachy. “We Can’t Make It Here” became an anthem for economic disillusionment, resonating with listeners across political lines. His songs speak for the marginalized, the overlooked, the quietly furious. He’s not interested in slogans. He’s interested in truth.

His live performances are legendary. Raw, intense, and unfiltered. I first saw him at Gruene Hall in Gruene, Texas, a historic dance hall now nestled in the growing town of New Braunfels. I was introduced to his music by my friend Clif, a longtime enthusiast, and I quickly understood his devotion. McMurtry has ties to the Texas Hill Country, but he’s also well-known throughout south central Montana, where I currently live. He plays here often, and when he does, it feels like home. McMurtry’s music is a testament to the power of storytelling. To its ability to connect, to challenge, to endure. His lyrics are honest, his melodies understated, and his impact undeniable. Whether you’re a longtime fan or just discovering him, exploring James McMurtry’s discography is a journey worth taking. It’s not always easy. But it’s always true.