The final act at the Continental Club in Austin on Tuesday nights is The Last Jimenez. Show time was midnight, and after watching James McMurtry and his band put on a full out rock show, I needed to hang out for awhile and get my equilibrium back, enjoy a late beer. Delay my exit, glow in the show's aftermath, my house on Mary Street was only a mile away. McMurtry was quick and precise with his lyrics, clenching his teeth to finish off the lines. Grinding the syllables.
He sang about Okie kinfolks, the myth of road life, and giving up his Cadillac, among other things. At one point he went off mic and played solo acoustic just to shut up the crowd in the back, who were committing the concert sin of paying no attention and screaming at each other. The room shhh'ed and shhh'ed, but still the annoying talkers persisted, they had no clue. Finally, with as much clarity as possible, slow and just loud enough, I turned to the group of corporate hustlers and told them to "Shut the fuck up!" The intervention seemed to do the trick and James started back up again, amplified and satisfied.
He wasn't much for talking after the show, he packed up his own stuff and split. Probably sick of questions about Lonesome Dove, the masterpiece novel his late father wrote. Rest in peace, Larry McMurtry, your boy can rip his guitar and spit his words, but you knew that anyway. The Last Jimenez featured David Jimenez, a blues telecaster player with a voice like Van Morrison. Their covers of When I Paint My Masterpiece (Dylan) and Northeast Texas Women (Willis Alan Ramsey) were knockouts, and I crashed around 2 am, my head buzzing and my soul bluesed up.