Fresh roots from the Felice Brothers

When the first words out of a performer’s mouth are “Our grandpa told us this here story,” you know you’re in for a good night. When that phrase is followed by “about a cabaret singer . . . that he killed,” it’s going to be a great night. And the Felice Brothers -- three actual Catskills-raised brothers and two close friends -- more than delivered on that initial promise Tuesday at the Echo.

It was a night filled with guns and alcohol (the former just in songs, the latter in songs and on stage), flawed lovers and fallen dreamers, with redemption in there somewhere, but almost as an afterthought.

It was conveyed by guitarist and primary singer Ian, drummer Simone and accordionist James Felice, along with one guy named Christmas (bass) and another one known as Farley (fiddle and washboard). They mashed up a couple of centuries of rural-rooted American musical traditions into something fresh and alive if a bit soiled, with nary a whiff of forced nostalgia.

The band’s bracing new album on Omaha indie kingpin Conor Oberst’s Team Love label often sounds as if John Prine stumbled with his sharp-hewn tales of acidic melancholy into Bob Dylan and the Band’s “Basement Tapes” sessions, and the concert went even beyond that.

Instruments jabbed and poked at each other, and the brothers tussled over vocal lines as if rushing to be the one to tell of these colorful goings-on, be they more murder stories (James’ soused, sly “Whiskey in My Whiskey”) or likely tall tales, such as “Cincinnati Queen,” a putative paean to an older Ohio fan alleged to have seduced each band member in turn.

They good-naturedly characterized themselves as “dirtbags” more than once Tuesday -- neat and clean this show was not. At one point, Ian, a young man with an old man’s wheezy voice, did a song alone while three bandmates sat on the floor behind him performing emergency surgery -- successfully -- on James’ accordion.

But it was also quite accomplished, whether the tone was movingly tender (Simone’s solo ode to their father’s hometown, Queens, though it did involve the devil and a dead girl in a Camaro) or exuberantly explosive (the pressure-cooker modern gothic of “Helen Fry”). Always ragged but right, it was the way this sort of thing is meant to be, though all-too-rarely actually is.

And it’s a good example for second-billed Justin Townes Earle, who offered an American mix of his own, drawing on influences including Hank Williams, Buck Owens, hokum blues, “Mighty Wind”-ish folk and, in a few introspective ballads, his dad, Steve Earle.

Accompanied by mandolin-banjo-harmonica player Cory Younts, Earle charmed with an amiably vintage manner to match his sequin-trimmed suit and Brylcreemed hair, but at this point his set is still a bunch of related but separate stylistic exercises. It’s as if he’s doing his research before he writes his thesis. But promising research it is.