Something Missing From Marti Jones’ Delivery : There’s not a sense that the down-to-earth singer can relate an outlook that is her own and project herself on stage in a way that commands interest.

Marti Jones is an exceptional singer, but she hasn’t found a distinctive onstage context for her talent, an attention-grabbing persona that would transform her from an engaging voice into a memorable personality.

Singing at the Coach House on Tuesday night, Jones never failed to impress with a voice that was sweet and plaintive, but with a fine, woody grain to give it fullness and warmth. Still, something was missing: a sense that the Ohio resident with the flowing, straight blond hair can relate an outlook that is her own and project herself on stage in a way that commands interest (one persona that probably won’t work for the down-to-earth Jones is the airbrushed glamour-plate she’s cast as on the cover of her new album, “Any Kind of Lie”).

At the Coach House, Jones ran up against some obstacles that were out of her control. Early in the 90-minute set, her voice was crowded by her four-man band. The bass guitar played by her husband, the classy singer-producer Don Dixon, boomed too heavily in the mix. The use of a second percussionist added more exaggerated thudding than rhythmic intricacy. Later, the two drummers were let loose for incongruous percussion breaks that interrupted the show’s flow.

The audience was another problem. Along with perhaps 100 Jones fans who were there to listen, the room held far too many boors who chattered through the performance, and one irksome fellow who kept yelling for Jones to play her version of Loudon Wainwright III’s “Old Friend.”

Jones ignored the talkers and exhibited a dry sense of humor in her asides to fans, including the man fixated on “Old Friend” (Jones ultimately gave him his wish and played it). The singer’s irony, which contrasted with the open-hearted emoting in her songs, was more distancing than engaging. It’s not unreasonable to want to be taken into the confidence of a singer whose great subject is romantic strife--rather than to be put at arm’s length.

Introducing “Read My Heart,” one of her many pleading lamentations about troubled or incomplete relationships, Jones remarked that the song, co-written with Dixon, is “based on past relationships. . . . Actually, nothing like this has ever happened.”

That sense of uncertainty or diffidence about declaring herself prevented Jones’ concert from taking the shape of a story or a dialogue. Jones doesn’t have to become a confessional performer to achieve that. But she should give some sense--which came across on “Unsophisticated Time” and “Used Guitars,” the best and most intimate of her four albums--that we’re getting a cohesive account of her observations and feelings about love’s problems. For the most part, the concert remained just a sequence of well-sung but unrevealing songs.

Most of those songs were plaints delivered in broad, firm tones. Although each was well-sung (a version of Elvis Costello’s “Just a Memory” was nicely representative), one wished that Jones could occasionally emulate Costello’s vituperation or Bonnie Raitt’s sass and go on the offensive against an insensitive, unfulfilling lover and put him in his place. Maybe then she could do the same toward insensitive, unmannerly audience members.

Jones was at her best during a quiet, intimate mid-set stretch highlighted by the wistful but humorous “Follow You All Over the World,” from her excellent 1985 debut album, “Unsophisticated Time.” A folksy reading of John Hiatt’s “If I Can Love Somebody” during the same segment was nicely underlined by twangy picking from guitarist Jamie Hoover.

Dixon, a fine singer in his own right (as his three R&B-slanted; solo albums prove in abundance), provided first-rate backup vocals and a measure of mild eccentricity as he wrapped a T-shirt turban around his bald head. Dixon took over on lead vocal on one song, his semi-hit, “Praying Mantis,” which served as a rocking, lighthearted final encore.

The upbeat finale was a conventional move that proved a bit of a letdown because it followed one of Jones’ most aching performances, an anthem of troubled love that would have been a great lead-in for a quiet ending aimed at sustaining and deepening the mood.

With Dixon’s ability to deliver some of the best soulful-husky vocalizing this side of John Hiatt, and Jones’ winning way with a folk-tinged plaint, there’s potential for well-varied shared billings in which each might take an equal role. But Jones needs to project a more firm sense of herself before she and her husband can take their shot at becoming the George Jones and Tammy Wynette of intelligent pop.