POP MUSIC REVIEW : Walker’s Sweet Stuff Comes to Stormy Conclusion

Even though he still calls his backup bands the “Gonzo” this and the “Gonzo” that in deference to his ‘70s incarnation as a notable rowdy, Jerry Jeff Walker has turned into a comforting voice of balance and sanity.

At the Coach House on Friday night, Walker and his backing trio, this time dubbed the Gonzo Compadres (as opposed to such previous monikers as the Lost Gonzo Band and the Gonzo Survivors), sketched the sort of life that one would like to think is still possible.

In a time when all the accustomed compasses seem to have sprung, and any quietly reasonable voice is in danger of being drowned out by preening self-promotion or shrilling extremism, Walker’s vision is attractively sensible and down-to-earth.

Much of his nearly two-hour set glowed with a sweet philosophy that extols committed love, frowns on rampant materialism, and holds that life’s bumps, if not unavoidable, at least can be ridden out if you bounce along at an easygoing gait.

The full house was more than ready to lather itself into a beery uproar when Walker trotted out such raunchy oldies as “Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother” from his reprobate days. But Walker, who is pushing 50, got just as appreciative a reception for his more recent reveries celebrating hearth, home and the marital bond.

There was more than a little sentimentality in all of this, but Walker came up with some effective deterrents to treacly excess.

One was his well-worn voice. If it were an instrument, it would be a dusty and battered upright piano sitting in the corner of a barroom, a few keys missing, but still musical enough to support a tune. When a voice like that waxes sentimental, one is willing to accept that it has been through enough rough times to have earned some respite.

“Mr. Bojangles,” Walker’s contribution to the book of songs everybody knows, easily can get sticky and mealy when handled too reverently. Walker delivered it midway through his set in a laconic, sturdy voice, his phrasings clipped, flattened or accelerating, as if he wanted to inject new energy into the song while downplaying the pathos of its protagonist, a broken-down street dancer.

John Inmon’s motion-filled guitar coda further underscored the sense that this reading was not a lament for Bojangles’ fallen state, but an affirmation of his will to go on dancing.

Inmon was exceptional both as a soloist and as an empathic filler-in around Walker’s vocal lines. His emotionally attuned playing drew on just about every color and technique in the country and country-rock guitar handbook. Whether the moment called for a twang that was fat and bassy or high and shivery, or for a teardrop bent-note sigh, Inmon had just the right voicing and tone. He also helped fire several authoritatively rocking numbers Walker used to offset the sweet stuff. That made for a well-paced show with a nicely conceived flow of changing moods.

Guy Clark’s “L.A. Freeway” was a rocking highlight, as Walker and band leaned into its portrait of a man fed up with superficial, fast-lane living, who yearns for the simpler ways of Jerry Jeff’s mythic, beloved Texas.

In an exquisite encore, Walker offered much more than the usual assortment of held-back tidbits. After a main set devoted largely to songs about the easygoing way of life and the appreciation of true love, he acknowledged that sadness and, in the end, death, still challenge our best efforts to be content.

Walker sang “Blue Mood,” an understated account of a bout of deep melancholy brought on by a spate of everyday bad news and ordinary misfortune. Then came another Guy Clark composition, “Desperadoes Waiting for the Train,” with its intimations of deterioration and death at the end of every lifeline’s track.

It was a stormy, dramatic finale, ringing down the concert with a straining acceptance of the knowledge that even those living the sane, easygoing life have to confront ultimate mysteries. Walker and his astute gonzos did it with a steely dignity and a powerful kick.

Opening for Walker was Chris Wall, a former Orange Countian who has been Jerry Jeff’s protege for the past three years, releasing two albums on Walker’s Tried & True label.

There is nothing fancy about Wall, whose baritone voice is firm, but limited. Wall hasn’t yet mastered Walker’s knack for getting a great deal of melodic mileage out of a voice box that nature hasn’t particularly blessed.

But if you were to walk into a country music bar, Wall would be just the sort of entertaining character you would relish having on the bandstand. Backed by Walker’s band, he delivered wry, clever songs full of laugh lines that worked every time, and showed an easy way with a quip between songs.

Wall’s 45-minute set focused on the straight honky-tonk of songs like “I’m Not Drinkin’ Anymore” (not an on-the-wagon song, but a declaration of intent to go on dousing one’s sorrows: “I’m not drinking any more, and I’m not drinking any less/I’m not drinking any more than it takes to forget”).

Wall also came across well on a couple of rocking country tunes including “No Sweat,” a number that could have come out of Nick Lowe’s songbook.