James McMurtry doesn’t write songs, he writes short stories, which he sets to music versus reading aloud, as a proper author would. Last night, he took the stage in his ever-present southwestern fedora shortly after 9 at the Tractor. The early start caught me off-guard; I showed up at 9:30ish after wolfing down a plate of chicken fried chicken and mashed potatoes a few doors down at Hattie’s. The potatoes were nowhere near as lumpy as usual, and the chicken was every bit as good as it’s ever been, as was McMurtry, who’s bound for a pair of Oregon gigs after a Ballard Ave. doubleheader.McMurtry is a Texan who rarely leaves that part of the country, physically or lyrically. He’s the son of the renowned novelist Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove). Critical acclaim found James shortly after he embarked upon a musical career and has only gained momentum since; if rampant commercial success is to find him, it’ll mirror the slow burn that eventually led to Lucinda Williams’ explosion. Williams, the daughter of the great Arkansas poet Miller Williams, was famously dubbed America’s best songwriter by TIME. In that regard, she’s fantastic. But McMurtry’s even better.First half-hour notwithstanding, McMurtry’s set last night didn’t stick to the “pimp the latest album” road map. (McMurtry’s latest, Just Us Kids, dropped almost exactly a year ago.) If there was an overarching theme to the evening’s selections, it was to draw from the broad corner of his catalogue that illustrates the trials and tribulations of desperate, drug-addled dead-enders who’d like to hit life’s reset button — if only there was such a button to hit. These are the folks who populate McMurtry’s most poignant tracks; he’s more a modern-day Woody Guthrie than Dylan or Springsteen could ever hope to be.This isn’t to say the show was somber. McMurtry and his band jammed frequently, to the point where at times the show attained an Allman Brothers vibe, with attendees dancing by the bar, as rare a sight in Seattle as, well, a tall Texan with a deep voice, a goatee, and a Faulkneresque way with words.