Jason Isbell brought everything to an immediate standstill Thursday at the first of a sold-out two-night stand at Salt Shed. Observing venue personnel hustling to an area where he believed someone required emergency assistance, the singer-guitarist halted “Flying Over Water” in its tracks, asked the crowd for silence and instructed the production crew to activate the house lights. Isbell shook his head and laughed when he learned the supposed incident was a false alarm.
Few artists pause concerts for such episodes. The moment illustrated how much Isbell cares about what happens around him, and underlined the skill that helps set the 45-year-old band leader apart from his peers: his extraordinary ability to react to situations and distill his observations into music marked by profound vulnerability, empathy and understanding. If there’s another musician writing more insightful and relatable songs about the human condition than Isbell, they haven’t surfaced.
In an era dictated by social-media-fueled celebrity, few high-profile (let alone high-caliber) artists seem more approachable than Isbell. Even as the number of his Grammy Awards, Americana Music & Honors Awards and critically acclaimed albums continue to pile up, the Alabama native appears content to remain a regular guy. His down-to-earth temperament and aw-shucks modesty reflect that of many of the protagonists in his songs. Ditto the ups and downs of his life, which inform a healthy fraction of his lyrics.
Isbell’s quest to get sober after years of substance abuse, along with the beginnings of his romance with violinist-vocalist Amanda Shires, inspired a majority of his breakthrough 2013 album “Southeastern.” The pair ultimately wedded, collaborated on each other’s projects and became parents. Yet, akin to what happens to most normal people, life trampled on any perceived fairy-tale existence.
Several weeks ago, Isbell announced he had filed for divorce. The news didn’t come as a shock, Isbell had previously admitted the couple had encountered headwinds; the fearless 2023 documentary “Jason Isbell: Running with Our Eyes Closed” put some of the issues on public display.
Backed by his trusty 400 Unit group, which included relative newcomer Anna Butterss on bass, Isbell didn’t attempt to dodge any difficulties or challenges at the band’s most energized and vital Chicago area show since the onset of the pandemic. Dressed in a long-sleeve black shirt, casual jeans and white high-top sneakers, Isbell wasted no time delving into matters often ignored, dismissed or glossed over in favor of feel-good fantasies and privileged alternatives.
For all the chain-rattling on both sides of the political aisle concerning the the country’s direction, Isbell’s 115-minute show presented a smart, allegorical overview of American life that cut out agendas and involved classes of people — the disenfranchised, the desperate, the sick, the anxious, the ever-squeezed middle — that political candidates claim they represent. The singer hinted at actual politics only once, when dedicating the abortion-themed “White Beretta” to the residents of his home state.
Heavily drawn from the recent “Weathervanes” LP as well as “Southeastern,” Isbell’s songs avoided casting blame, making excuses or preaching. He couched the descriptive narratives in fluid, organic soundscapes that blended folk, R&B, Americana and country with various flavors of rock — Southern, hard, roots, psychedelic and garage included.
Onstage, newer and older material benefitted from crisper, clearer tones and more malleable structures than they enjoy on record. Keyboardist-accordionist Derry deBorja and multi-instrumentalist Will Johnson supplied atmospherics, textures and backing vocals. Refraining from playing fills and complex signatures, Butterss and drummer Chad Gamble held the rhythm section down with vice-grip authority and palpable weight. They also maintained the looseness and flexibility necessary to accommodate elongated solos and sudden detours.
Such as Isbell’s electrifying codas, sharp solos and back-and-forth volleys with fellow six-string standout Sadler Vaden. Though Isbell chose to bypass any of the originals he penned as a member of Drive-By Truckers, his toe-to-toe interactions with Vaden and extended dual-harmony guitar jam during “This Ain’t It” evoked the raucous spirit of his earlier days. With distortion bleeding and amplifiers buzzing, the duo channeled additional Southern strains on a stormy reading of Drivin N Cryin’s “Honeysuckle Blue.”
Smooth, clear and ingrained with a charming drawl, Isbell’s voice matched the band’s prowess. His deliveries projected above loud, crunchy crescendos with soulful command and met delicate, acoustic fare on quiet, conversational terms that occasionally witnessed his singing dissolve into the shadows. The approaches gave shape to the characters in his stories, while his brilliant turns of phrase packed vivid scenery, sensations and developments into concise frameworks that never felt dense, forced or complicated.
Trimmed of any excess, Isbell’s narratives were as direct, taut and piercing as his courageous solo rendition of “Cover Me Up.” He counterbalanced dark topics with subtle humor and warm sincerity. Isbell bent toward circumstances, particularly those defined by misfortune, loss, distance, bad luck, mistakes and injustice — wading into serious topics given short-shrift by most conversations in the public and political spheres. Put another way, Isbell addressed reality.
The parent unnerved by school shootings and battling demons in the trembling tension of “Save the World”; the laborer hollowed out by prescription-drug addiction and abandoned by his wife and kids on the shuffling “King of Oklahoma”; the rural native wondering if and where they fit in a fast-paced society that would rather mock than accept them on the rustic “Last of My Kind”; the family splintered by racism, violence and lies on a deceptively plainspoken “Cast Iron Skillet” — all seeking redemption, belonging, reason, hope.
Their predicaments — as well as those of protagonists dealing with interpersonal dilemmas — tied to factors beyond their control. Feeding off the random uncertainty prevalent in the freewheeling “24 Frames,” Isbell’s melodic songs repeatedly sparked with the notion that life gets upended in an instant, or over a prolonged period that otherwise seems to transpire in a flash.
Before you know it, you’re confronting unavoidable finality and finite memories: the partner facing lasting geographical and emotional separation (the ebb-and-flow of “Overseas”); the lover recognizing mortality will rob them of cherished time with their soulmate (the bracing “If We Were Vampires”); the friend struggling to provide small comfort to a cancer-stricken companion deteriorating into a ghost (the haunting “Elephant”); the conflicted adult who takes his dishonorable father off life support and tries to escape his past (the minor-key “Speed Trap Town”).
“In the name of survival / We get used to this,” Isbell sang matter-of-factly on the stair-stepped “Miles.” A better explanation for enduring pain, suffering and disappointment might not exist. Another important lesson imparted by Isbell’s invigorating music and performance? The value of dignity and compassion, and what’s at stake when we squander them.
Bob Gendron is a freelance critic.
Setlist from Salt Shed Feb. 29:
“Save the World”
“King of Oklahoma”
“Strawberry Woman”
“Last of My Kind”
“Super 8”
“Overseas”
“Speed Trap Town”
“Alabama Pines”
“Elephant”
“Stockholm”
“Flying Over Water”
“White Beretta”
“Honeysuckle Blue” (Drivin N Cryin cover)
“Cast Iron Skillet”
“24 Frames”
“If We Were Vampires”
Encore
“Cover Me Up”
“Miles”
“This Ain’t It”
