The Black Dog and the Wandering Boy

Right then. Lean in a bit. I’ve got to tell you about this one. It’s not every day a record lands on the deck that feels this… necessary. That is James McMurtry, and if you don’t know the name, it’s about time you did. This slab of vinyl, The Black Dog & the Wandering Boy, is the real stuff. The kind of music that smells of road dust, cheap whiskey, and hard-won truths. It’s got a story before you even drop the needle.

Turns out, after his old man—the writer, Larry McMurtry, you might have heard of him—passed on, James was sifting through things and found this pencil sketch of himself as a little kid. Didn’t know who drew it. His stepmom takes one look and says it’s Ken Kesey’s handiwork, from back when the Merry Pranksters were rolling through the McMurtry homestead. Can you imagine? Having a piece of your childhood drawn by a legend like that. That drawing, that sense of a past that’s both epic and deeply personal, is baked right into the grooves of the record. It’s the ghost in the machine.

Don’t you dare call this just ‘Americana’. That’s like calling a timber wolf a poodle. Sure, the rolling guitars and banjo are there, but McMurtry’s words are too damn sly, too cuttingly smart for a simple label. He’s a storyteller, first and last. He crafts characters so real you’ll swear you passed them in a forgotten Texas town or saw them nursing a beer at the end of the bar. A song like South Texas Lawman isn’t just a tune; it’s a three-act play about a man drowning in his own life. Then you’ve got Pinocchio in Vegas… I mean, the title alone tells you you’re in for something brilliantly strange. He finds the heartbreak and the humor in the same line, which is a trick only the true masters can pull off.

And people are noticing. The new guard, the ones who are really saying something—your Jason Isbells, your Sarah Jaroszes (she even plays on this album)—they all point back to this man. He’s the gnarly, unshakeable root of a family tree that’s producing some of the best music out there. He follows the words where they lead, and they lead to some dark, beautiful, and unflinchingly honest places. This isn’t background music. That is lean-forward-and-listen music. It demands your attention, and brother, it rewards it tenfold.

Here’s the lay of the land. Get to know it.

Side A:

• A1. Laredo (Small Dark Something)
• A2. South Texas Lawman
• A3. The Color of Night
• A4. Pinocchio in Vegas
• A5. Annie

Side B:

• B1. The Black Dog and the Wandering Boy
• B2. Back to Coeur d’Alene
• B3. Sons of the Second Sons
• B4. Sailing Away
• B5. Broken Freedom Song

That is a proper physical thing, a weighty piece of art you can hold. One you’ll pull out for years. Do yourself a favour. Stop streaming for a night. Pour a decent drink, turn the lights down low, and let these stories wash over you. It’s a world-weary, wonderful record, and it’s absolutely essential.

The Nitty Gritty:

• Language: English
• Product Dimensions: 12.6 x 12.6 x 0.79 inches; 8 ounces
• Manufacturer: New West Records
• Original Release Date: 2025
• Label: New West Records
• ASIN: B0F3VQP9R7
• Country of Origin: USA
• Number of discs: 1

James McMurtry’s “The Black Dog and the Wandering Boy” feels like a dusty letter from an old friend who’s seen too much of the world but still manages to laugh about it. This isn’t just another record—it’s a collection of weathered stories that hit you right in the chest, delivered by one of America’s most criminally underappreciated songwriters.

If you’ve ever found yourself driving alone at 2 AM, wondering how your life took its particular turns, this album is your perfect companion. McMurtry crafts characters so vivid you’d swear they were sitting next to you at the bar, nursing their third whiskey and about to tell you something they’ve never told anyone else.

There’s something revelatory about the way McMurtry discovered the album’s inspiration—a sketch of himself as a child, drawn by none other than Ken Kesey during the Merry Pranksters’ visits to the McMurtry household in the ’60s. This unexpected bridge between literary royalty echoes through the record; McMurtry is, after all, the son of “Lonesome Dove” author Larry McMurtry, but has carved his own distinct literary path through song.

From the opening notes of “Laredo (Small Dark Something),” you’re transported to those liminal spaces of American life that most songwriters gloss over but where McMurtry thrives—gas stations at state lines, dying small towns, and kitchens where important conversations never quite happen. When he delivers lines about a South Texas lawman, you can practically feel the heat rising from the asphalt.

“Pinocchio in Vegas” showcases McMurtry’s sardonic wit—a quality this is made him a touchstone for a younger generation of songwriters like Sarah Jarosz (who appears on this album) and Jason Isbell. There’s no pretension here, just the raw, unvarnished truth of lives lived on the margins.

The title track, “The Black Dog and the Wandering Boy,” unfolds with the unhurried pace of someone who knows that rushing the story ruins it. McMurtry’s baritone—a voice that sounds like it’s been cured in cigarette smoke and late-night conversations—carries these narratives with the gravitas they deserve.

This record is for anyone who values storytelling in music, for those who prefer their Americana with dirt under its fingernails rather than polished for radio. It is for fans of Townes Van Zandt, John Prine, and Guy Clark—songwriters who understood that sometimes the most universal truths come wrapped in the most specific details.

The album’s final track, “Broken Freedom Song,” leaves you sitting with questions rather than answers—exactly as the best stories should. McMurtry doesn’t tie things up neatly because he knows life rarely does.

In his characteristic understated way, McMurtry once told me, “You follow the words where they lead,” which might be the perfect encapsulation of his approach. With “The Black Dog and the Wandering Boy,” I’d suggest you do the same—follow where these songs lead, and don’t be surprised if they take you somewhere unexpected within yourself.