Jason Isbell took to the stage of the Orpheum Theatre last Friday, March 27th, in a supremely relaxed manner, strolling out to thunderous applause with his usual unflappable demeanor. That offered no hint of the emotional depths he would plumb before the night was through, though of course those gathered in the audience knew to expect one of this era’s finest word- and song-smiths at his most intimate.

Having seen Isbell rock Memphis Botanic Garden’s Radians Amphitheater in 2023, I knew his music to be “full of big, sustained chords and shredding solos,” as I wrote then. This time around, the only shredding was some fancy acoustic guitar work revealing that, yes, he is a guitar virtuoso. But that artistry paled before the simple combination of standard-issue folk chords, keening melodies, and Isbell’s trenchant, pithy lyrics portraying Southern culture on the skids.

Still, there were more words than just the song lyrics. Isbell revealed himself to be a first-rate storyteller. The first song up was “Dreamsicle,” with plenty of storytelling punch in its own right:

A Dreamsicle on a summer night
In a folding lawn chair
Daddy’s howling at the moon
Better get home soon
Heat lightning in the evening sky
And my mama’s red hair

Isbell then fleshed out those evocative words with some personal details about his grandmother. “My whole life, she was the same exact weight, in the same exact shape, but she was perpetually on a diet. So everything that she had that was supposed to be a treat was a diet version of that treat. Like the Dreamsicles. But she also had a gap between her teeth like Oscar Wilde. You know, probably for the same reason too, I imagine. But she couldn’t say ‘fat free.’ She said ‘frat free.’ So my memory of the Dreamsicle popsicle is a ‘frat free Dreamsicle.'”

It all made you feel as though you were swapping tales around the dinner table. And after he’d played the next number, “White Beretta,” he brought it all back home. “I believe it was a 1991 Chevrolet Beretta, it was white and it had hail damage … I had to drive it here from Muscle Shoals, to start school. One year I went to college here in town, and I drove from Alabama … Every couple days, the thermostat would go out, and the only way to remedy that — I don’t know if you guys know — is if you turn the heater all the way on, to keep the car from overheating. So I drove the white Beretta from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, to Memphis in July, with the heater wide open. That was hot. That was a hot drive.’

That was when he attended the University of Memphis briefly. And though he didn’t stay long enough for a degree, Memphis clearly made its mark on him. Later in the set, Isbell exclaimed, “I love Memphis. I love Memphis!” to cheers and shouts, then added, with perfect comedic timing, “That’s how you know I’m not Bill Lee.”

That, too, got wild applause and screams of approval, confirming that you can’t always judge a book, or a fan, by its cover. The crowd, it must be noted, sported more plaid shirts, puffy vests, and seed caps than a MAGA rally, but those accoutrements were clearly not indicative of the audience’s politics — a sight that did this old farm boy good.

And it was also indicative of a unique niche Isbell occupies in this era’s roster of troubadours. As my date that night observed, “he expresses a vulnerability in Southern masculinity that you don’t often see,” and I had to agree with her. It seemed Isbell was speaking for all the shame, regret, self-doubt, and contrition that many of us have felt about our most macho or reactionary behavior, and that was especially apparent as he sang “Cover Me Up.” The line “I sobered up and I swore off that stuff forever this time” drew the most sustained cheers of the night. Was everyone there in recovery? I hadn’t previously realized that a reference to AA could whip up stadium cheers from an audience. It was a good thing.

Against such acts of radical empathy, Isbell demonstrated a playful contrariness. Pausing between songs, he noted, “You hear a lot about rap beefs lately. There’s been so many rap beefs. Why aren’t there, like, country music beefs, folk music beefs in America?” Unaware of the Bluff City’s own songsmith, Mark Edgar Stuart, he unwittingly invoked the title of Stuart’s Covid-era release, Folk Beef. But then, offering a bit of clarity, Isbell explained that almost every one of his songs could be a beef with someone. “I’m here to tell you,” he said, “every one of these songs is about somebody I can’t fucking stand.” As the audience laughed uproariously, he added, “Every single one, even the ones about me.”

And there it was: the punchline revealing, more seriously, how deep Isbell was digging into both others and himself to produce songs that are perfect slices of Southern life. Or the lives of most Americans, for that matter, as, toward the end of his set, Isbell played a 2007 song that’s all too relevant today, “Dress Blues,” with its chorus of “You never planned on the bombs in the sand/Or sleeping in your dress blues.”

Now the high school gymnasium’s ready
Full of flowers and old legionnaires
Nobody showed up to protest
Just sniffle and stare

There’s red, white, and blue in the rafters
And there’s silent old men from the corps
What did they say when they shipped you away
To fight somebody’s Hollywood war?

As those last two words rang out, with American bombs dropping over Iran that very moment, the loudest cheers of the night went up, irrepressible and sustained, and as the cheers and shouts went on, they revealed a communion I hadn’t expected: every audience member’s recognition of pain, trauma, and loss.

Jason Isbell’s set list, March 27, 2026:
Dreamsicle
White Beretta
Foxes in the Snow
Gravelweed
Live Oak
Alabama Pines
Strawberry Woman
Sunshine
Ride to Robert’s
Crimson and Clay
Chaos and Clothes
King of Oklahoma
Dress Blues
Tour of Duty
Streetlights
Goddamn Lonely Love
Cast Iron Skillet
Speed Trap Town
Cover Me Up

Encore
24 Frames
Bury Me
Outfit
Beth/Rest (Bon Iver cover)
If We Were Vampires