Delbert McClinton laughs like a man who’s been in on the joke longer than the rest of us. “Try to name a band or a record,” he says. “Somebody’s already got a cap on it. But Tall, Dark, and Handsome—you’re not gonna forget that. I got a black trumpet player, a guitar player about eight feet tall, and I’m handsome. It’s self-explanatory.”
It’s also pure Delbert: a sly wink from a Texas bluesman who’s spent sixty years making roadhouse soul sound effortless. His new record, Tall, Dark, and Handsome, is a late-career gem—part Texas shuffle, part New Orleans swing, and all grit.
He’s not buying the marketing copy that calls it a “celebration of Texas blues.” “That’s somebody listening and then telling you what it’s about,” he says. “I came from Texas, sure—it’s got some of that insolence—but we stretched out. Me and the guys in my band have been writing together for three years now, and we’ve come up with some stuff none of us knew was there. Kind of real close to magic.”
McClinton’s magic has always been more about chemistry than genre. He calls it “our band” now, not “my band.” Guitarist Bob Britt and sax player Dana Robbins have been collaborators and friends, both surviving cancer along the way. “When Bob was going in for chemo,” McClinton recalls, “I said, ‘Here’s a song we need to write—think about it. If I hock my guitar, how the hell am I supposed to play the blues?’”
The resulting song, “If I Hock My Guitar,” became one of the record’s best—half joke, half hymn for working musicians. “That line just came from nowhere,” he says. “And then Bob hits me with, ‘Thought I was really something, but maybe I was wrong.’ That’s the kind of thing that happens when you’re writing with people you admire. Everybody’s trying to make the other guy laugh or cry. It’s common ground, you know?”
That sense of camaraderie drives Tall, Dark, and Handsome, whether he’s sharing verses with his daughter on “A Fool Like Me” (“She knows every nuance of every Hank Williams song, every one of my songs, and all the solos,” he says proudly) or revisiting “Mexico,” a song he wrote years ago but only just recorded. “My youngest son did it first on his record,” he says. “I’d never recorded it, so when we got to making this one, I took it back.”
“Mexico” opens with a horn section so rich it feels cinematic. “That’s Jim Hoke,” McClinton says, lighting up. “He’s a freak of nature. Did all the horn arrangements—four tenor saxophones. You hear that and you gotta get up and do something. Before those horns, it was just a shell. But when he finished, it came alive.”
McClinton owns a house in Mexico, too, and it’s clear the place has seeped into his worldview. “I feel safer in Mexico than I do here,” he says. “I love it. The history, the people, the food—it’s beautiful. When I was in high school, my plan was to graduate, get a job, buy a Jeep, and go to Mexico to be an archaeologist. Took me 60 years, but I finally did it.” He pauses. “I hate all the horror going on, but that’s the world. Let’s not talk about that—let’s talk about me.”
He says it with a grin, but there’s a point underneath: McClinton’s never been one for preaching, even when he’s sneaking wisdom into the lyrics. His writing mantra is simple: “I’m the world’s biggest lyric freak. If I don’t get it like I want it, it’s not any good. I write rock and roll for adults. Intelligent songs.”
That intelligence comes wrapped in swagger. He’s the same guy who blew harmonica on Bruce Channel’s “Hey! Baby” back in ’62 (and supposedly showed a young John Lennon how to do it). The same guy who gave Emmylou Harris “Two More Bottles of Wine,” scored a Top 10 hit with “Giving It Up for Your Love,” and still tours with a smile that suggests he never took any of it too seriously.
But don’t talk to him about guitar heroes. “If I never hear another thrashing guitar player, that’d be too soon,” he says. “If I hear one more bit of guitar masturbation… no thanks. Music’s turned into a beat. Nothing wrong with that, I guess, but it’s gone to hell in a jet. I’m from a different time—when quiet could be loud, when everybody played their part and didn’t stomp on each other.”
He still listens to ’40s pop and swing on SiriusXM. “That music was so uplifting,” he says. “World’s going to hell, and the songs were pure joy. You don’t get that much anymore.”
For all his cantankerous charm, McClinton’s not a cynic. He’s an artist who still believes in the alchemy of a few good friends, a bottle of something strong, and a song worth singing. “We go to Mexico, hang out on the veranda, eat good food, and write songs,” he says. “It’s hard to beat.”
When I mention the star he just received outside Austin’s Paramount Theatre, he groans. “Oh, I get awkward about stuff like that,” he says. “I don’t know how to react. I can’t stand the hoopla. Awards shows, ceremonies—they’re self-serving. Somebody told me once, ‘In Nashville, you get three people together, and two of ’em will give the third one an award.’ It’s true.”
Then, typically, he undercuts the sentiment with a laugh. “Hey, maybe this’ll be my big breakout,” he says. “I’m still trying to make it, baby.”
Listen to the interview above and then check out the track below.
