Sturgill Simpson charts his own course at the Bomb Factory

It is more obvious than ever that Sturgill Simpson has scant interest in Nashville, much less saving the town, and the music for which it is known, from itself.

In case his feelings about country music, and particularly his role in it, were unclear to anyone in attendance at the Bomb Factory Saturday night, the 37-year-old singer-songwriter made it unmistakable: “You won’t see my [expletive] at the ACMs or the CMAs,” Simpson said, before launching into Life of Sin. “It’s all politics, and I’ve got a better chance at winning the presidency. I’d rather play for you guys, because who cares about that [expletive].”

Simpson waited a beat, and a wicked grin curled across his face.

“It might take 10 years, but when they need my help, I’m gonna give ‘em two of these — ” capping his aside with a double-fisted, middle finger salute.

The capacity crowd roared its approval, but it was an outlaw moment in an evening more preoccupied with soul (in both a musical and spiritual sense) and Simpson’s seeming ambivalence about the position in which finds himself, not long after the release of his bracing, poignant third studio album A Sailor’s Guide to Earth.

Over the course of two hours, and full performances of Earth and its predecessor, 2014’s Metamodern Sounds in Country Music, Simpson — backed by a muscular quartet, including his astonishing guitarist Laur Joamets, and a trio of New Orleans horns — indulged his funkier, messier impulses and kicked against country music’s constraints, resulting in a woolly, captivating evening.

His interest in stretching out, upending expectations and shrugging off the mantle of Country Music Savior fits with the deeply personal music of Earth, composed as a letter to his newborn son. (He did tease the traditional country purists who’ve flocked to him, though, singing a bit of Randy Travis’ Diggin’ Up Bones.)

“Can’t sweat the small stuff,” Simpson bellowed, like a mantra, at the climax of Keep It Between the Lines — a sentiment aimed at himself, as much it was his child.

At one point, Simpson, who seemed preoccupied with gazing out at the raucous, appreciative audience (although they weren’t rowdy enough, since he kept goading them to get crazier), observed that “we’re a long way from Club Dada or wherever the [expletive].”

That 2014 gig was a quicksilver moment in time, and the first glimpse for Simpson of what was to come. That night, he leaned into the music and plowed ahead, letting the songs carry him through the moment of transition. (The same could be said of his previous trip through DFW, a 2015 showcase at Billy Bob’s Texas.)

But his hestitation to embrace stardom was evident then, and he is no less certain of his newfound status now.

Still, when Simpson stepped back from the microphone and spun around, lost in the whirlwind generated by the musicians behind him, it looked as if all of the miseries — the media he grumbled about, the misintepretation of his music, the relentless need to crown him as Nashville’s one true hope, the late nights and long months away from his young family — melted away, a moment of rejuvenation amid so much potential ruination.

This story was originally published May 8, 2016 at 12:33 AM with the headline "Sturgill Simpson charts his own course at the Bomb Factory."