The first time I saw Richard Buckner play, I was wearing an awful cream colored, puffy sleeved sweater and a long brown skirt. I looked as though I’d recently escaped my polygamist husband and for unknown reasons headed out to hear a gravelly folk singer in the company of a military officer and a tall beautiful woman. In fact, the only thing not true about this story is the part about escaping a cult. I had recently graduated college, leaving my friends behind to live in DC with my brother’s independent, self-confident, 5’ 10” willowy girlfriend Mary. Mary taught me many things in life, the first lesson being don’t take fashion advice from someone who looks good in everything. I knew I looked terrible, but I wanted to emulate her confidence, and so I was going to wear that awful puffy fuzzy sweater regardless of what other people thought.

The outfit ruined the whole concert. I didn’t enjoy the music or the presence of several attractive and rugged military men. Instead I spent the evening quietly self-absorbed in my miserable attire.

The second time I saw Richard Buckner was with Mary again, only this time I dressed myself and went with a healthy dose of self-doubt and some vegan cookies. Mary’s sister Margo, a pretty, slightly shorter, and more effusive Mary, had made friends with Mr. Buckner at his recent concert in St. Louis. Margo had introduced herself to him and even brought him soup. Seeing the genius of this strategy, Mary made a batch of vegan cookies. After the show we had a great opener, “Here, we made you vegan cookies.” I don’t remember much of what was said—I was too busy in the background wondering if this qualified me as a groupie.

On May 7, I went to Lola’s Saloon in Fort Worth with another friend—no cookies, no Mary or Margo. Doug Burr was introducing for Mr. Buckner, and during Mr. Burr’s set I headed to the bar. Mr. Buckner was only two stools away. He’d aged since the last time I saw him—his face looked fuller and more lined than I remembered. He seemed morose and had a rougher, more pugnacious posture. He plays the role of the suffering musician just a few drinks short of liver failure. Now was my chance to create a great Richard Buckner story that I could share with all the cookie-wielding groupies that had left me standing awkwardly in the corner. The only thing I could come up with was “You’re Richard Buckner right?” Not a genius opening line, but I was in. Unfortunately the rest of the conversation was equally flat. I was glad when a few minutes later he headed to the stage and I didn’t have to awkwardly ignore him sitting right behind me.

I’ve never spent much time listening to Mr. Buckner’s albums, and I remember more about my clothes and emotional state than I do about his music from the first three times I’d seen him play. But I’d forgotten that he’s an amazing guitarist, poetic lyricist. I found that I could finally just listen to the music and enjoy the show.

Listening to Richard Buckner play live tests your emotional constitution. Dark, despairing lyrics accompany melancholy chords; yet the beauty of his voice and melodies manage to make the tragic seem lovely. His talent lies not just in his mastery of the guitar and his deep resonating voice, but in his ability to create beauty out of sorrow and tragedy. With intensely personal lyrics, his head bent and eyes unwilling to leave the floor, Mr. Buckner makes one feel that this is more a musical confession than a mere concert. Yet, rather than detract from the music, his on-stage reticence underscores his doleful tales of suffering.

When Mr. Buckner came to the stage, he played alone, using four different guitars, a delay/sampler pedal, and a glass of scotch as accompaniment. Using the pedals to record few chords or riffs, he played the loop back so that the time between songs either melodically wove together or became a discordant wall of vibrating sound. With no pause between songs, it was often hard to tell when he’d moved onto the next song. But while his lyrics may change, the story really never does. Each song is just a moment in the saga of a tragic life. And the benefit of seeing Buckner live is that when lyrics like

And what’s that word
I forget sometimes
It’s the one that means
The love has left your eyes
…There’s things that even a drunk
Will never forget…

send you spiraling you into malaise, a Shiner or three is no more than a bartender away.