Though a minor talent by any definition, Jerry Jeff Walker -- born Ronald Clyde Crosby in upstate New York in 1942, died in 2020 -- is remembered in part because he managed to be in the right place at the right time. Notably, he migrated to Austin from Greenwich Village just as the latter's folk scene was fading. After hiring a band, he was able to rebrand himself as an "outlaw country" artist before just about anybody else thought to do so.

He also wrote "Mr. Bojangles," twice a popular hit (first for the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, then for Sammy Davis Jr.) and from it accumulated a fortune most other composers can only dream about. He also recorded two decent albums, The Driftin' Way of Life (1969) and Viva Terlingua (1973), before falling victim, in often distressingly public fashion, to a long stretch of drugs and alcohol abuse. I saw him twice, once (sober, at a folk club with sidekick David Bromberg), the second time at a college gig (disordered, with a band that acted as if it had taken enough from him; besides, his piano player Gary P. Nunn, who never became famous, was composing superior material, not least the much-loved "London Homesick Blues").

Not long ago I happened to hear a box set of Walker's albums. Not having listened to him in quite a while, I was surprised that my memories of his output were so accurate: some pleasant originals, mostly serviceable countryish folk songs, and early covers of contemporaries who would go on to critical successes and cult followings: Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt, Michael Martin Murphey, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Paul Siebel and others. By the 1980s Walker's own writing had declined into pop songs of no distinction whatsoever.

A promising teenaged folk singer, Houston's Steve Earle, met Walker as Earle was showing up on the singer-songwriter scene. An admirer of the established Walker, he hoped to emulate his success as a Texas club act. Clark and Van Zandt also affected Earle, who in recent years has recorded tributes to them. I reviewed them here on 5 June 2010 and 18 May 2019, respectively. Jerry Jeff concludes the series.

No surprise, its focus is on Walker's career-introducing songs, still listenable if rarely transcending that. Except for "Bojangles," none is an enduring classic; yet they do what songs are supposed to do: make their passage enjoyable, move you, put you in somebody else's shoes, give you a melody to hum, or whatever. In those days Walker assumed the persona of the easygoing drifter, inspiring the amiable likes of "Gettin' By" and "Gypsy Songman." Earle also revisits a moody love-gone-bad lament, "Little Bird," and a remembrance of a character not known as Bojangles, "Charlie Dunn."

After 10 cuts Earle apparently ran out of Walker-penned songs he considered worth reviving. That done, he turns to three covers associated with Walker: Hubbard's witty take on 1960s cultural wars as they played out in Texas honkytonks, "Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother," and a couple of Western-themed ballads, Michael Burton's often-recorded "Night Rider's Lament" and David Gilstrap's "Rodeo Cowboy."

Walker's and Earle's voices are hardly alike, of course. Thus, hearing the latter take on a distantly recalled song can be akin to hearing it for the first time. As such things go, there's nothing wrong with this particular album. But the best of the lot remains Earle's Guy, followed by Townes. Unlike either Clark or Van Zandt, nobody has ever judged Walker a genius of his chosen profession. Even so, Jerry Jeff has its modest virtues, and if you recall the early tunes fondly (and, not incidentally, appreciate what Earle's superior talent brings to them), it's a worthy effort to revive memories of a folk musician who helped bring a school of -- let's be honest -- more creative and vital singer-songwriters into prominence.