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	JOSH RITTER Dustbowl Dreamer

Wearing a tan topcoat and a genial grin under his well-tended tumble of ginger hair, Josh Ritter paused before a packed house at the Somerville Theatre a week ago Monday. "It’s really great to be back here," said the former Somerville resident, who recently bought a house in his home state of Idaho. "Yep, it was really great to pull up to this beautiful theater and see the marquee that says, ‘Josh . . . 40 Year-Old Virgin.’ " Laughter from the seats below and above and a long comedic pause from the singer-songwriter. "I’m not 40."

Ritter’s a natural charmer, and subtly backed by drums, organ, and a second acoustic-guitarist, he held the crowd in the palm of his hand. Not only did the 90-minute set showcase a batch of new songs from his forthcoming The Animal Years (due from V2 early next year), it offered a sure-handed overview of the trenchant, rustic tunes already penned by the 28-year-old dustbowl dreamer. Nearly half the numbers were new, and all of them rivaled — and in some cases eclipsed — the romantic tempest of older standbys like "Kathleen," the taciturn nostalgia of "Me & Jiggs," and the Nick Drake–ish spun spell of "Come and Find Me."

The centerpiece was the new, epic "Thin Blue Flame," a furious tangle of preached poetry à la Dylan’s "It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)" that Ritter, having traded his acoustic for an electric, bashfully dedicated "to the people of Pakistan." The song itself was a razor-sharp riff of rhyme and mercurial, naked nerve, wrathful yet suffused, finally, with hope. As a writer and performer, Ritter projects an innate joy and a guileless sense of wonder. It’s what separates him from the bleak fatalism of the folks with whom he’s most often compared. And these days, we need comfort as well as outrage, and we take it where we can find it.