Rodney Crowell is an elder statesman of good ole-fashioned rockin' country; country that's not prefixed by "alt" or "new". Except he's detailing the venal excesses of his countrymen in a brutally arch, riotous romp called The Obscenity Prayer, with its splendid couplets: "Give to me my Aspen winter/ Sorry 'bout the World Trade Centre" and "The Dixie Chicks can kiss my ass/ But I still need that backstage pass." After Sex and Gasoline, in which a surprisingly angular guitar motif scythes into lyrics about the sexual exploitation of the young, someone in the crowd yells, "Play some country!" "It doesn't exist any more," Crowell replies with a wry smile. "Haven't you heard?" But he obliges with 'Til I Gain Control Again, making magic with this lovely, bruised ballad despite the metronomic bash of his drummer.

Looking at Crowell's band, you realise that in a thousand years' time, barring ecological cataclysm, there will still be young American males wearing flannel shirts. On one level, Crowell makes archetypal blue-collar rock. On another, he performs what many would see as unspeakable acts with one of music's most conservative forms. Country's pungent poetics require that even uncertainties are painted in the broadest strokes, which makes Crowell's insurrection even balder and braver.

I Wish It Would Rain, one of two songs loosely based on twins Crowell knew as a boy, one of whom later died from Aids, is a case in point. You could fret endlessly about exploiting the character for the purpose of the song, but Crowell's assumption of the "I" of the narrative, an HIV-infected hustler, is undeniably moving. It's easy to imagine it rustling a few feathers at the Grand Ole Opry.

Like Randy Newman, Crowell inhabits his characters absolutely. It's this that makes his bleak satire hit home so hard. That blue collar is grubby with shades of grey.

· At the Mean Fiddler, London WC2 (0870 060 3777), tonight. Then touring.