Greetings TO Asbury Park: Josh Ritter in concert

When Idaho folk-rocker Josh Ritter officially introduced himself to Bruce Springsteen Nation last April, with an elegant rendition of “The River” at Carnegie Hall’s all-star Boss tribute, you could practically sense the collective eureka moment as the audience discovered a kindred spirit. Not only did the scruffy troubadour knock the song out of the park, but his impromptu prologue was a superlative homage to the simple but rare storytelling eloquence he shares with that evening’s honoree.

Last night, Ritter and his band kicked off their Small Town USA Tour in the House That Bruce Built: The Stone Pony in Asbury Park, N.J. It’s an appropriate launching pad for a performer looking to cut loose a bit. While he made his name playing small, rowdy pubs in Ireland, he’s seemed just as comfortable playing more highbrow venues, like New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, which he played April 12 in a duet concert with classical violinist Hilary Hahn. The drab but hallowed Pony, as anyone who’s ventured through its fabled doors can attest, is relatively fiddle-intolerant, making it the perfect place to reclaim the groove only jamming in front of a neon sign can offer.

The Pony prides itself on its Spartan simplicity. “Backstage” is the band’s bus, parked obtrusively out front. The low ceiling’s steel pipes are a head-wound waiting to happen to any acrobatic guitarist, and the ceiling itself bows threateningly over the stage, making the odds that the band will metaphorically “blow the roof off” only slightly better than tragically crumbling beneath it.

With a refreshingly warm ocean breeze, the evening weather welcomed ladies in tank tops and men in flannel shirts (which at the Jersey Shore means it’s somewhere between 32 and 87 degrees). Flannel outnumbered flesh, though, by at least 2-to-1, and the fellas, who spanned multiple generations, seemed united at least in their laziness, absentmindedness, or downright disdain for shaving cream.

Rock icon Lou Reed was playing simultaneously only a few Skee-Ball’s tosses away at the nearby Paramount Theater, but the enthusiastic and generationally diverse crowd pushed forward when Ritter and his four bandmates catapulted onto the stage to prove they knew how to rock.

The verdict? Yes, but. Dressed in a black blazer over a carelessly buttoned, white collared shirt, the frizzy-haired singer launched into “Mind’s Eye” and quickly followed with “To the Dogs or Whoever,” two charged songs from his latest studio effort, last summer’s gorgeous Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter. They raced through the first five songs, coming up for air only after 2006’s “Good Man,” with its Springsteenian lyrical references to “hard times” and “badlands.” Dispensing with his folksy storytelling interludes, Ritter seemed determined to establish his rock bonafides, even forgoing two of his most popular reflective ballads, “Thin Blue Flame” and “Girl in the War.” Only during the encore, when he dedicated a hushed rendition of “Monster Ballads” to the late E-Street Band keyboardist Danny Federici, did he seem willing to slow the pace.

The audience, many of whom know Ritter’s music primarily from his albums — he hadn’t performed in New Jersey in five years — seemed to be playing catch-up at the start of the 91-minute show. But when he launched into “Harrisburg,” a galloping lament about heaven, hell and trains that would be right at home on Disc Two of Springsteen’s “The River,” the crowd surged and never relented.

What is immediately apparent, though, is that Ritter’s searingly introspective and provocative political lyrics are cloaked in an unapologetically joyous live performance. He writes about heartbreak. He sings about loss. But onstage, he’s a grinning jester. He and his crew, especially mustachioed bassist Zack Hickman (a physical hodgepodge of Buddy Holly and Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot) have none of the angst and rebelliousness that has shaped most other rock music. He’s Elliott Smith, but with a wink and a smile. All the other oft-mentioned comparisons to a young Springsteen may only be skin deep, but his irrepressible ability to locate and share the salvation of rock ‘n’ roll is pure Boss and might be his greatest gift of all. This is a rock band you can bring home to mom — that is, if she hasn’t already nabbed them herself.