There’s a large cast of characters on Collected Songs, and I don’t mean the band — I’m talking about the lyrics, which are chock full of demon lawyers, tired waitresses and midnight riders; Johnny Ace, Marie Laveau and the Devil himself; down-and-out drunks from South Front Street to Julia to Bourbon and beyond. And as you might surmise, the band’s shooting for more of a roots-oriented sound, playing up Grayson Capps’ sleazy blooze voice and hard, and downplaying the alternative aspects of their sound.

The only problem with getting back to your roots is when there’s not much to get back to. Stavin’ Chain, like a lot of us, get their roots influence second hand, through classic rock. And, ironically, it’s only when the band stops trying to convince us of its grittiness that it makes real emotional connections.

Take “Harley Davidson,” the most genuine song here. It’s probably the only track that doesn’t over-romanticize the decay of this town; instead of going for cheap blues clichés, vocally and lyrically, Wills relaxes and spins a simple story. It’s a tale of a waitress (tellingly enough, she’s named Freebird) who’s struggling to get out of New Orleans, and never makes it — musically and thematically, it’s the band’s own “Shooting Star,” with a heavy dose of irony. That harmonica and piano coda says more about the pain of being in society’s dumpster than all of Wills’ blues-papa moaning. If I had to bet on only one of these hard-luck tales being factual, I’d go with this one.

Most of the album doesn’t live up to that great promise, though, and the great irony is that the best songs here, like “Monkey Business,” talk about leaving town, not enjoying it. Stavin’ Chain, for all their nods to tradition, sound as restless as their Southern-rock forbears. Hitting that open road, literally and musically, would do ’em a world of good.