What does it mean to say a singer-songwriter is the best? It's pointless, given folk's idiosyncrasies. High standards can be a handicap; a little shagginess combats dull gentility. Mr. Shindell is so literary that his ballads would go straight into The New Yorker if they were prose. Such skill can often be deadening.

But Mr. Shindell demonstrates an invaluable gift as a songwriter: a genuine absence of ego. His most idyllic lyrics do not feel forced because he tempers their poeticism with a conversational tone. Characters like an immigration officer grilling a suspect or a nun changing a tire can express profundities because they have a plain side, too. The combination gains depth through his artfully straightforward baritone, the vocal equivalent of Shaker furniture. His melodies are just as beautifully unadorned.

Mr. Shindell's humility allows for ambition. Like two other "best" singer-songwriters, Bruce Springsteen and Lucinda Williams, he dwells on big, often difficult moments in the lives of ordinary people. By staying with them even as he flies into metaphor, he maintains equanimity.

His extra vibrancy on Thursday came from a band that he should try to keep. It might be impossible because its anchor is Larry Campbell, a guitarist in Bob Dylan's constantly touring troupe. Mr. Campbell's contributions on guitar, bouzouki and mandolin were as modestly stunning as Mr. Shindell's songs.