Most rock ‘n’ roll is experienced in—and reviewed from—the dark, smoky, low-ceilinged confines of clubs, many of which could charitably be described as dives. “Dens of iniquity,” my grandmother would’ve called them, memories of wild-ass swing tunes during Prohibition dancing in her Southern Baptist head. Indeed, some things never change and probably never will. Still, given the chance to hear tunes in an altogether different setting, any true music lover will jump at the opportunity to experience the concurrent shift in psychological ambience.

Chapel Hill’s Two Dollar Pistols are surely no strangers to honky-tonks. Just about to release their third album (fourth if you count a live disc, and fifth if you include a mini-album recorded with country ingénue Tift Merritt), the Pistols, since forming in ’96, have been pitching their brand of country-rock woo to willing ears all over the country. A lot of ears have fallen for this pitch, too, thanks in no small part to leader John Howie’s resonant baritone, which uncannily marries Randy Travis’ boom to George Jones’ croon, and, of course, to the Pistols’ adeptness at bringing together several generations’ worth of twang without watering down any period or subgenre.

An informal survey of the crowd at this particular gig confirmed the Pistols’ cross-generational appeal; a few old-timers nimbly two-stepped and a host of pre-schoolers unselfconsciously twirled and tumbled before the bandstand while thirtysomething parents, indiecentric college kids and mohawk-sporting punks gathered and gabbed. The occasion was the Sunset Stampede Festival, which marked the closing ceremonies of a local footrace and mini-marathon held earlier in the day. The concert took place outdoors, on the bandstand located at the midtown City-County Plaza adjacent to Asheville’s courthouse. (In the summer, the bandstand also plays host to Shindig On The Green, a free bluegrass concert held every Saturday night at sunset; Asheville is mountain country.) As such, the vibe couldn’t have been further from that described in the first paragraph above: This was a family celebration, and a good time was clearly had by all.

For dyed-in-the-wool club-dwellers, the Pistols seemed to revel in the open-air surroundings. The hour set showcased several tunes from the new Brian Paulson-produced Hands Up! (Yep Roc), notably the Byrds-meets-Uncle Tupelo title track and the wryly reflective, Dwight Yoakam-esque “Too Bad That You’re Gone.” Throughout, Howie, guitarist Scott McCall, bassist Mark O’Brien and drummer Matt Brown projected a genial intensity, going about each tune with the diligence of artisans but always moving (as much as was possible on the cramped bandstand) and constantly engaging the attention of the kids and dancers. Howie in particular is a radiant, natural frontman, attired in his signature straw Stetson and waving his acoustic guitar around for emphasis during the songs (a trick he no doubt picked up from Yoakam) while singing in that distinctive, romantic voice of his.

One unexpected highlight came when the quartet eased into a low-end “Peter Gunn”-styled riff that gradually turned into the signature chords of Vince Taylor nugget “Brand New Cadillac,” served up here strummily enough to signify the performers’ bottom line aesthetic but with a hefty dash of punk-powered vim ‘n’ vigor to ensure attendees would recall the classic Clash version, too. A vintage slice of country legend Ernest Tubb, timeless kiss-off number “Thanks A Lot,” closed out the Pistols’ set, leaving a sweet, clean twang lingering in everyone’s ears. And with no dank club walls to absorb this twang and make it dissipate, it seemed to hang forever in the beautiful Asheville nighttime sky.