I should repeat with affection, for those who don’t know, the frequently observed fact that Blaine Duncan teaches high school English by day. By night he stands sweating over the sticky floor of Egan’s, semi-obscured by smoke and sheer sonic force, almost equidistant between his band and a rolling crowd of friends and strangers. Plumes of beer fill the air as he counts off into the next song. Do his students have any idea?

Duncan stands at close to six feet, grows straight blonde hair from out his head and has the sort of clean shave you might find on the cheek of a plaster bust. At 33, he has survived one near-fatal car crash, one marriage and divorce, an occasional propensity for substance overindulgence and a swath of smoldering heartbreaks. A résumé to embitter the most upbeat among us, Duncan retains his trademark good nature, preferring to sacrifice those demons in his songwriting.

From a lyrical standpoint, Duncan’s eponymous first album — released in 2009 but recorded a year earlier — was a restless churning of dark humor, delirium and Southern doom. Such universal themes as whiskey, poverty, soul searching, pills and love affairs filled its often-impudent verses, with a clever social or political quip occasionally added for good measure (“I don’t think certain people should be in government” — he ain’t kidding).

The album’s music drew most overtly from the blistering alternative-country-rock of the Drive-By Truckers and the Dexateens, but also, to me, appeared aligned with quite another flavor of alt-country that of Conor Oberst. Duncan’s vocals, though scratchier and less warbling, often resemble Oberst’s, especially on the latter-half of the album (excepting the closing track). Of course, unlike Oberst, Duncan’s drawl is not copped but indigenous, and his overall approach intends, truth-be-told, to raise more hell. Still, Duncan certainly exhibited some lyrical and vocal instincts not unlike those of Oberst, and that’s a compliment. It’s worth noting that both consider themselves songwriters first.

The unreleased track “Reckless,” received recently by your columnist in early demo form, embodies a substantial maturation in Duncan’s personal voice as a songwriter. “And it’s a reckless motherf—er/that don’t listen to the words,” laments Duncan over his own simple-but-supportive acoustic accompaniment. Those familiar themes of substance dependency and existential malaise are reengaged from the more even-tempered vantage of a world-weary post-divorce Duncan. His sense of humor has shifted as well, from sprawling irreverence to something more pointed.

At the song’s pre-chorus, Duncan sings: “And it’s become trite/I’m always disappointed, the drugs are alright/And it’s a short life;” then, at the chorus: “Wishing every morning was Saturday night.” It’s the stuff of a local anthem. Indeed the full-band version, performed live on numerous occasions, has ended in an unsolicited audience sing-along each time I’ve seen it.

So the excellent “Reckless,” consummate Tuscaloosa anthem it appears to be, vaults Duncan into the highest tier of local songwriters.  Hopefully the final version will maintain the demo’s stripped-down instrumentation; Duncan’s lyrics and vocal delivery deserve the spotlight. No doubt whatever form the song takes should be a compelling one. If “Reckless” is any indication of what’s to come from Blaine Duncan, his next album holds about as much promise as anyone could reasonably hope for.

Blaine Duncan & the Lookers can be found onstage at Mellow Mushroom (19 and up) this Friday evening at 10 p.m., billed alongside Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires; then at Egan’s (21 and up) Oct. 16.