Smog - Julius Caesar

In my view, there’s a fine line between genius and mental illness

Sometimes that line is so grey that you’re never quite sure which side the artist falls on.

Such is the case with Bill Callahan, who released records early on in his career under the moniker Smog.

You never really knew if Callahan was this hopeless savant or just hopelessly misunderstood, using any bits of recording technology just to give voice to his internal issues.

 Julius Caesar became my first record of Callahan’s-or Smog as the title suggests-and it came on my radar after the Flaming Lips covered his “Chosen One” song that’s found on this low-fi masterpiece. They went over the entire Callahan/Smog storyline prior to tackling what would be one of many compositions that document Bill’s penchant for heartbreak, depression, and poor choices in women.

Callahan uses his acoustic guitar primarily, strumming out rudimentary chords on barely tuned guitars. The percussion could be a hand against the hollowbody, a handclap or a spare primitive drum kit that he seems incapable of playing effectively.

For “I Am Star Wars!” he does an old trick that I used to do: hitting the “repeat” button on the cd player, forming a rhythmic pattern with the Rolling Stones “Honky Tonk Woman.” Almost twenty years later, it appears the legal team of the Stones has yet to find out about this infraction. He does the same thing with Prince’s “Sexy MF” at the end of “Connections.”

He also incorporates another technique on “When The Power Goes Out,” stealing groceries from the grocery store when they lose power. And like Callahan, the lifted items were for a good cause: a single mother.

Unfortunately, most of Callahan’s lady friends don’t seem to share in his generosity or endless romanticism.  His voice is defeated, his ideal woman continually diminished by reality, and yet he continues to be attracted to the flawed women that send him in a downward spiral.

“She said I could do it without protection…and that’s not a woman at all” he declares on “What Kind Of Angel,” succinctly documenting the entire AIDS paranoia that many singles had the “pleasure” of dealing with during the late 80’s/early 90’s, just about the same time our collective hormones and sexual freedom came to fruition.  He’s endlessly seeking an angel, but all he can find is “an angel of death.”

Another relationship proves to be with an unavailable woman who eventually pairs up with someone else. Bill keeps his disappointment to himself, but vows “I’m gonna be drunk… so drunk… at your wedding.”

Julius Caesar ends with the appropriately titled “Stick In The Mud” where Callahan finally admits “There’s nothing that I’d rather see than for you to fail. Evidently, it’s the best that he can muster in his passive/aggressive approach with these wrong women, but what’s even better is that he’s allowed these failed relationships paint a stunning record of emotional quality that supersedes any low production quality where his heart lies in pieces among the distortion and hiss of that protective magnetic tape.

Bill Callahan - Live In Iowa City

Bill Callahan
Live At The Blue Moose, Iowa City, Iowa
June 30, 2011

Last week in Iowa, a woman was found dead in the cattle field, her toddler Granddaughter was found safe by her side.

At first, the authorities thought that maybe an over-protective cow had killed her, thinking that the woman was going to harm her calf. The newspaper reports mentioned how rare a death like this was, but exclaimed surprise and relieve that the huge beast had spared the little one.

A few days later, the husband of the woman revealed that an autopsy proved her death was caused by a stroke-not the cow-and that his wife would have wanted him to clarify this as it would have troubled her if she thought people worried about the disposition of cows.

Bill Callahan refers to this same topic in a song on his latest album, Apocalypse, so I felt the need to relay the story to him after his performance at the Blue Moose in Iowa City on Thursday night. There was no opportunity to engage with Mr. Callahan. In compliance with his desire to be a sepia toned mystery man, Bill left the stage as quickly as he entered it, saying very little in between but packing a deep, resonant punch with each song in his 90 minute set.

The murdering cattle story was meant to be an ice-breaker, to gently rib Callahan’s notion that the cattle within “” were really out to get him. Mainly, I wanted to see if our little Midwestern news story would be able to crack a smile from this stoic troubadour.

With matching jacket and slacks, Callahan looked the part of a wrinkled Ryan O’Neil character in Paper Moon without the mustache and without the hat that would merely mess up Bill’s enviable head of hair. His band, drummer Neal Morgan and guitarist Matt Kinsey also donned jackets with wearing what appeared to be a dark brown corduroy one that was completely out of place on a day when Iowa saw temperatures reach the mid-90's.

Callahan announced his primitively arranged partners around the third song in, but you could tell that he was signing the paychecks. Callahan would make eye contact with his guitarist Kinsey whenever it was time to return to the chorus or to wrap things up.

He’s also that man in charge in terms of melody, song structure, and lyrics. He rarely adheres to any formal arrangement, other than keeping things simple in terms of chord progression and delivering words in a deep baritone which often falls into a sing/speak execution.

From what I heard, Bill covered the entire Apocalypse record in addition to “Sycamore” from his debut solo release and other older tracks that seemed to generate the most response from the audience. Strangely though, the crowd seemed to response very positively to “America!” probably my least favorite cut on the new record and, admittedly, it did sound better on stage than on record.

He worked from a worn acoustic, finger picking strings and strumming repetitive chords. Matt Kinsey worked from a Gibson SB, occasionally creating layers of echo and delay from a small arsenal of pedals at his feet while he sat on a folding chair.

“Small” was the key with drummer Neal Morgan who had nothing but a hi-hat, snare, floor tom and a ride cymbal to work with as he alternated between his hands, brushes, and softly utilized drum sticks. From my vantage point, I could see he was bare foot while he kept time with his small bass drum.

Callahan’s emotionless voice was haunting if you allowed it, or an opportunity to speak with your neighbor as a few Thursday night residents decided to do, seemingly uncaring that their conversations could have been more appropriate in the bar in the next room.

Callahan seemed use to such insensitivities and even forgave us at the end of the set enough to ask “So, what do you want to hear?”

A plethora of indecipherable requests began making their way to the stage as Callahan told one audience member “I don’t want to do that one” before he simply turned to his stage mates and picked a song from his catalog and began to play.
Nobody complained, and he added another pair of songs before quickly walking off stage, through the crowd and towards the door, like he was afraid of what the herd might do to him.

And while the cattle may indeed be the least of his worries, it’s good that he still views them with trepidation.

Bill Callahan - Apocalypse

Bill Callahan’s only fault may lie in his consistency. His latest solo effort, Apocalypse is neither better or worse from the last or the one before that, and occasionally that can be a bit frustrating.

Because after nearly twenty years of doing this, you’d expect him to shit or get off the pot in terms of making an accessible record that garnishes a bigger audience.

That’s my issue-not Bill’s-and for a dude that’s admitted admiration for Jandek, I should probably just forget about Callahan’s IRA and just accept that he’s an introverted artist that digs a slow pace in both his tempos and career.

The story arc on Apocalypse is the same as any other Bill Callahan release with references to man and country and the occasional hints of love. Everything is delivered via Callahan’s mysterious baritone and simple chord structure.

It usually begins with Bill strumming an acoustic guitar, then a barely there drum pattern and finally some electric ambience thanks to Matt Kinsey’s electric guitar and analog/digital delay pedal. In between, there’s room for a harmonica, flute or keyboard during some points, but otherwise, this is as Americana as you can get.

Speaking of, the worse song on Apocalypse (“America!”) happens to be the one specifically devoted to Callahan’s patriotic influences. He lists them-Kris Kristofferson, George Jones, Johnny Cash-and then he lists their ranks and service, presumably in the order of his own influence. He then suggests “I’ve never served my country,” indicating that he’s yet to achieve their level of contribution.

And with lines like “I watched David Letterman in Australia,” it’s true. These are words that mean more to him than the rest of us, and every influence that he’s mentioned within “America!” was at least able to place emotion behind their words so that they’d be relatable to the listener.

Thankfully, most of the songs on this seven song set are relatable, particularly on the eight-and-a-half minute closer “One Fine Morning.” Callahan repeats a simple two chord pattern on his acoustic while a lone piano adds dramatic flourishes behind. The drums provide a few key false starts and Kinsey weaves in and out of the mix.

All of this minimalist backdrop places the entire song in Callahan’s hands, a gentleman not know for linear song structures and verse/chorus/verse.

Indeed, he doesn’t follow such conformity, and he beats each word down by going up and down the scales until he’s exercising something from within.

Something endearing.

Something that makes me not give a shit how many people hear it, because it's good enough for me to want to keep it to myself for just a while longer.