I admit it: I haven’t listened to much Bill Callahan, who has spent the bulk of his career recording under the Smog moniker. But I’ve listened to 2003’s Supper about a quarter of a million times, and why, given how much I enjoy it, I haven’t listened to any of his other albums is an imponderable mystery, like what happened to D.B. Cooper, why the dinosaurs and the 8-track went extinct, and what exactly it is about the Police that other people hear but I don’t.
Callahan followed the patented path from lo-fi to high, although in his case the increasing sophistication was due less to shifting aesthetic preference to sheer lack of access to more expensive recording technology in his early years. He has however, stayed faithful to his relativity primitive songwriting approach, which emphasizes simple and repetitive song structures, and often eschews choruses. That, compared with his deadpan vocal delivery, gives his LPs a unique feel, one that is often simultaneously down in the mouth and exhilarating. Or, depending on your tastes, it makes them exercises in monotony, which are likely to send you running to something with more variety, say Prince or just about everybody, really.
“Feather by Feather” is a lovely and haunting slow burner of a country rock tune on which Callahan is joined by Sarabeth Tucek. The organ is pretty, as is the pedal steel guitar, and while I can’t say I know what the song is about, I sure do like it when Callahan sings, “When they make the movie of your life/They’re going to have to ask you to do your own stunts/Cuz nobody nobody nobody nobody/Can pull off the same shit as you/And still come out alright.” I also like the ending, when Callahan and Tucek sing, “And you are a fighter/You are a fighter/You are a fighter” and so on until a synth comes in and they repeat, “The kids got heart.” I’m not enthralled by “Butterflies Drowned in Wine,” which opens with some stop and start until it breaks into an enthused passage, which in its turn is followed by some slow country music. And so it goes, the tune twisting and turning about on itself and going every which way—there’s even a section where Callahan and Tucek sing, “Temporary sister and brotherhood” over and over again—and it’s just too busy for my tastes.
“Morality” features one cranked-up guitar that I simply adore, and that runs through the song like beautiful electricity through a power line. “What would my wife say?/If I was married?” sings Callahan, posing theoretical ethics questions, and all I can say, two divorces into life, if that she probably wouldn’t like it, whatever it is. “Ambition” is a midtempo shuffle in which Callahan employs a deadpan sense of humor; he may say he’s looked up the female subject of the song just to see her, but what he’s really looking for is a drug connection, and he needs them to serve all kinds of absolutely essential purposes: “Well I’ve got to get there/Now don’t I?/And when I get there/I’ve got to sleep well/Now don’t I?/And when I wake up in the morning/Gotta wake up in the morning/Now don’t I?/When I meet with them/Gotta be on the ball/Now don’t I?/When I do their dirt/I’ve got to feel numb/Now don’t I?” and so on.
“Vessel in Vain” is one of my favorite songs by anybody anywhere, and I should add that while I don’t understand it, “Vessel in Vain” never fails to send me into a state of spiritual awe. The chiming guitar and organ that open it are purest loveliness, as are Callahan’s opening lines, “I can’t be held be responsible/For the things I say/For I am just a vessel in vain.” I’ve spent my entire life feeling like a vessel in vain, and perhaps that’s what we all are, but what makes the song so truly glorious is its intimations of immortality: ”No boat out on no ocean/No name there on no boat/It’s not a strain at all to remember/Those that I left behind/They’re all standing right here beside me now/And most of them with a smile.” And then there’s the expansive and beautiful chorus: “My ideals have got me on the run/It’s my connection with everyone.”
I’m moved every time I hear the song, just as I’m moved by the wonderful “Truth Serum,” which barrels along, its lovely melody made even more so thanks to the vocal contributions of Sarabeth Tucek. Callahan and his friends wander a house having taken a dose of truth serum, and arcane philosophy is discussed (Tucek: “Well then what is love?” Callahan: “Love is an object in an empty box”) and confessions made (“Big bruiser Ken walks in/And says,’ I like men’”). Meanwhile the song swings in its minimalist way, thanks in part to some fantastic pedal steel guitar, and Callahan’s sums things up by singing, “People, people/There’s a lesson here plain to see/There’s no truth in you/There’s no truth in me/The truth is between/The truth is between.”
“Our Anniversary” comes complete with fireworks, and boasts a simple and lovely melody over which Callahan sings about how everything, the crickets and the bullfrogs, are singing. But this tune is no celebration; his mate has hidden the car keys, presumably so he can’t run, and this is one anniversary he’ll be spending with her, like it or not. Love is a broken thing, and it crosses his mind to “to hotwire and hightail,” but he goes back inside instead, and it doesn’t get much lovelier than when he sings, “Here’s to next year,” he sings, “You’ll join me in my car/We’ll drive together/But not too far,” before singing, “Let us die/Let us die/Let us die/Let us die.” And this tune stands right up there with Mountain Goats’ “No Children” and The Felice Brothers’ “Sell the House” in its disastrously clear-eyed view of a relationship that has gone down the tubes.
“Driving” is a monotonous, pedal steel and drum dominated tune that is every bit as uneventful as a late night drive down I-95. Callahan and Tucek sing, “And the rain washes the price/Off of our windshield,” and those are all the lyrics there are. Still, they hit you with the force of a short story, those few words, and we’re invited to use our imagination about that used car in the rain, and the people inside it. The LP closes with, “A Guiding Light,” yet another lovely and spiritually infused song that has Callahan looking for a guiding light, and staying up late to “prove wrong all the statements I made.”
No, I’m afraid I’ll never know why, given my affection and admiration for Supper, I’ve never sought out any of Callahan’s many other LPs. Maybe because while he’s an excellent musician he works in monochrome hues that make him sound like a bummer, sort of like Crooked Fingers only less so. Or it could be any number of other reasons. This I do know; Supper is totally worth the listen. You may, like me, just not want to stick around for the dessert.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-
