BILL CALLAHAN
The BOTTLETREE CAFE, BIRMINGHAM, AL
FEBRUARY 26, 2008
WORDS & PICTURES: ALEC NIEDENTHAL

I swear to God: the worst experience one can hope not to bear during the preface of any kind of indie rock show is that of isolation, loneliness. There’s supposed to be this ineffable nexus of camaraderie impregnating the atmosphere of the venue as everyone buys each other drinks and peruses the merchandise, this sweat-saturated air you’re all breathing in and out reciprocating and proliferating from audience member to audience member interminably, interconnecting them, which they’re wordlessly aware of but not quite ready to explain; but when that isn’t there for you, it’s hard, if not downright impossible, to wholly and unreservedly bask in the warmth of the pre-show vagaries. That acute notion of brotherhood-in-alienation was elusive tonight. At least— it was until the music started.

I had assumed, very wrongly indeed, that the show would be packed to the brim with garrulous hipsters, and that I could just blend into their resulting mass by masquerading as one of them. Instead, there were roughly 20 people in attendance by the time the show was supposed to start, all of them in jocose spirits and accompanied by a companion: either a mutton chopped friend (as is the current facial hair trend for plaid-clad hipsters nationwide) or a newsboy cap-vestured hot date.

The opening act, Jonathan Meiburg of the band Shearwater, came onstage with a banjo strapped to his shoulder and those signature Bottletree red lights illuminating his lanky figure. I began to meander into the small, scattered, not quite amorphous but entirely mutable blob of a crowd, at this point comprised of roughly thirty individuals, and, well— I began to enjoy myself, to lose myself in the somber anger of the music. I didn’t lose myself as much as some people, though. I’m pretty sure the guy with creepily protuberant mutton chops in front of me was crying during the opening act, which is totally something you don’t do.

Bill Callahan (or the artist formerly known as Smog), the night’s main event, the crooning, listless lo-fi icon who’s been responsible for the convalescence (or intensification, but it all hurts just the same) of broken hearts for nearly twenty years, took the stage at approximately half-past ten. He was accompanied by Mr. Meiburg, who opened the show, and Thor, Shearwater’s drummer, whose long blond pigtails insisted that perhaps he takes his stage name too seriously. All three wore habiliments reminiscent of a wedding band: simple, almost tongue-in-cheek suits.

After his first song, a member of the audience, nursing a beer, asked Mr. Callahan casually, “What was the name of that song?” Callahan, gray-haired, handsome, and terse onstage, responded playfully after tuning his acoustic guitar. “I’ll tell you later.”

So there we were, a bunch of indie kids, some of us not so young anymore, braving sleet and rain and cold to learn just what loneliness really means from a man whose idea of stage presence is kicking his legs behind him spastically and strumming alone in his own sequestered corner of the stage. As Bill launched into his inervating single “Diamond Dancer,” we all were all aware of the music’s penetrative effect, and allowed it to cascade over us, bore into us, transmute our melancholy into something spectral and magnificent: a curious kind of happiness.

From the mournful refrain of “Rock Bottom Riser” to the incendiary hook of “Cold-Blooded Old Times,” Mr. Callahan turned our sadness inside-out with his booming tenor and transcendent songcraft. He hit us exactly where indie rock—where music—art— is supposed to: the place that isn’t in a dictionary, that junction of heart and gut and brain. That’s what art is, I guess: the quest for that one Great Emotion, that one unbearably painful kick in the wherever-it-is. I got kicked pretty darn hard.

'SUP: Why the name change? Was it a change in musical philosophy or simply a caprice?
Bill Callahan: For a change of scenery. So my record covers would look different to me. I also thought I would always give over production, arrangement and artwork to other people from now on but I'm kind of backpedalling on that now.

Why did you decide to drop the parentheses but not the name until now? Do you think you will once again don the Smog or (Smog) moniker any time soon?
Never.

What was the reasoning behind making the newest album a full band affair rather than an intensely personal one?
Since Neil was arranging it, I thought it'd be a good opportunity to have more people playing on it.

Do you ever confuse your voice for someone much older?
No.

What have you been listening to recently?
Got satellite radio for the tour. Mostly Howard Stern show.

Reading? Favorite recent movies?
Atonement was good. Diving Bell and Butterfly.

Have you ever thought of recomposing some (Smog) classics with the Bill Callahan full band approach? I believe that some songs off of "Dongs of Sevotion" would fit the mold well, particularly.
We do that live. I also have plans to re-record some songs in a re-arrangement from the past.

You seem like an acutely intelligent man, and you paint very vivid, poignant lyrical portraits. Have you ever considered pursuing prose writing? I would read a short story based off of "Teenage Spaceship."
I am working on an epic prose poem that is about 70 pages long. It's almost done. I have plans for other prose books over the years. It's a tough racket.

When can we expect a new album? Any interesting collaborations coming up?
Hope to record in July. So, the LP would be out 5 or 6 months after that.