You're all ahead of me here. I know it.
I saw Bill Callahan perform at ATP in January, and he came across as a swarthy Skip Spence... a comparison (which I used in my Mojo review) that would carry even more weight, if I'd ever heard Skip Spence. He was so sweet and understanding, with that rich, demonstrative voice - so in vogue with sweeps of American hipster kids, which presumably means that it won't be in five years time. He frankly swept me away: surprisingly so, as I've always regarded everything he's recorded post-'Bathysphere' with a suspicion bordering upon hostility. Mind you, he was performing with two-thirds of The Dirty Three (we call them the Tren Brothers here) which'll lift anyone's performance into the realms of the magical.
It's not that Bill hasn't always been friendly towards me, he has, it's just that... shrugs... I'm wary of anything with pretensions to beauty, that claims to speak for isolation, that too many writers at Uncut like. Understandable, right?
So I've been rigorously refusing to listen to his latest album, Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle, for fear that I might... um, like it. (Enjoying music, you have to understand, is about drawing lines in the sand and snap judgmental calls and context and has little indeed to do with sequences of chords and recording technique and craftsmanship, much as artists pretend otherwise.) It's a cold day outside, though - myself and Charlotte and Daniel were in need of warmth beyond that supplied by our portable electric heater; and after willingly and appreciatively listening to the new Mathew Sawyer and some weird-ass bluesy fellow called Duke Garwood (more about which, hopefully soon) we thought it was time we finally gave Bill a try. Why not? And fuck it. It's great. No, really.
It's mature and not too maudlin and warming and mellow and wracked with 70s love and verdant melodies and a handful of French Horns, and lingers just where you want it to linger, and stops when you want it to stop and... aside from the fucking unbelievably annoying blaring car horn that occurs every few minutes to stop recalcitrant souls from cheekily copying the music to one another... is quite my favourite 'adult' music I've heard since I last tuned in to Fred Neil (now, I do know who he is).
I'll even overlook the fact it sounds like Lambchop in places, I'm enjoying it so much.
I'd recommend it, but I already know that you're way ahead of me and managed to download it for free, months ago. Well, good on you, that's what I say. Just make sure you send Bill a few bob somewhere down the line so he can continue recording and performing such goodness.
P.S. Pitchfork gave it an 8.1. Damn, I wish I'd paid more attention to maths at school so I could understand what that means.
There's a good meme: artists/music that we've used as critical reference points without ever having heard them. If every critic who said that Teenage Fanclub sounded like Big Star had actually bought a Big Star album, Big Star would be bigger than... well, bigger than Teenage Fanclub, at least.
ReplyDeleteYou're right on the money there!
ReplyDeleteI thought before listening, "more morose monologues with acoustic accompaniments" but instead found it to be one of the most comforting albums of the year... and the guitar/drum interplay in 'My Friend' is so... jaunty.
'Too Many Birds', however, makes me scowl at all the crows outside my window and around campus.