Bill Callahan
Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle

Why will DeBaser never be a chic shock site? Because it features reviews of (almost entire) discographies of people blessed by God like Sol Invictus and Blood Axis (stay tuned, I'll review the latest one soon!), and we might not find albums like this "Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle," the latest solo effort by Bill Callahan, aka Smog.

Now, it becomes even more incomprehensible when you consider that DeBaser certainly doesn't lack fans of the author in question. But the impressive thing (beyond its intrinsic value) is that this album, whether it deserves it or not, managed to win hearts everywhere and climbed the end-of-year charts (2009) of thinking critics, both printed and online, to the point of earning the status of a revelation album of the past year.

DeBaser has decided to ignore it, but DeBaser is probably right, and history will undoubtedly prove them right: because if DeBaser had existed in the sixties, I'm convinced they would have scorned the Beatles and Rolling Stones (always a good and fair thing) to mourn Claudio Villa (where traces of evil Norwegian black metal would have been found) and to praise the very early moves of that talented and promising young man who would later become the great Jimi Hendrix (perhaps defining him as the forerunner of the most uncompromising post-drone-doom movement). And so, as it was said, history will prove DeBaser right, being able to grasp the past and future of music history to the millimeter; but it's also helpful sometimes not to overlook the present, just to remember where we belong.

I'll try to make up for it: Bill Callahan's latest work (or rather the second last if we consider the very recent studio album "Rough Travel for a Rare") doesn't change the world or carve a deep groove in music history, but it has the quality of being listened to and re-listened to (which is what matters), until in the end, you really convince yourself that you're in front of something extraordinary.

In the vein of the previous "Woke on a Whaleheart" (from 2007) and, more generally, the latest studio efforts released under the name Smog ("Supper" and "A River Ain't Too Much to Love"), the new singer-songwriter loves to settle into the soft coils of intimate and introspective tones. An ancient and rural folk type "sometimes I wish we were all born in Nashville"? I wouldn't say so, as the songwriting effort of our protagonist doesn't seem as complete and absolute as a cover like that would suggest, complete with prairie and grazing horses.

After all, Callahan's path, balancing between fragility and irony, lo-fi and indie rock, has always been particular, personal, and consistent with the precise characteristics of the author: features that over time have defined the peculiar standards of the discography bearing the Smog name. I say not complete, because the artistic evolution of our protagonist is consistent with the path he has been able to leave behind over the last twenty years. And if for many artists the solo breakthrough meant minimalistic purging from all influences more broadly definable as rock, a pure escape into the most uncontaminated tradition, for Callahan his typically nineties author extraction remains evident, his intrinsic inability to abandon many of the elements dear to him: an approach that, in certain respects and in an annoyingly and excessively severe sense, could be read as a sign of weakness and authorial immaturity (which, mind you, does not necessarily constitute a point against, particularly for those who have loved the glorious past of our protagonist).

I don't want to seem overly analytical, but what perplexes me most is this inability to leave behind the glittering era of youth, so much so that at times listening to this otherwise magnificent "Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle" gives the impression that behind these compositions is a young man trying to convince himself he's old, or vice versa, an old man wanting to indulge in acting young. Neither of these: Callahan is from '66; in 2009, if math isn't just an opinion, our protagonist is 43 years old, so no longer young enough to be the singer of a post-adolescent's neuroses struggling with his failures, his inadequacies in society, his loves gone wrong, but not yet old enough to wisely look back, fear death and humbly head towards his own end. It is in this paradox that "Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle" thrives, born in a hybrid age where perhaps our protagonist simply wanted to write good songs in his way.

The tight-lipped recitation and slide guitars would thus suggest premature aging, and the impression given by the superb opener "Jim Cain" is precisely one of a horseback ride into the infinite fields of American memory and tradition. Yet in its nearly 50 minutes, the album reveals itself to be incredibly varied, despite being mainly composed of ballads with a deeply autobiographical lyrical cut. It is the unusual instrumental richness that gives depth to Callahan's undeniably intimate impetus, here in a bitterer and more disenchanted guise than usual: in particular, it's the arrangements of the strings (but also the winds, piano, harmonium, sporadic electric guitars) that provide variety to the essentially acoustic setup of the 9 tracks present on the album. A variety that is a direct child of a spontaneous and decidedly non-rigorous artist who cannot say no to the slightest of his impulses. For example, the "Arabian Nights" arrangements characterizing the hypnotic and seductive "The Wave and the Dove" seem out of place given the context, yet the song works, positioning itself among the best in the set, and perhaps this is precisely the winning strategy of the album (and the artist): not wanting (or being able) to dilute the ideas aiming for more noble ambitions than likely affordable, rather indulging in everything perceived as apt to be represented and staged.

The double header "My Friend" and "All Thoughts are Prey to some Beast", indeed, break the prevailing languor by recalling electric phrasing (never intrusive) and more pressing tempos, showcasing the younger and more playful side of the author, but also the more tense and dramatic one, thanks in part to a drum with a sharp and decisive hit that jars a bit with the album's essentially acoustic mood, but reminds us of Callahan's nineties origins (never more than in the lively and orchestrated "Eid Ma Clack Shaw", the episode closest to past production).

The more introspective moments are instead represented by sweet ballads with a gentle and scenic step, of which "Rococo Zephyr" (complete with a gentle female counterpoint) and "Too Many Birds" are the best representatives.

Place of honor, in tail-end position, for "Faith/Void", the nearly ten-minute-long poignant ballad laced with enveloping arch caresses (always excellent is Brian Beattie's contribution in the arrangement role, to whom we owe much for the product's good success) and Callahan's always fascinating velvety singing, which this time seems to mimic the baritone paho of a Barry White struck by facial paralysis.

What may thus seem like a review with too many "buts" and "however", is actually a promotion (almost) full of praise for the work of an author who wins the challenge with himself and is able to cut the ribbon of the (almost) twentieth anniversary of his career with one of the most successful albums of 2009. And if this review annoys you, console yourself with the fact that you're reading DeBaser, which even when trying to engage with the coolest albums of the moment, doesn't renounce its vocation as an independent, irreverent, and irretrievably idiotic voice in the much-talked-about big world of music.