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I don't know, maybe I'm masochistic, but there's a certain sense of satisfaction in basking in the darkest and gloomiest vibes of some albums when my mood is, indeed, overwhelmed by such vibes. There's something therapeutic in all of this.
Recently, better late than never, I discovered Smog (Bill Callahan on the birth certificate, born '66), a staple of the Lo-fi world, through this album.
"The Doctor Came At Dawn" is a manifesto of rawness, anguish, and brutality on both an emotional and musical level, with songs that are like pages of a diary containing farewell letters from an individual oppressed by every single thought.
These are songs with a bitter and sour taste at the same time, so sharp that they irritate the auditory system and convey that unpleasant taste right to the taste buds.
But the intensity is so strategic that it grows track by track, allowing the listener to gradually get used to it. And as the minutes go by, the mood changes color, becoming darker and darker until it reaches the black of tar and then pitch.
These are sparse compositions without frills, with instrumentation reduced to voice, guitar, and strings, and piano here and there, which put the listener's psychological and physical health to the test.
Every heart-wrenching lament of that tormented voice, searching for melodies that don't exist, is an arrow to the chest.
And every dissonant note of that acoustic guitar, sometimes perhaps not even properly tuned, is a shiver akin to one stimulated by a fork on glass.
The authenticity of the emotions emanating from each track causes small invisible cuts, but the blood flows so slowly you don't even notice it, and it's a strangely pleasant sensation. ("Hangman Blues")
I find it very fascinating how one can be annihilated with, apparently, so "little."
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