Bill Callahan: Out of the Smog and Into the Darkness
There are people for whom simplicity is inherent in life—taking life as it comes, and gliding along as reflections of the climate in which they live. And then there are those who live below the surface, who observe life suspiciously, and constantly question the meaning, or lacktherof, of any situation.
Bill Callahan, or the artist formerly known as Smog, is the latter.
Callahan’s detached demeanor, somber vocals, and caustic lyrics readily paint him as a dark, melancholy character, leading some critics to call him a misanthrope. But one thing is clear—Bill Callahan is as genre-bending as his music.
Callahan grew up in Maryland and has since led a slightly nomadic lifestyle, living in Georgia, Sacramento, San Francisco, New York, South Carolina, Chicago, and finally Austin, where he currently resides. He took a great interest in the D.C. hardcore scene during its heyday in the late 80s and early 90s—one of the few influences he acknowledges publicly—and took from the experience a few tenets of punk culture: “It was a community thing to me,” he says. “People playing music for each other.”
But Callahan doesn’t see himself as a reflection of his surroundings. Often on tour, and constantly unsettled, Callahan remains unafraid of change. It’s a quality that keeps his music indefinable.
Despite frequent shifts in sound and location, one aspect to his career has remained constant. Since 1992, Callahan has released 12 albums under Chicago-based independent record label Drag City, also home to the likes of Pavement, Will Oldham, Royal Trux, and Monotonix. His earlier recordings as Smog were experimental and minimalist, often instrumental and recorded at home.
As he made the transition from Smog-titled releases to recording and performing under his given name, Callahan moved into more elaborate production. His first solo album, Woke on a Whaleheart (2007), was produced by Neil Michael Hagerty and features country, pop, and gospel influences—a direct departure from the repetitive structures and lo-fi sound of his earlier releases. Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle (2009), recorded in Plano, Texas, was self-produced, and pairs melodic arrangements with his signature deadpan vocals.
Though each album is a distinct entity, he has maintained a less-is-more philosophy throughout his career, creating albums that are pared down to their essential elements.
“[My albums] are planned out in a ‘remote viewing’ way,” Callahan says of his recording process. “I envision them in their future state and then kind of work backwards to create this thing that has already been created in my vision. I ride chance throughout, although it is used generally in a small percentage, but sometimes a large percentage.”
Despite the melodic gentleness and accessibility of much of Callahan’s latest work, his lyrics continue to be emotionally raw, biting, and direct. He writes of death, relationships, religion, with a brusque, apathetic air—not so much singing as narrating, inviting the listener to contemplate his lyrics while keeping them at arm’s length.
Though he remarks that there is no delineation between universal and introspective subjects in his work, many of his songs make the listener feel like they are witnessing a very personal moment. Themes that crop up are often related to nature—birds, water, and trees—with cynical overtones.
“I started seeing a river within myself a few years ago,” he says. “It’s only natural there are some trees, birds, and lions also. It’s an internal thing. Everything within me is non-human but natural.”
The contrast between these haunting natural themes and a seemingly bleak outlook leads us farther from determining who Bill Callahan really is. Is he a pensive, misanthropic creature? Or is he just an observant guy with a sardonic wit? A line in the song “Rococo Zephyr” says “I used to be sort of blind / Now I can sort of see”—perhaps, I ask, a glimpse of optimism hidden within his darker lyrics?
Evasive as his sound, Callahan deflects. “I’m neither an optimist nor pessimist,” he says. “You just try to make islands you can swim to and stay on for a while, until you make another island.”
If we can’t pin down Callahan’s persona or musical style, at least we can look forward to whatever he comes up with next. Whether our personal glass is half-full or half-empty, we can be sure that his baritone voice will lead us somewhere interesting.
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