I like Bill Callahan. I like the way his voice sounds. I try to impersonate the low, morose baritone along with his records. It feels nice, in a register I can handle, at times slipping into parody. Bill’s oeuvre, under his own name and his earlier work as Smog, is nothing short of exquisite. His last two albums are reliable favourites of mine.
Tonight’s show featured two and a half hours of songs mostly taken from the four records released under his own name. Two and a half hours was either a long time, or not long enough. The reaction from the crowd was as dichotomous as they come. I fell on one side, but could have gone either way.
I thought a lot of things during Callahan’s set, mostly good things, along with good feelings. The selections, mostly from the previous two LPs, were performed faithfully. His voice was flawless. He stood rigid with guitar, like a scarecrow, mustering some of the pastoral tinge found on his records that is difficult to transpose into a setting like Hamer Hall. Projections to the rear of the stage echoed the aesthetic of his album artwork. A drummer flanked one end of the stage, performing with gentle measure.
Attuned to Bill’s performance, it was fantastic. As the mind began to wander, due to variables (seating, inebriation level), the thought struck that perhaps I’d rather be listening to Bill Callahan records in the convenience of my own home.
BY LACHLAN KANONIUK
Loved: Two Little Birds
Hated: Personal drowsiness compounding drowsy aspects of the performance.
Drank: Crown Lager.
