The Complicated Dude They Call Smog

originally published August 29, 2007

I'm a Smog fan. Maybe you've heard of that band. It's been around since the early 1990s, and boasts deep roots in Chicago, where I now reside. 'Twould be more precise, methinks, to refer to Smog as if it were one person - it has sported only one constant member, an enigmatic gent named Bill Callahan. He's also referred to himself as "(Smog)." On his new disc Woke on a Whaleheart on Drag City Records, he reverts to the name on his passport.

After a few records' worth of disorganized home-recorded noise in the early '90s, he gradually absorbed both the dark, metaphysical beauty of American folk music and the smooth, bittersweet irony of '70s FM pop-rock. Like most of his work since the '03 turnaround Supper, Whaleheart leans toward the latter, but goes both ways. And, like all of his work ever, it lays its emphasis on his mysterious, highly cerebral lyrics.

As I said, I love Callahan's music, the morbid early stuff as much as the dry, wise later stuff. But, in the last 11 years, I've passed up many opportunities to see him live. 

In 1996, I lived in North Carolina. Smog played a show in Charlotte. I believe it was at Tremont Music Hall. I'm not sure. You don't care. I had a friend at the time named Stacy. Stacy spoke in a crispy Southern drawl, and often spoke about his inebriated antics. He had a rebel flag decal affixed to the back window of his blue pickup truck. He proudly adored the goofball Scottish metal band Venom, and just as proudly adored the brooding, experimental folk music of Smog. He loved Smog more than I did. He even got the artwork for Smog's grueling '95 soaker Wild Love tattooed on his arm. 

I drove a few hours to see the show. Stacy was there, too, drunk on enthusiasm and booze. (He was the one who taught me to always bring some sauce to the show in my stomach.) Under one arm, he carried a copy of Wild Love on vinyl. It may have been the tattooed arm. A 50 percent chance.

The show was not a good one. The band played like a bunch of unrehearsed chumps picked at random from the audience, losing the beat and annihilating the fragile songs. For his part, Callahan performed with his back to the crowd, and did not communicate with us outside his lackluster vocals. Undeterred, Stacy approached the man after the show, presented his record, and asked him to sign it. Callahan scrawled "BILL CLINTON" across the cover, snickered, and walked away. Stacy, Asheville, NC's king of black metal, was pissed, royally.

In 1998, I saw Smog play the 40 Watt. It was about the same deal, but without the disappointment. By then, I knew not to expect much reciprocity from Bill Callahan.

It's none of my business whether Bill Callahan is a nice guy. This is psychological projection. This whole business, this business of buying records and going to shows, is psychological projection, largely. Thinking otherwise makes it almost impossible to short-circuit the process, even when short-circuiting the process would be doing yourself a significant favor. You look to art for catharsis and for models, to purge certain elements of your psyche and to cultivate others. Often, without needing to think about it, you look to artists, their behavior and their personae, for similar cues. Otherwise, it wouldn't be a thing when someone with Bill Callahan's distinctive skills behaves, as one Chunklet contributor put it, like a "festering carbuncle." It wouldn't hurt.

Recently, I gave Callahan's live show another shot, and I loved it. Both the man's voice and his material have deepened and matured. Like Leonard Cohen's, his delivery has cracked, deepened and, where there was once anxiety and misery, there is now a fascinating sort of authority. His crackerjack band nailed the backdrop. He did a weird little jig. He appeared to have a splendid time playing his smooth, contemplative new songs along with all the old micro-hits.

Callahan lives in Austin, TX, now. Maybe he cheered up when he relocated. Then again, maybe he cheered up of his own resolve. Maybe he grew the fuck up and cheered the fuck up because of that. Maybe he read a magazine article on showmanship. It's all psychological projection.

It can hurt when a hero outgrows the habits that won your sympathy. Aside from his eyes-down negativity back when, Callahan may have accumulated an unusual number of haters by dating a remarkable number of sought-after indie-rock queens - by behaving like a loser on wax without behaving like a loser off the clock. First there was musician and Rollerderby contributor Cynthia Dall. Then, for years, there was the demure, intriguingly fucked-up Chan Marshall of Cat Power. "Hey. I experience the same range of emotions as that guy, and I don't have a sphincter for a personality. Why does he get the attention?"

Now, he's managed to charm harpist, avant-folk celebrity and San Francisco mayoral progeny Joanna Newsom. He even tours with her.

Two of my friends saw the diminutive Newsom back up the ever-distracted Callahan last year. According to one, Newsom gazed lovingly at Callahan throughout the proceedings. And wore a large belt-buckle reading "BILL." And got bullied, insulted and generally treated like dung by the much older, much more creepy object of her affection.

Bill Callahan: He's still got it.

Emerson Dameron

Liner Notes is Flagpole's music opinion column. Interested in contributing a piece? Contact music editor Chris Hassiotis at music@flagpole.com.