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Artist: Bill Callahan
Album: Dream River
Bitrate: 224kbps avg
Quality: EAC Secure Mode / LAME 3.98.4 / -V0 / 44.100Khz
Label: Drag City
Genre: Indie
Size: 67.78 megs
PlayTime: 0h 40min 06sec total
Rip Date: 2013-09-21
Store Date: 2013-09-20
Track List:
--------
01. The Sing 4:31
02. Javelin Unlanding 3:48
03. Small Plane 3:56
04. Spring 5:10
05. Ride My Arrow 5:03
06. Summer Painter 6:30
07. Seagull 5:39
08. Winter Road 5:29
Release Notes:
--------
The first thing you notice is that Bill Callahan is in no hurry. On "The Sing",
the ballad that opens his warm, weary new album, Dream River, words roll by like
cloud formations on a calm day: "Drinkingàwhile
sleepingàstrangersàunknowinglyàkeep me company." And afterwards there's a pause
as the line hovers there, like something hanging above the doorway into the
record's peculiar, intimate universe. In the past, Callahan has compared
songwriting to an act of carpentry ("There's this huge block of silence and you
carve little bits out of it by making sound"), but never before has one of his
records embodied that feeling so richly. Each line on Dream River forms so
slowly and deliberately it's like we're watching him whittle it out of oak.
Call it naturalism, polluted with the occasional puff of bleak humor. From his
earliest days recording as Smog, Callahan has always been consumed by the
natural world. To him, nature is often a taunt, a provocation, a reminder of the
smallness of human life. Although he is among music's most astute observers of
human truth and absurdity, in a Bill Callahan song, being a person is often a
wry, cosmic joke. The sky can broadcast all the violently beautiful hues of, oh,
say, a late-summer sunset, and what's the best we can do? "Late Night With David
Letterman" (on Apocalypse's "America!") and radio interviews with Donald
Sutherland (on Dream River's "Winter Road") and-- it's always implied, with a
meta-chuckle-- Bill Callahan records.
Since 2007's Woke on a Whaleheart, the first record released under his own name,
Callahan has moved counterclockwise to the rest of the world's spin. As life has
become crowded with text, Callahan has, with each record, become more laconic.
As people have grown (ostensibly) more connected, Callahan's records have
increasingly embraced feelings of isolation. Those early Smog records, with
their aggressive textures and anarchic sneers, thrashed in opposition to the
outside world. Now Callahan sings like someone blissfully oblivious to its
churn. "I set my watch against the city clock," he sang on the opening track of
his stunning 2011 record Apocalypse, chuckling with faint surprise. "It was way
off."
A quiet masterpiece, Apocalypse seemed like a culmination of Callahan's career
so far, but it also had a feeling of finality to it. On Dream River, though, the
aesthetically restless Callahan has found a few new mountains to climb. He
challenged himself to make a more subdued record where the only percussion comes
from hand drums and brushes, but heÆs challenging himself thematically, too.
Dream River finds Callahan tackling a question that has haunted his music for
decades: What happens if the guy who once declared, "Alone in my room I feel
like such a part of the community" makes a moving, occasionally honest-to-god
romantic record about the power of human connection?
That line comes from "Ex-Con", a song found on Smog's 1997 album Red Apple
Falls, and it's striking to consider how much has changed in the years since.
Callahan's baritone has lowered about an octave; he used to sing through his
nose but now his voice (a much richer and more resonant instrument) seems to
come direct from the murkiest depths of his lungs. His arrangements have also
grown more sparse, and on all fronts heÆs learned how to say more with less.
ItÆs one of many paradoxes in CallahanÆs music, that in abandoning a method of
singing more traditionally considered ôexpressive,ö he's actually learned how to
express more. His delivery is animated by the subtlety of tiny gestures, which
is why although there are maybe a total of three words on Dream River that a
third-grader would stumble over, its musings still feel profound. ôThe Singö
boasts one of the albumÆs most undeniably quotable lines-- ôThe only words IÆve
said today are æbeerÆ/ And æthank youÆö-- but the real joy comes from hearing
him mutter, ôBeerö and ôThank youö a couple of times afterwards, each time
intoning it with an almost imperceptible change in tone. Somehow, each ôbeerö
contains multitudes.
Callahan's learned to use negative space so well that there's even poetry in the
pauses. Take "Summer Painter", an instant addition to his canon of great songs;
for what else can be said of a song that begins, ôI painted names on boatsà/ For
a summerö and then unfurls, glacially, like an elliptical yarn spun by a
leathery old shanty-dweller who has, without question, seen some shit.
CallahanÆs learned how to use his voice like a camera ("When the hurricane hit
some found it suspicious/ That IÆd just since left the frame"), and here heÆs
shooting a wryly funny mock-epic. ôRich manÆs folly and poor manÆs dream,ö he
sings, and then pauses for effect, ôI painted these.ö ItÆs a masterful little
zoom-out, and it only heightens the sense that CallahanÆs playing director here,
a feeling furthered by guitarist Matt KinseyÆs torrential freak-out when a storm
rolls in.
The grandeur, though, is short-lived, and thatÆs the most profound and affecting
thing about Dream River. At its core, this is a record about accepting and even
embracing the smallness of human life, and how difficult that can be, given our
damnably innate sense of adventure, ambition, and restlessness. For at least
four minutes, though, Callahan finds peace and stillness in the form of ôSmall
Planeö. The song is a quiet miracle; an afternoon epiphany told in dream logic
and simple language to no one, because his only companion is taking a nap. And
yet, what a perfect moment to take stock of things: ôI really am a lucky man/
Flying this small plane.ö ItÆs a testament to simplicity, or maybe just the
power of his wistful, prismatic delivery, that a songwriter once known for his
delight in intricate wordplay has never sung more stirring words than these.
To call Dream River ôcontentö or ôsereneö feels wrong, because thereÆs still a
pang of longing to it. But in all of this album's searching, it does bring back
one hopeful find: that maybe the closest we can come to the thrill of wilderness
is the adventure of being with another person. ôI see the true spring is in
you,ö he sings at one point, and it might just be the happiest moment on the
record. For once heÆs not wishing he were an eagle or a tempest or a sunset. He
is just Bill Callahan, flying his small plane with a co-pilot by his side, and
for the moment at least, that is enough.
This NFO File was rendered by NFOmation.net
Artist: Bill Callahan
Album: Dream River
Bitrate: 224kbps avg
Quality: EAC Secure Mode / LAME 3.98.4 / -V0 / 44.100Khz
Label: Drag City
Genre: Indie
Size: 67.78 megs
PlayTime: 0h 40min 06sec total
Rip Date: 2013-09-21
Store Date: 2013-09-20
Track List:
--------
01. The Sing 4:31
02. Javelin Unlanding 3:48
03. Small Plane 3:56
04. Spring 5:10
05. Ride My Arrow 5:03
06. Summer Painter 6:30
07. Seagull 5:39
08. Winter Road 5:29
Release Notes:
--------
The first thing you notice is that Bill Callahan is in no hurry. On "The Sing",
the ballad that opens his warm, weary new album, Dream River, words roll by like
cloud formations on a calm day: "Drinking
while
sleeping
strangers
unknowingly
keep me company." And afterwards there's a pause
as the line hovers there, like something hanging above the doorway into the
record's peculiar, intimate universe. In the past, Callahan has compared
songwriting to an act of carpentry ("There's this huge block of silence and you
carve little bits out of it by making sound"), but never before has one of his
records embodied that feeling so richly. Each line on Dream River forms so
slowly and deliberately it's like we're watching him whittle it out of oak.
Call it naturalism, polluted with the occasional puff of bleak humor. From his
earliest days recording as Smog, Callahan has always been consumed by the
natural world. To him, nature is often a taunt, a provocation, a reminder of the
smallness of human life. Although he is among music's most astute observers of
human truth and absurdity, in a Bill Callahan song, being a person is often a
wry, cosmic joke. The sky can broadcast all the violently beautiful hues of, oh,
say, a late-summer sunset, and what's the best we can do? "Late Night With David
Letterman" (on Apocalypse's "America!") and radio interviews with Donald
Sutherland (on Dream River's "Winter Road") and-- it's always implied, with a
meta-chuckle-- Bill Callahan records.
Since 2007's Woke on a Whaleheart, the first record released under his own name,
Callahan has moved counterclockwise to the rest of the world's spin. As life has
become crowded with text, Callahan has, with each record, become more laconic.
As people have grown (ostensibly) more connected, Callahan's records have
increasingly embraced feelings of isolation. Those early Smog records, with
their aggressive textures and anarchic sneers, thrashed in opposition to the
outside world. Now Callahan sings like someone blissfully oblivious to its
churn. "I set my watch against the city clock," he sang on the opening track of
his stunning 2011 record Apocalypse, chuckling with faint surprise. "It was way
off."
A quiet masterpiece, Apocalypse seemed like a culmination of Callahan's career
so far, but it also had a feeling of finality to it. On Dream River, though, the
aesthetically restless Callahan has found a few new mountains to climb. He
challenged himself to make a more subdued record where the only percussion comes
from hand drums and brushes, but hes challenging himself thematically, too.
Dream River finds Callahan tackling a question that has haunted his music for
decades: What happens if the guy who once declared, "Alone in my room I feel
like such a part of the community" makes a moving, occasionally honest-to-god
romantic record about the power of human connection?
That line comes from "Ex-Con", a song found on Smog's 1997 album Red Apple
Falls, and it's striking to consider how much has changed in the years since.
Callahan's baritone has lowered about an octave; he used to sing through his
nose but now his voice (a much richer and more resonant instrument) seems to
come direct from the murkiest depths of his lungs. His arrangements have also
grown more sparse, and on all fronts hes learned how to say more with less.
Its one of many paradoxes in Callahans music, that in abandoning a method of
singing more traditionally considered expressive, he's actually learned how to
express more. His delivery is animated by the subtlety of tiny gestures, which
is why although there are maybe a total of three words on Dream River that a
third-grader would stumble over, its musings still feel profound. The Sing
boasts one of the albums most undeniably quotable lines-- The only words Ive
said today are beer/ And thank you-- but the real joy comes from hearing
him mutter, Beer and Thank you a couple of times afterwards, each time
intoning it with an almost imperceptible change in tone. Somehow, each beer
contains multitudes.
Callahan's learned to use negative space so well that there's even poetry in the
pauses. Take "Summer Painter", an instant addition to his canon of great songs;
for what else can be said of a song that begins, I painted names on boats
/ For
a summer and then unfurls, glacially, like an elliptical yarn spun by a
leathery old shanty-dweller who has, without question, seen some shit.
Callahans learned how to use his voice like a camera ("When the hurricane hit
some found it suspicious/ That Id just since left the frame"), and here hes
shooting a wryly funny mock-epic. Rich mans folly and poor mans dream, he
sings, and then pauses for effect, I painted these. Its a masterful little
zoom-out, and it only heightens the sense that Callahans playing director here,
a feeling furthered by guitarist Matt Kinseys torrential freak-out when a storm
rolls in.
The grandeur, though, is short-lived, and thats the most profound and affecting
thing about Dream River. At its core, this is a record about accepting and even
embracing the smallness of human life, and how difficult that can be, given our
damnably innate sense of adventure, ambition, and restlessness. For at least
four minutes, though, Callahan finds peace and stillness in the form of Small
Plane. The song is a quiet miracle; an afternoon epiphany told in dream logic
and simple language to no one, because his only companion is taking a nap. And
yet, what a perfect moment to take stock of things: I really am a lucky man/
Flying this small plane. Its a testament to simplicity, or maybe just the
power of his wistful, prismatic delivery, that a songwriter once known for his
delight in intricate wordplay has never sung more stirring words than these.
To call Dream River content or serene feels wrong, because theres still a
pang of longing to it. But in all of this album's searching, it does bring back
one hopeful find: that maybe the closest we can come to the thrill of wilderness
is the adventure of being with another person. I see the true spring is in
you, he sings at one point, and it might just be the happiest moment on the
record. For once hes not wishing he were an eagle or a tempest or a sunset. He
is just Bill Callahan, flying his small plane with a co-pilot by his side, and
for the moment at least, that is enough.
This NFO File was rendered by NFOmation.net
