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“It’s never easy to say goodbye.” And so Bill Callahan started tonight’s performance with “Riding For the Feeling.” He’s been saying goodbye in various forms and ways throughout his storied recording past, but over the few of his records his romantic dalliances have sparked water cooler conversations with the indie cognoscenti about what it means and who it’s about. Far be it from me to discern what particular message he’s trying to convey to any number of his notably indie rock exes, but despite the fact that he uses avian and equine metaphors and that those words may carry different meanings for different listeners, his close-to-the-mic vocals makes it feel like each and every person is getting a heartfelt song sung directly to their cortex, or their left ventricle, or their duodenum. He uses his voice and words like a scalpel carried via fiber-optics, carefully probing and searching for the right target, and his success rate is flawless.
Callahan’s touring band was much smaller from his last rendition, with just drummer Neal Morgan and guitarist Matt Kinsey sharing the bare stage, all three across with Callahan to stage left. No violin, no bass, just Callahan and his acoustic guitar, with restrained drumming and some sharp guitar lines via Kinsey. Kinsey really played a critical part in some songs, especially ones crafted on the new Apocalypse where he and Morgan played on the studio recordings as well. His tremeloed Gibson SG and high keening notes worked well on songs like “Baby’s Breath” and he and Morgan went into partial freak out mode during the end of “Drover,” splashing free jazz cymbals and splayed guitar chords amidst the chaotic breakdown. About the only song where he overplayed and unfairly dominated was last record’s “Eid Ma Clack Shaw,” a tale of a negative Kubla Khan, where a slumbering Callahan formed the perfect song in a dream state only to see it in waking lucidity as complete nonsense; Kinsey’s guitar was too overpowering, too much salt in the soup, if only for that time during the evening.
Callahan, dressed smartly for the summer heat in a seersucker suit and light cotton oxford, was at ease on stage while giving wry smirks to people whose point and shoot camera’s focus beam would momentarily illuminate his face. He’s not afraid to stand (relatively) naked in front of the crowd, no layers of distortion or fuzz to get in between what he’s singing (sometimes so close and detailed like he’s whispering right in your ear), but the metaphors and open-ended verses are subject to many different interpretations (though one gets the feeling that someone, somewhere, knows exactly what he’s saying, and why he’s saying it). That’s part of what makes him such a formidable artist. Long may he run.
Ed Askew had the unenviable task of being an older, relatively unknown (to the point of not even having a Wikipedia entry) folk/beatnik figure opening for a popular musician who makes women’s hearts flutter and knees tremble. His delivery was plain, unadorned, unpretentious, just his half-sung/half-spoken verses with spare keyboard accompaniment. Fighting over the din from the back half of the room, he carried on with aplomb, occasionally augmenting his music with harmonica, and slowly but surely he won over the room’s attention. Maybe it was the name dropping of Gertrude Stein and Dora Maar, or the clap-along/sing-along section, or the fact that his simple platitudes were finally striking home once drink orders were placed and greetings were made.
