last night in a sea of checked shirts, canvas sneakers and willfully tousled facial hair (not mine; other peoples) i watched the newly renamed bill callahan play a fantastic show in camden.

it was a simple, plain, brown bread type gig; no flashy lights, no stage sets, no choreographed show tunes instead just a quiet illustration of his song writing on stage from the man who looks not unlike an enigmatic, peripatetic maths tutor. if you’re not familiar with smog, (smog) or bill callahan do take a little time to get acquainted. on first glance, he may look like the sort of guy who you’d hate to get stuck in a lift with - too dull, too shy and too pedestrian to be entertaining, but the closer you listen to his weary baritone and persistent strumming; the more he draws you in. funny and perceptive, tired and endearing there’s a world-weary, out of place-ness in everything he’s recorded which fits me like a comfortably worn out sweater.

maybe i’m still in awe of callahan’s lyricism, or it might be those more-than-several cans of red stripe i enjoyed last night are suppressing my usually ebullient prose either way here’s something for the weekend from bill before he dropped the parenthesis.

smog - rock bottom riser